The world before Gizard blurred, and he was plunged into the distant past of his character, as if reliving forgotten events.
A scene from his life unfolded, a time when he had been a noble count in one of the great kingdoms. Skilled in intrigue and adept at political maneuvers, he had achieved the high rank of general in the army. On the diplomatic field, he was unmatched, but cunning politics and clever tricks suddenly became useless in real combat.
Gizard thirsted for glory. He envisioned himself as a hero, leading a mighty army, astride a warhorse. Under his banner, triumphs and conquests were supposed to rise, but the battlefield proved far more brutal than palace intrigues.
Through strategic planning, alliances, blackmail, and pressure on influential politicians, Gizard managed to secure supplies and provisions for a risky campaign against neighboring lands.
With the coveted rank of general, Gizard anticipated a series of glorious victories, which he believed awaited him. Leading the column, he raised the banner of his lineage - a crimson standard bearing a snarling dragon, a symbol of unbreakable will and victory. Confidence filled him; he knew he would return home surrounded by glory.
- Behold your great general! - he proclaimed proudly, waving the banner. - We shall conquer these lands and bring honor to the king! Our descendants will remember this day!
The ground seemed to tremble beneath the soldiers' heavy steps, under the clang of armor and the bright light reflecting off polished weapons. But as soon as the battle began, all his confidence vanished: the tactics he had been so proud of turned to dust. The enemy forces closed around them, transforming the battlefield into a bloody trap.
At that moment, Gizard finally regained control over his body, realizing that everything now rested in his hands. The memory submitted to him, but the scene around him remained one of horror and chaos: his army wavered, and their positions were nearly lost.
He realized - the test was not only to fight but to see his own role in this catastrophe. He had to win, but at what cost?
With a fury mixed with despair, he swung his massive axe, cutting through enemy armor, each blow ringing out like thunder. Again and again, he raised the heavy blade, not allowing himself a moment's rest.
As a seasoned gamer, he frantically searched for a way out, as if it were a challenging mission - but enemies surrounded him endlessly. One by one, his soldiers, to whom he had promised victory, fell. Their gazes were filled with fear and hopelessness, and Gizard understood: no one saw him as a hero, only as the one who had doomed them.
- Why are we losing?! - he shouted, unable to believe his eyes.
In blind rage, he charged forward, crushing foes with his axe, but his ranks dwindled before his eyes. Soldiers fled, and the enemy's grip tightened. Soon, Gizard himself was surrounded by knights clad in armor.
Wounded and exhausted, he could barely stand. The enormous axe, heavy and bloodstained, hung limply from his hands, and blood - his own and that of his fallen soldiers - trickled down his face, blurring his vision. He felt the cold dread piercing his heart like an icy needle: the battle was over, and it seemed he had lost.
The realization washed over him like an unyielding wave: the trial had failed, and the Memory descended upon him like a sentence. He faced inevitable death - a fate from which there was no escape.
Awakening in the cold infirmary tent, Gizard stared into the void, unable to comprehend what had happened. His entire body ached, and his mind was restless with anxiety and bitterness.
The memories returned - he had survived that battle, but how? And how could he have lost? How had he allowed such a monstrous error? This thought gnawed at him until he, exhausted, slipped into sleep. But soon, something yanked him from it, as if an icy wind touched his soul.
Gizard opened his eyes sharply, his heart freezing as he saw countless rows of ghostly soldiers and militia before him. Their faces twisted in eternal agony, disfigured, bloodied figures stretching out in the shadows. Their eyes - dead and hollow stared at him like knives, silently demanding answers for their interrupted lives.
- You doomed us to death... - a whisper echoed through the emptiness, filling his heart with a chilling tremor.
Pale, broken hands reached out from the darkness toward him, trembling in silent reproach.
- We turned to ash for your glory...
- You are no hero; you are our executioner
These words, like searing spikes, pierced his soul. Gizard tried to pull away, but the ghosts, like shadows of unyielding guilt, reached for him, their whispers hammering in his mind, filling it with numbing cold. Each step they took, every scream of the fallen, echoed in his consciousness, reminding him that he was not a hero but the one who had doomed them.
