In the Trial of Burning Memories, time becomes fluid, allowing the recreation of moments from a person's life and compressing years into a heartbeat. For Girmora, the pristine halls of the Celestial Bureaucracy became both prison and classroom, with each polished tile a stage for his countless cycles of suffering.
The first year of the trial coiled around him like chains of crystallized memory. Every morning began the same way: young Girmora, appearing roughly equivalent to a six-year-old human, practiced bowing at precise angles. His mother's voice, cold as starlight, corrected every microscopic imperfection.
"Your right hand is 0.3 degrees too high," she said, using a measuring rod to adjust his posture. "Such inaccuracies are unacceptable for a servant of Heaven."
The present-day Girmora watched his younger self tremble under the weight of perfectionism. The trial forced him to not only observe the physical acts but also the psychological warfare waged on his developing mind. His parents had engineered every aspect of his environment to break and reshape him.
The dining room, where most "corrections" occurred, was deliberately designed to induce anxiety. The dining table stood at a height that demanded perfect posture to serve properly. The floor was polished to a mirror-like shine, ensuring that any spilled food would be instantly noticeable.
"We do this because nature and the gods demand perfection," his father lectured while delivering punishment. "The celestial realm operates with absolute precision. One misaligned cog can disrupt Heaven's entire machinery."
As the trial progressed, Girmora began to notice details he'd suppressed for millennia. The way his mother's hands trembled slightly when she wasn't actively controlling them. The tension in his father's jaw, betraying his struggle for perfection. They were his tormentors but also victims of the same system, perpetuating a cycle of torment that had shaped them.
One memory played out with excruciating clarity. Young Girmora had practiced a tea ceremony for seventy-two consecutive hours without rest. His small hands shook as he lifted the celestial jade teapot, its weight nearly unbearable after so much repetition.
"Begin again," his mother commanded, her voice betraying a hint of exhaustion. "This time, ensure the water temperature remains exactly 78.6 degrees during the pour."
The boy's hands trembled. The teapot slipped, shattering on the immaculate floor. The silence that followed felt heavier than the mountain that would later imprison Sun Wukong.
Present-day Girmora watched as his father slowly rose from his seat, the rod of discipline manifesting in his hand. But now, with the enhanced perception granted by the trial, he noticed a flicker of doubt in his father.
"The system requires this," his father whispered, so softly that young Girmora hadn't heard it at the time. "The system must be upheld."
Girmora cycled through his thoughts, realizing that his parents were not inherently cruel. They had been shaped by a bureaucracy that valued systems over souls, order over compassion. Their torment was born not of hatred but of an overwhelming fear of chaos, imperfection, and falling from Heaven's grace.
Meanwhile, in his own personal hell, Sun Wukong bore the crushing weight of eternity. The Trial of Burning Memories had thrown him back into his 500-year imprisonment beneath the Five Elements Mountain, but this time with the full awareness of eternity ahead.
The physical burden of the mountain paled in comparison to the psychological weight of endless time. Each moment forced him to confront the fundamental loneliness of immortality. He watched generations of humans live and die in the world above, their brief lives flickering like candles in an eternal wind.
"Isn't this what you desired, Great Sage Equal to Heaven?" the trial whispered from nowhere. "Did you not fight for immortality? Did you not steal the peaches of everlasting life, consume the pills of longevity?"
Sun Wukong watched memories of his past celebrations of immortality transform into moments of profound despair. He saw himself feasting with demon kings who would later fade to dust. He remembered teaching disciples who grew old while he remained unchanged. Every connection became a fleeting spark in an unending night.
The trial showed him the future—centuries, millennia, eons stretching endlessly before him. He saw civilizations rise and fall like waves on a shore. Mountains eroded into dust while new ones rose from the earth. Through it all, he remained, unchanging, eternal.
"Even gods feel the weight of time," the trial revealed. "But they exist in the celestial realm, where change moves like glaciers. You, Monkey King, chose to walk among humans while bearing the burden of immortality."
A particular memory surfaced, of him visiting the underworld to erase his own death records by deceiving King Yan. He had returned to the Mountain of Flower and Fruit after his first grand rebellion, expecting to find his monkey tribe as he had left them. Instead, he found graves. Generations had lived and died in what felt like mere moments to him.
"Is this why you turned to Buddhism?" the trial pressed. "Not for enlightenment but for a framework to understand eternity?"
The questions stripped away all self-deception. His pursuit of Buddhahood was not purely spiritual; he now realized it was an effort to find meaning in a life threatened by meaninglessness. The Buddha had taught him detachment as a defense against the pain of watching everything he loved turn to dust.
