The world around me was collapsing. The screams, the flames, the blood—they all blurred together, swirling in a maelstrom of torment. And yet, standing amidst the chaos, I felt... nothing.
"Do you see it now?" The voice from before spoke again, but this time, there was no malice, no mockery. It was cold, flat, devoid of any judgment.
"You always were the one with the knife," it continued, as if explaining something simple. "The killer. The destroyer. That's all you are. All you'll ever be."
I stared down at my hands—hands stained red with the blood of strangers and loved ones alike. I hadn't stopped it. I couldn't stop it. The truth of it settled over me like a heavy shroud. This endless cycle wasn't a punishment. It wasn't something inflicted upon me.
It was me.
"You failed them," the voice whispered again. This time, it wasn't a sharp accusation. It was a fact. A truth I could no longer deny.
"I know." My voice was hoarse, hollow. The endless cycle had wrung the emotion out of me, leaving only the stark reality behind. "I know I failed."
The battlefield shifted again. A new tragedy unfolded—more lives, more death. A child's scream, the sight of a father beaten down, a village burning under the weight of a war that I couldn't stop. My mind had been shattered over and over again. I'd lost count of how many times I had witnessed this.
But now, I didn't fight it.
I stood, unmoving, as the blade plunged into another victim. His eyes, wide with terror, met mine. I could feel him begging me for mercy, but there was none left to give. I watched as the knife slid in again, and this time, there was no scream. No reaction. Just... acceptance.
"This is who I am." The words slipped from my lips, not as a resignation, but as a simple acknowledgment.
"Finally," the voice answered, sounding almost pleased. "You see it now. You were always them. You were always the one delivering the pain."
My vision blurred as the scene shifted again.
I could feel the weight of the hilt in my hand, feel the cold metal as it tore through flesh. The warmth of blood splattering on my skin, the dull thud of bodies hitting the ground. But I had no control. I was just a passenger, forced to witness every single life I took.
I felt nothing.
The faces changed—different people, different lives—but the results were always the same. The pleading, the terror in their eyes. I had become them, the very monsters I once despised. The truth of it settled over me like a suffocating fog. I was the one inflicting the pain. I always had been.
"Why are you doing this to me?" I asked, my voice raw, more out of habit than any real need for answers.
"This is not being done to you," the voice replied. "This is what you are. You simply refused to see it."
The last flicker of resistance within me crumbled. The weight of it all—the guilt, the shame—faded into the background, replaced by cold acceptance. I could no longer question it. There was no point.
The past was written. And I had carved it myself.
"You failed. Because that's who you are," the voice murmured. It wasn't cruel. It wasn't even angry. It was simply the truth. And I accepted it.
"I know." My voice was quiet, barely audible over the crackling of distant flames.
The world around me faded, dissolving into a void of nothingness. The battlefield, the burning villages, the weeping faces—they all disappeared. But I wasn't broken anymore.
I stood there, surrounded by darkness, and I felt... free.
The voice was silent now. The torment had ended. But something else remained.
The cold. The detachment. I wasn't the same anymore. I had been torn apart, piece by piece, and what was left was just an empty heart.
"You're free now." The voice returned, softer this time. "But what you are now... it is yours to accept."
I nodded. I couldn't go back, couldn't unmake the horrors I'd seen or the truths I'd uncovered. The part of me that had once cared—once felt—was gone.
"I am free," I repeated to myself, the words final, absolute.
But in that freedom, there was only coldness.
No regrets. No sorrow. Just the endless void of who I had become.
The fabric of the nightmare split apart, fragments of the twisted memory falling away like shattered glass.
"You've severed the ties that bind you to the past. You're ready now."
The Voice echoed once more, but I no longer cared for its tone. Whether it was mocking me or praising me, it didn't matter. The raw truth I had uncovered had already burned away any remaining doubt.
"Ready for what?" My voice cut through the stillness.
"For what's next. You've passed the Fourth Gate, Aric Oswin."
The mention of my name felt distant, almost irrelevant. I had left the man who bore that name behind somewhere in the chaos. Whoever he was, whatever he had been, no longer mattered.
"The Fourth Gate," I muttered, repeating the words more to myself. The trials, the torment, the ceaseless cycle of pain. It was over now. Yet, instead of relief, all I felt was an unfamiliar stillness. As if the storm had finally broken, leaving only the aftermath.