- It's just a memory, Gizard; they aren't real, - he muttered to himself, but reality felt terrifyingly real, and the horrors flooding his mind plunged him deeper into despair. The ghostly militia surrounded him, their hands reaching out as if trying to drag him into the cold abyss of oblivion.
- Get away from me! - he shouted, desperately grabbing anything within reach and furiously fending off what seemed like the most real of enemies. His scream, full of terror and despair, tore through the silence.
The medics rushed in at the noise, freezing in horror at the sight: the general, seeming mad, was flailing as if fighting off ghosts only he could see, shouting incoherent threats and pleas. They subdued him, calmed him, and put him to sleep, but the dreams did not let him go.
Night after night, Gizard was haunted by the ghosts of fallen soldiers. He saw their gaunt faces, heard their accusations, felt the icy touch of their hands, as if digging into his soul. They returned again and again, and he realized that the Memory continued as a punishment, a curse, forcing him to relive the pain and despair of those he had doomed.
Days later, a royal messenger arrived at the infirmary with a decree: Gizard was stripped of all titles and ranks. Shamed and broken, he silently accepted his sentence, setting aside pride under the weight of his own guilt. But before the messenger departed, Gizard requested permission to return to the battlefield as a simple soldier.
He knew he would face scorn and hatred from those he had betrayed through his failed command, but he longed for it. In his heart, he believed: only by walking this path to its end, by experiencing the pain of his fallen soldiers himself, could he perhaps bring them peace. And perhaps, by shedding blood for blood, he would finally find peace himself.
Day after day, battles raged on the border, and Gizard returned again and again to the bloody whirlpool of combat. But now, his axe fell not for glory each strike, each swing was an act of penance, a long and exhausting cleansing.
Fields strewn with the fallen became his altar, and the unending battle his confession. He fought side by side with those he had once failed, expecting neither forgiveness nor mercy.
It seemed that the ghosts of his past still stood behind him, silent and condemning, but he pressed on, feeling that the path of redemption was one of eternal struggle, with no hope of an end. Finally, one night, after an exhausting battle, Gizard sank to the ground, weary and empty, and fell asleep a deep, undisturbed sleep.
For the first time in a long while, there were no cold shadows, no reproachful whispers, no relentless eyes in the darkness. A soft, peaceful darkness embraced him, soothing and all-consuming, like a river carrying away all burdens. Upon waking at dawn, Gizard realized that the Memory had ended.
Now he was simply himself. The emptiness around him freed him, as if the burdens of expectation and proof had vanished. In that silent peace, Gizard finally found true tranquility, calm and deep, like a long path walked with honor.
When he opened his eyes, something new and unsettlingly calm shone in his gaze. A wisdom glowed like newfound knowledge, and his strength was unwavering, as though the trials had tempered not only his will but his very soul. His level had risen to dizzying heights, his skills from the past resurfaced in his memory, but now he felt them differently deeper, with unshakable confidence.
Every movement was measured, filled with a power that no longer needed validation. This Memory had completely transformed him, leaving only strength and peace gained through redemption and acceptance.
His companions, seeing him return from the Memory, were struck by his appearance. One by one, they approached him, their eyes filled with expectant questions, but they were met with a penetrating, calm gaze that seemed to verge on physical perception.
That strange, almost tangible calm forced them to step back; one swallowed hard, while another instinctively recoiled, feeling an involuntary shiver. They understood that explanations were unnecessary.
Gizard was not the only one changed. Those who dared to undergo the Memory returned altered. Some looked as if they had been to a place where horror and greatness merged. But none shared what they had seen. Instead of answers, there was only a brief piece of advice:
Stay strong.
But there were also those who returned from the Memory with screams and babbling, deeply lost in delirium. Their faces twisted in horror, their eyes hollow, as though they had glimpsed an unfathomable abyss, and none could explain what had shattered their minds. Rumors spread among the fighters, and fear quickly took hold.
Some of those who couldn't withstand the trial claimed they had experienced true death within the Memory. These individuals now feared everything even the shadows cast by their own hands. Their eyes shone with constant tension, as if every sound concealed a threat.