As the trial progressed, both Girmora and Sun Wukong began to understand how their past traumas shaped their current relationships, especially with each other and Hoghor.
Girmora's compulsive need to serve was a result of his conditioning, a way to create relationships he could control. By choosing to serve his friends, he transformed what had been forced upon him into an act of freedom. Every joke he cracked, every cake he threw, was a rebellion against his rigid upbringing.
Sun Wukong's outward cheerfulness masked his fear of attachment. He had learned to keep relationships light, to play the trickster, because genuine connections meant inevitable loss. His journey toward Buddhahood was not just about spiritual enlightenment; it was a lesson in how to love without being destroyed by the inevitability of loss.
The trial forced them to relive key moments in their friendship, now viewed through the lens of their deepest traumas. When Girmora first offered to serve several kings, only to be rejected in favor of equality, he now understood the weight of that moment. A reformed servant learning to live without hierarchy was turned away.
In the other side, Hoghor faced a different kind of torment. Unlike his companions, who relived their past in linear progression, his memories were shattered and reassembled, each fragment cutting deeper than the last.
The trial began with a simple scene: the library in his childhood home. Young Hoghor, nearly 120 years old (the equivalent of an eight-year-old human), sat reading a text about peace between demons and humans. His father, a scholar who believed in all creatures, had filled their home with books from every species and race.
"Knowledge bridges differences," his father said, adjusting his reading glasses—a human invention he adored. "Fear stems from ignorance, and ignorance breeds violence."
Present-day Hoghor watched his younger self absorb this lesson, unaware of how it would shape his future. The scene felt peaceful, but the nature of the trial ensured peace could not last. He knew what was coming—memories he had buried for centuries.
The sound began faintly: villagers gathering outside their home. Young Hoghor didn't notice at first, absorbed in his studies. But present-day Hoghor felt every footstep, every whisper of fear and hatred.
"They harbor forbidden knowledge," a voice hissed. "They speak of peace with humans."
"Demons advocating for peace?" another sneered. "It's a ruse. They're plotting something worse."
His mother's voice drifted from the kitchen, humming a human lullaby she had learned. She believed music transcended species, that harmony in song could lead to harmony among people. The trial forced Hoghor to hear every note, knowing it would be one of the last sounds she made.
The door creaked. Young Hoghor looked up from his book, puzzled by the noise. His father stood, calmly removing his glasses. "Stay in the basement," he said quietly. "No matter what happens, remember what we've taught you."
Hoghor of the present wanted to scream, to alter the events he knew would follow. But the trial immobilized him, forcing him to watch as his parents faced the mob with dignity instead of violence.
"We mean no harm," his father said, raising his hands peacefully. "We are scholars, nothing more."
"Demon scholars?" the mob leader spat. "Studying what? How to destroy us more effectively?"
His mother stepped forward, still holding the cooking spoon she had been using. "We study ways to end the conflict between our peoples. There need not be violence."
The trial slowed time, forcing Hoghor to see every detail he had missed while hiding in the basement. How his father positioned himself to shield his mother. How his mother's hands trembled, though her voice remained steady. How some villagers in the back hesitated, fear pushing them forward.
The first blow came from behind, a cowardly strike. His father fell—not from the injury, but from the shock of betrayal. His mother's scream harmonized with the lullaby still echoing in his mind.
Young Hoghor, peering through a crack in the basement floor, saw it all. Present-day Hoghor relived the visual memory, the emotions: helplessness, rage, and the shattering of his worldview.
The trial pushed him further, into perspectives he had never considered before. He saw the fear in the villagers' eyes, genuine terror rooted in centuries of conflict between demons and humans. He watched their children cower in their homes, taught from birth that demons were monsters. For the first time, he understood that the mob acted not out of pure hatred but from a desperate need to protect themselves.
This understanding did not lessen his pain or justify their actions. Instead, it added a new layer of tragedy to his memory. His parents had died trying to break the cycle of fear, killed by the very fear they sought to end.
The scene shifted to its aftermath. Young Hoghor emerged from the basement after the mob had left. He recalled details his mind had blocked: how his father's glasses lay shattered nearby, how his mother's lullaby still played softly from a music box in the kitchen, how their blood mixed with the spilled ink of overturned books.
Present-day Hoghor felt something crack within him. The trial's demand for understanding unleashed the anger he had suppressed for centuries. The peaceful scholar his parents had raised clashed with the violent reality of their deaths.