"Is this what you wanted?" I asked, not sure who I was speaking to anymore. The Voice, myself, or perhaps something beyond all of this.
There was no immediate response, but in the silence, I found my answer. The part of me that once struggled, the part that clung to hope, to redemption, to guilt—it was dead. Killed by the blade of truth I could no longer deny. I was the knife. I was the one who had caused the destruction. And I would no longer waste energy trying to undo it.
I looked down at my hands again—no longer trembling, no longer burdened.
"You've crossed the threshold. You've embraced it," the Voice hummed, satisfied. "There is no more past for you. No more chains."
I felt the weight lift from my mind, the final tether of doubt slipping away. There was no need to wonder, no need to question. The path behind me had already crumbled. The path ahead was all that mattered.
"What happens now?" I asked, feeling no urgency, no dread.
"You move forward," it replied. "Free. Cold. Detached. You've shed what made you weak."
I tilted my head, considering. Free. Yes, I felt free—more than I ever had before. The guilt, the self-doubt, the questioning of my actions... they had all been stripped away. I didn't need to justify who I was, or what I had done.
I was beyond that.
"And if there's more tragedy to come?" I asked, almost curious now.
The Voice was quiet for a moment, before answering, "Then you will face it without fear. Because none of it can touch you now."
I nodded to myself. It was true. There was no longer anything left in this world that could break me. I had already shattered everything that could feel.
"You'll find the Fifth Gate soon enough," the Voice continued, a faint whisper that lingered in the void. "But that will be a different challenge. One you're finally prepared for."
The Fifth Gate? Haha.
...
Aric stood in the void, surrounded by an eerie silence. The tendrils of smoke that drifted through the air were thin and inconsequential, his eyes tracking them without interest. He felt the cold, smooth surface beneath his feet but paid it no heed. There was no more sense of anticipation, no more confusion. His emotions had dulled into nothingness, and even the voice that echoed within his mind stirred no reaction.
"You are the only one who has passed the Fourth Gate," the trial declared out of nowhere, clear and final.
Aric's expression remained impassive, his features still as stone. He blinked slowly, a mere mechanical action as his mind processed the words. The faces of the other Oswins—those who had entered the trial with him—barely surfaced in his memory, but there was no feeling attached to them. They were shadows of a past life, irrelevant now.
They had failed. He had not.
The void that stretched endlessly around him shifted, a subtle movement in the distance as the fog of illusion parted. Marble flooring appeared beneath his feet, stretching in all directions, and in his hand, the Oswin relic pulsed faintly, the glow catching the edges of his cold, emotionless gaze.
"You have proven your worth. The Trial of the Founder has deemed you worthy to wield the relic of your ancestors," the voice continued, but Aric did not react. He felt the weight of the relic in his hand, as light as it was, and simply regarded it as an extension of his being. It was a tool, a means to an end.
A massive gate appeared before him, its surface shimmering with a pale, ethereal light. Smoke curled from its edges, thick and heavy, like something long forgotten was waiting beyond it. The symbols carved into the stone were ancient, belonging to his family, but they no longer held any significance. He recognized them, but there was no reverence, no awe.
"You may leave now," the voice said, its tone even. "Return to the estate or... continue the trial. The choice is yours."
For a moment, Aric remained still, his eyes lingering on the gate. There was no curiosity, no wonder about what lay beyond. The trial was finished—he had achieved what was required. The rest was irrelevant. His choice had already been made.
"I will leave," Aric said. He stepped toward the gate, smoke wrapping around his form as the heavy doors groaned open before him.
...
The courtyard of the Oswin Estate unfolded around Aric as he emerged through the gate. His expression remained flat, his steps deliberate as he took in the scene before him.
Bodies lay scattered across the courtyard—some broken, others twitching weakly as they struggled to recover. They were the Oswins who had failed the trial. Aric's eyes swept over them with a clinical indifference, noting the vacant stares of those who were still alive but rendered senseless by their own failure.
The air was thick with tension, but it barely registered in his mind. His thoughts were calm.
It wasn't long before the familiar faces of Cedric, Lysandra, and Liora appeared. Their expressions were a mix of disbelief, relief, and pride.