Each had their own conclusion to the Memory: some returned strong and resilient, as if forged in fire; others teetered on the edge of madness; and some lost their sanity forever, remaining prisoners of nightmares that haunted them even in daylight.
The players understood: the temple and this strange Memory were no coincidence. Perhaps this was the second trial they had been prepared for all week. Or perhaps, it was just the beginning.
Seeing how each returned changed some stronger, others broken many began to fear undertaking the Memory themselves. Uncertain of what lay ahead, they hesitated to take the next step: for some who returned had reached levels that once seemed unattainable, gaining the power they dreamed of, but losing their former selves.
And yet, the tempting allure of becoming stronger pulled at them like a shadow. They all knew the game wouldn't offer such paths without a cruel price for mistakes. They remembered one more thing: there was only one chance to undergo the Memory, and a single error could cost them their lives.
But the fear of unknown dangers in the next round proved stronger than the fear of the trial. Clenching their wills, they chose to risk it there was no other way. Some planned to test themselves immediately, while others chose to wait until the final days, for seven days still remained.
In the meantime, a young girl named Anna approached the bench before the statue of Saint Reverend Bayos, feeling her heart tremble with a hidden excitement. Taking a deep breath, she allowed herself a moment to close her eyes, gathering all her resolve. The statue's gaze pierced her, as though the ancient spirit of Bayos was questioning her endurance.
Before her eyes, a message flashed:
Do you wish to undergo a Memory?
Yes / No
Her fingers froze.
A fleeting doubt crossed her mind but quickly faded. Pressing "Yes," Anna felt the world around her start to crumble and dim, as though she had stepped into an abyss where light and reality vanished. A cold mist thickened around her, consuming everything familiar.
When the veil lifted, Anna found herself standing before Elder Kelam, the head of the temple. His figure seemed to blend with the darkness, his gaze as cold as a winter's night. Only his dark eyes gleamed, like drops of molten metal.
- Anna, keep working, - he said with indifference, devoid of any warmth.
- Remember: discipline in our temple is above all else
Her heart tightened, but she merely nodded obediently. The fervor that had once filled her soul, like water filling a jug, gradually drained away. Every inflection in his voice carried a command that allowed no protest, no doubt.
- Yes, I understand, - she whispered, but her words were barely audible.
Days in the temple blurred into a monotonous flow, like a muddy stream of water. Every morning began with prayer, cleaning, serving, and prayer again. She stopped tasting food, stopped distinguishing between shadows and light.
It seemed that life itself was slipping away from her, along with memories of what it meant to be alive. She began to believe that this was her trial to remain faithful, to serve, no matter what. But her soul sank deeper into darkness, and her prayers grew quieter, as if someone was extinguishing the inner fire.
Often, when left alone, Anna would sit by the window and gaze at the world outside, slipping away from her. She saw children playing carefree, felt the quiet joy of people living their lives, sensed the presence of a warm light that she, herself, could no longer seem to touch. Her soul was engulfed by emptiness, and memories of freedom became a pale, fleeting shadow.
She knew this was just her character's memory, that it was only a game, but the sense of reality weighed on her, refusing to let her distance herself. Pain grew inside her. It's only a trial, she reminded herself, soon I'll be rewarded.
But each new day became torture, turning her soul into a dark shadow.
One day, consumed by sorrow, Anna forgot her duties she didn't bring firewood to the main hall's hearth. When she realized her mistake, she froze, as if scalded, but it was already too late.
The door to her cell flew open with a thunderous sound, and there stood Elder Kelam, his face not blazing with anger but with a cold, cruel delight.
- You… ungrateful creature! - he hissed. - The temple gave you shelter, food, everything you have, and you can't even perform the simplest tasks? Or do you simply not care?
Anna shrank under his gaze, her voice trembling, barely audible in the dark:
- Forgive me, Elder… I… I made a mistake…
- A mistake? - Kelam sneered, his smile as merciless as his voice. - You will learn what it means to defy sacred rules
- Please, Elder, I beg you… - her voice shook, her words hollow, like an echo in cold walls.
The elder and the holy brothers remained unyielding. Soon, Anna's piercing, desperate screams echoed through the stone corridors as she, helpless before their cruelty, was led to a dark dungeon beneath the temple.