The memories shifted again, showing the years he spent running, hiding, and surviving. Each moment forced him to confront how that one day had shaped every decision that followed. His pursuit of power, his role in the Tribunal, his complicated relationship with justice—all stemmed from those moments in the basement.
The assassins came for him, year after year. The trial showed him their faces, forcing him to see their motivations. Some sought vengeance for imagined demon crimes. Others feared his potential power. Some simply sought glory in killing a demon noble's child.
Every attack left its mark. The trial lingered on each wound, each scar, each part of himself he had lost. His legs, taken by a curse designed to cripple demon mobility. His arm, sacrificed to escape a binding spell. His face, scarred by those who thought disfigurement would make him easier to track.
Ten thousand years of pain compressed into the trial's span. Hoghor watched himself adapt, survive, and rebuild. Each injury made him stronger, each loss more determined. Yet something else grew alongside his strength—a deep, hidden well of anger at the injustice of it all.
The trial forced him to confront this anger directly. He saw how it influenced his actions, how it colored his view of justice. His parents had died believing in peace. He lived believing in power, not for its own sake but to ensure no one else could dictate his fate.
As the memories continued their relentless parade, Hoghor felt the ground beneath him tremble. The trial chamber itself responded to his emotional state, its system buckling under the weight of his unleashed fury.
The other trial participants, lost in their own memories, didn't notice at first. But as Hoghor's control slipped, cracks appeared in the trial's structure. His centuries of restrained anger began to leak.
The scholar and the survivor waged war within him. His parents' teachings of understanding clashed with his lived experience of violence. The trial demanded he reconcile these contradictions, to understand and integrate them.
But knowledge did not bring peace. Each new perspective, each revelation, only highlighted the futility of it all. His parents had died believing in possibility. Their killers had acted out of fear disguised as righteousness. The cycle persisted, unbroken, despite the deaths on all sides.
The chamber's cracks widened. The trial space, designed to hold and process memory, struggled to contain the weight of Hoghor's unleashed emotions. What began as a small tremor escalated into a quake that slowly tore the structure apart.
In the distance, Sun Wukong and Girmora began to notice the disturbance, even through their own trials. The orderly progression of memories fractured as Hoghor's control disintegrated further.
The trial responded, trying to force him back into a pattern of observation and comprehension. But some pain runs too deep to merely understand. Some wounds cannot heal through comprehension alone.
Hoghor saw himself clearly now, both past and present. The scholar seeking knowledge. The survivor seeking power. The being longing for justice yet unable to define what justice truly meant in this world.
The climax arrived quietly. No dramatic revelation, no sudden clarity. Only the weight of too much truth, too much pain, too many contradictions.
The trial chamber shattered.
The space cracked like glass. Past and present collided as Hoghor's control finally broke. The carefully constructed trial chamber, designed to hold and process trauma, could not withstand the force of centuries of suppressed rage.
The final moments of his parents mixed with years of running. The peaceful library bled into scenes of violence. The lullaby transformed into screams. Knowledge brought no peace, only clarity about why peace was so hard.
The trial's first location, meant to test and transform, collapsed under the weight of Hoghor's unleashed power. His very existence exerted a glacial pressure that slowly and inevitably crushed the space around him.
Yet even in destruction, patterns emerged. The scholar remained, questioning why. The survivor endured, searching for meaning.
As the trial chamber crumbled around him, Hoghor faced the ultimate realization: some things must be destroyed before they can be rebuilt. His parents had died believing in possibility. He lived carrying their hope and the knowledge of how that hope had ended.
Some transformations require destruction before renewal can begin. The trial chamber, designed to emotionally break its participants, now lay in ruins.
In the distance, Sun Wukong and Girmora emerged from their own trials, drawn by the collapse around them. They found Hoghor at the center of the destruction—not raging but calm, watching the meticulously constructed chamber fall into chaos.
"Some things," he said softly, "cannot be understood. They can only be endured."
The Trial of Burning Memories, designed to last five years, ended prematurely in its second year—not in failure, but in a transformation too profound for its structure to contain.
As the dust settled, Hoghor stood amidst the ruins of the trial chamber, changed not by understanding but by accepting the impossibility of full comprehension. His parents' teachings remained, as did the pain of their loss. The scholar and the survivor coexisted, neither victorious, both transformed into something new.
The path to Edna lay ahead, with nineteen trials remaining. But this first trial, now destroyed and reformed, had already imparted the fundamental knowledge to accept imperfection.
Hoghor turned to his companions, seeing them clearly for the first time since the trial began. Each carried their own burdens, their own contradictions. Together, they faced the remaining trials, now knowing that understanding sometimes means accepting the incomprehensible.