Cedric stepped forward, his eyes bright with a strange kind of joy. "You did it, Aric," he said, his voice full of praise. "You passed the Fourth Gate. The relic is yours. You've proven yourself—more than any of us ever expected."
Aric looked at him, letting the words hang in the silence between them. He made no move to respond.
Lysandra's sharp features softened into a rare smile. "You've surpassed every expectation," she added, her tone light with approval.
His gaze flicked to her, empty, before sliding away.
Liora's approach was more subdued. She stood just a step behind the others, her pale face tilted slightly in Aric's direction, though her unseeing eyes didn't quite meet his. She hesitated before speaking, her voice soft, barely a whisper. "We're proud of you, Aric," she said, her tone gentle but trembling, as if she sensed the shift in him, though she could not see it.
Her words hung in the air, laden with the quiet kindness she'd always offered him.
She couldn't see the coldness in his gaze. Couldn't see how much he had changed. Perhaps that was a mercy.
But it didn't matter.
He looked at her for a moment longer, watching as she stood there, fragile and unaware, her blind eyes staring blankly ahead. The soft tremor in her voice echoed in his mind, but no emotion stirred in him.
For a moment, Aric simply stood there, the relic still humming faintly in his hand. His sword hung at his side, a tool waiting to be used. And then, as if compelled by an instinct as natural as breathing, his hand moved.
Without hesitation, without emotion, Aric unsheathed his sword. The blade gleamed in the sunlight, casting a cold reflection. His mana heart thrummed in response, power flowing through him in measured, controlled waves. Spatial magic coiled around the blade, crackling with raw energy, but his face remained expressionless, his eyes devoid of any light.
Cedric's smile faltered. "Aric?" he asked, his voice uncertain.
But there was no reply. There didn't need to be.
Aric's sword swung through the air, the spatial magic amplifying its reach and speed. In a single, precise motion, the blade sliced through Cedric's body, cleaving him cleanly in half. Blood sprayed into the air, painting the ground in dark crimson, but Aric's face remained unchanged. He watched as Cedric's body collapsed, bisected, the life draining from him instantly.
There was no reaction.
Lysandra gasped, stumbling backward in shock, her eyes wide with terror. "W-What are you doing?!" she cried, but her words were hollow in Aric's ears.
Aric turned, his movements as smooth and mechanical as they had been before, and brought his sword down in another clean strike. Lysandra's body crumpled to the ground, her chest split open, blood pooling around her lifeless form.
The others in the courtyard began to shout—fear, disbelief, panic—filling the air with noise, but it was nothing more than background static to Aric. His sword continued its arc, cutting down any who approached him, his movements calm and methodical. He showed no signs of exertion, no hesitation. There was only precision.
Within moments, the ground was littered with bodies. Blood soaked the earth beneath his feet, but to Aric, it was simply another fact. Another observation.
Aric turned his attention to Liora, who stood motionless, her pale face turned toward the sound of the chaos unfolding around her. Her expression was calm, as though she couldn't fully grasp the scene that had just played out. She hadn't moved. She hadn't run.
Her blindness shielded her from the horror, but not from the sense of something terribly wrong. Her lips parted slightly, as if to say something, but no words came. She simply stood there, waiting—trusting.
Aric approached her, his steps as steady and deliberate as before. The weight of the sword in his hand was familiar, comforting even, as the cold energy from his mana heart pulsed through him. He raised the blade without hesitation, the tip catching the light for a brief second.
There was no plea, no fear in her. Just the stillness of someone who had always trusted him.
For a fleeting moment, Aric's gaze rested on her blind eyes—those kind, unseeing eyes that had once looked at him with so much warmth. Now they saw nothing. And for him, there was nothing to see either.
With one swift, fluid motion, the blade descended. The strike was clean, precise. Her head fell silently to the blood-soaked ground, rolling to a stop at his feet, her sightless eyes now forever closed.
Aric watched the stillness of her body for a moment, then turned away. There was nothing left to consider.
---
The courtyard was silent now. The wind carried the faint scent of blood, mingling with the stillness of the scene. Aric stood amidst the carnage, his sword sheathed once again, his eyes as cold and empty as they had been when he entered the estate.
...
Volume 1 - Trial - End.