As a warning to all, her punishment was immeasurably harsh. The fear meant for others became her fate.
The dungeon's cold dampness enveloped her as they shackled her in heavy chains. The thick darkness compressed the space around her, with only a faint spark of hope lingering in her soul, whispering that the Memory would soon end.
But when the Dark Brothers appeared in her cell's doorway, carrying heavy, black instruments that glinted in the dim light, her last hope faded, like a snuffed-out flame.
Each day they returned, and with each visit, the torture grew more unbearable. Pain filled her to the brim, erasing the boundaries between body and mind, turning her consciousness into an endless, agonizing hum.
- When will it end? Please… I want to leave this Memory, - she whispered, barely hearing her own voice swallowed by the dark silence.
Yet even in these hopeless moments, Anna occasionally noticed a faint glimmer of light a flickering ray slipping through a crack in the stone wall. She looked at it as if it were a reminder that life still existed beyond this darkness, that something greater could lie beyond the pain.
At first, Anna prayed for heavenly retribution, wishing only for an end to her suffering. She invoked all the gods whose names she could remember, but her pleas dissolved into indifferent emptiness.
But even when it seemed that her strength was spent, and her heart sank into despair, memories of freedom would surface a few fleeting moments when she sat by a window, breathing in fresh air, watching people live ordinary lives.
These images became her anchor. Over time, her heart grew heavy and numb, but she would not allow herself to surrender entirely.
When the last spark of hope dimmed, Anna sank to the cold stone floor of her cell. Barely moving her lips, she called out to Saint Reverend Bayos, though she didn't understand why she remembered him in that moment.
It wasn't an image from her life, but the memory of one who had stood here before her, whose soul had left behind a quiet faith. Absorbing this memory, Anna reached out to Bayos, not with a desperate plea for salvation, but with a silent, humble longing for redemption.
Her heart, empty as a seashell, let out one final call, free from expectation or demand, filled with acceptance of the inevitable.
Suddenly, the dungeon plunged into silence, and Anna felt that this was no coincidence. As if the darkness itself feared something great that had arrived in that moment.
A faint glow spread around her, piercing through the cold stones, as though summoned by kindness itself, whose light outshines any cruelty. This light was Bayos's answer not a miracle, but a quiet reminder that goodness always responds, even if the path to it lies through suffering.
The light was warm and enveloping, bringing no blinding joy, but giving her the certainty that her suffering had not been in vain.
She didn't know why she had remembered Bayos's name, but she felt that it was more than just a symbol. It lived on, continuing to inspire all who sought the truth.
She knew that Bayos had fallen at the hands of those he saved, but his sacrifice had not been in vain he left a legacy that lit the way for those seeking truth.
Warmth touched her, as though her soul had been heard after long silence. The heavens had answered, and the darkness began to recede.
In that moment, her heart fluttered like a fading flame rekindled with light. Deep within her being, something ancient and powerful awakened, bringing a revelation:
The punishment was not meant for her.
She was no sinner, no wrongdoer.
The divine wrath was not directed at her.
The true anger was reserved for the elder and his brothers, those who had strayed from the path of light, hiding behind a holy façade and betraying true faith.
Warmth flowed through her body like a life-giving current, filling her heart with resolve. Her eyes blazed with light, fierce and unyielding, reflecting the sacred fire burning within her soul.
For a moment, her hands felt an unbearable weight, and when she looked down, she saw that she held a blazing mace, radiating power, like justice itself.
In her other hand lay a book, its pages shimmering with the light of the morning star, and the golden letters on its cover, like holy scripture, emanated the strength that had rested for ages in the depths of the ancient temple.
This was a weapon, not for vengeance but for justice, purified of doubt and weakness.
On the cover of the book, golden letters spelled out the title:
Heaven's Wrath
Her face was illuminated with clarity: this was her gift from above, her instrument of justice.
With a decisive motion, she broke her chains, and the sound of her release seemed to echo through every corner of the dark dungeon. Rising to her feet, Anna felt an extraordinary lightness and confidence.
She stepped out of her cell with firm steps, her gaze calm and cold, directed forward toward her destiny. Her footsteps echoed through the corridor as the warden awoke suddenly.
Seeing her, he turned pale, as if death itself stood before him, and froze in terror. His voice trembled with fear:
- You… this is impossible…
Anna silently raised her mace. In her eyes, there was no hesitation, only severe determination. As her hand fell, it was as if the world responded to her call. A deafening clap of thunder reverberated through the temple, and a blinding bolt of light struck her tormentor like the smiting hand of justice.
His desperate scream was nothing more than a faint, vanishing sound in the whirlwind of thunder and blinding light that engulfed him completely. When the flash faded, only ashes remained of the warden a final, insignificant trace of his sinful life.
Escaping captivity, Anna immediately rushed to the cells of the priestesses, her heart gripped by desperate determination. She had to save them, to free them from darkness, to leave this desecrated temple together.
But instead of doors leading to them, a solid wall appeared before her eyes, freshly sealed with bricks. It was as if the temple itself sought to hold them there forever, like prey within the belly of a merciless beast.
Without hesitation, Anna raised her mace, and her strike shook the corridors. Stones shattered, revealing a dim prison where, like shadows, her sisters lay on the edge of life and death. Their faces were pale, lips cracked, their bodies barely sustained by the last drops of will.
- Sister Sofia… Sister Maria! - Anna cried out, rushing to the barely breathing Sofia. She held her close, feeling the faint warmth that still clung to her. The others had already left this world, as if freed just in time to see her alive.
Sofia, hearing a familiar voice, struggled to open her eyes. A glimmer of recognition flickered in them, the final spark of life.
- Anna… you're alive… - she whispered faintly.
- Yes, - Anna replied, feeling the hot tears rolling down her cheeks, evaporating in the heat of her blazing gaze.
- Go… you… must… survive… - her breathing was labored.
- I won't leave you! - Anna whispered, filled with despair and anger.
Seeing her determination, Sofia gave a faint smile and, with a trembling hand, touched Anna's cheek.
- Silly girl… - Sofia whispered with the last drop of tenderness, fading with her final breath.
- No! - Anna's scream tore through the dark corridors, shattering her soul into pieces. Her heart clenched in agonizing pain, and her breath caught, but soon the pain gave way to a cold, unyielding resolve.
The High Priest had condemned her to suffering, but his cruelty knew no bounds for her error, her sisters were to suffer as well.
- They will pay for everything, - she whispered, gently laying Sofia's body down. Rising, Anna gripped the mace, which blazed in her hands like a furious instrument of justice. Her gaze held a steely resolve, searing and unbendable.
Heading toward the main hall, she saw the congregation gathered before the temple, while the High Priest delivered a sermon as if nothing had happened.
An icy fire glowed in her eyes as her gaze lingered on the two towering statues in the temple.
These statues were familiar to her. Every day, in the Memory, she would bow her head before them in prayer a habit foreign to her as a player but now an inseparable part of her inner world.
They resembled those in their temple, where she and other players had first entered the Memory. But here, in the depths of the past, one name was different.
In that temple, Anfar's statue bore the title "Demonic Judge Anfar." Here, in this strange reflection of time, he was known as "Divine Judge of Justice Anfar."
But that no longer concerned Anna. Her heart overflowed with a thirst for justice. She bowed her head as if accepting an unseen blessing, and her resolve solidified, as firm as steel.
- I will deliver Justice. May Bayos and Anfar be with me, - she whispered, stepping out of the temple to face her tormentor.
When Anna flung open the doors and stepped outside, the congregation's eyes turned to her at once. The High Priest, standing on the steps, froze in disbelief. The crowd before the temple the obedient believers and holy brothers fell silent, and then heavy, fearful breaths filled the night.
Anna moved forward slowly. Her mace glowed in her hand like living fire, but each step felt insurmountable as if the world itself sought to hold her back. From the crowd, an elder, his face twisted with fear and unwavering resolve, stepped forward and raised a hand, as if in a desperate attempt to stop her.
- My child, don't do this, - his voice trembled, but he continued. - You don't understand what you're doing. The High Priest is our guide to the truth. His punishment for your sins was righteous. Don't become an instrument of vengeance!
Anna stopped, meeting the elder's gaze. She saw anxiety and deep confusion in his eyes, as if he feared understanding her actions.
This gaze seemed to bring her back to her own doubts memories of former obedience and dependence. The power bestowed upon her by Bayos and Anfar was heavy, but she knew she couldn't retreat.
The High Priest, noticing her hesitation, seized the opportunity and addressed the crowd in a loud, confident, and cunning voice that echoed over everyone's heads.
- Brothers and sisters, look at her! She has come to destroy everything we have built over the years. Her heart is filled with hatred, not light. Don't you see? She draws strength from darkness! Bayos would turn away from one like her!
The crowd began to stir, a murmur of confusion and fear rippling through them. Their faces showed uncertainty, and many cast anxious glances at one another, unsure whom to trust.
Anna could feel their doubts, felt her own heart clench painfully. But in the people's eyes, there was also hope, as if they yearned for the truth, even if it was harsh.
She looked down at the mace shining in her hands, and a determination flared within her. A voice within her soul quiet and certain rang clearer than ever:
- Your hands are clean as long as they bear the flame of justice
- You're trying to deceive them, - she said firmly, her voice imbued with unwavering strength. - You have always hidden behind Bayos's name to justify your crimes. But true faith is not blind obedience; it is acts of conscience
The High Priest sneered, his eyes gleaming with mockery.
- Conscience? Who gave you the right to judge me? Who are you to decide what is good and what is evil? You are not a judge, Anna. You are a lost soul. No one will support you in this madness
His words sparked another wave of confusion, but Anna saw that many were still waiting for an answer, and in their eyes lingered a faint glimmer of hope. Her own words were almost a whisper, but within them lay steely firmness:
- You're right, - she stepped forward. - I am neither sinless nor a saint. But I can't close my eyes to what's happening. I cannot remain silent when the one who was meant to be a light has sunk into darkness. Today, I have come to set things right
She raised the mace, and in that moment, her voice rang out loud:
- I have not come to seek revenge. I have come to deliver justice!
At that moment, the clouds above the temple parted, and a blinding lightning bolt split the sky, illuminating the darkness. The flash of light, like the embodiment of divine wrath, pierced the shadows and struck the High Priest. Divine fire erupted around him, consuming his body, and his scream filled with terror and pain echoed through the area, causing all who stood nearby to fall to their knees.
The High Priest writhed in the flames, but even in his deadly terror, his lips twisted into a wicked grin. From his charred, dying chest, a hoarse, mad laugh escaped.
He clung to his disbelief and depravity until the last moment, and Anna saw despair and cruelty intertwining on his face the final testimony of his fallen soul.
- Ha-ha-ha… - his laugh, filled with malice and agony, echoed through the silence until the fires of justice consumed him entirely, leaving only ashes where a man once stood.
Anna turned her gaze to the elder who had tried to stop her earlier. His face was pale, and his eyes were filled with shock and profound sorrow. There was no fear in him only the realization that all their illusions had been exposed. Slowly, he sank to his knees, and tears of bitterness and remorse glistened in the corners of his eyes.
- Bayos… it's true…
Anna felt the last drops of doubt drain from her heart, leaving only unwavering conviction. She understood that her actions were not vengeance but eternal justice, pure and infallible, like the first light of dawn.
And as if in response to her inner revelation, the sky opened, and a blinding light poured over those gathered. High above, the image of Anfar, the Divine Judge of Justice, appeared.
His eyes shone like stars, and his calm, penetrating gaze radiated ancient wisdom and boundless strength. The air around him seemed heavy with his powerful presence, as though the very universe held its breath in anticipation of a sacred judgment.
The congregation bowed their heads, daring neither to move nor to breathe under his formidable gaze.
- Justice has been served, - his voice boomed like thunder, shaking the souls of everyone who bore witness to this moment.
- Justice has been served - the same words echoed throughout the Zirkol Game Hall, repeated by each of the Celestials present.
All fell still, for none would dare to show disrespect before this great being.
The steward, bowing his head, intoned:
- The Zirkol Game Hall welcomes Your Excellency, Divine Judge of Justice, Anfar