As she pushed down the corridor like wading a cold river, Stini got bored and started studying the murals that lined the walls like frost-lit windows.

She couldn’t read the arcane script, yet the strokes felt like reeds hiding fish; through the letters, something livelier flickered.

Among drifts of carved snowflakes, small scenes peeked out, like fireflies in winter, recording stories buried under ice.

“Lambert Saya…”

“He was a great Hero, one who began well and ended well, even among Heroes.”

Stini read the name and watched her ancestor’s tale, like a lantern relit from old embers.

He was among the first Heroes, with golden hair and lead-gray eyes—the seal of the Colonna line.

His birth name should have been Lambert Colonna, a child of the human Sorcerer Emperor, Solomon; when gold waned and silver dawned, he led his people across barren battlefields to claim soil and found a nation.

It was an age before the Hero’s blood had gathered enough blessing and mana; the darkest age, where being chosen by the Divine as a Hero still meant walking in storm and hunger.

Lambert spent his whole life hunting Demonfolk; three Demon Kings fell to his spear-sword, like stars clipped from a black sky.

When he slew the last Demon King invading the mortal realm and bridged the scattered human nations, he had become the strongest under heaven; one day, at prayer in the temple, a Divine Being told him:

“You should be dead.”

“Is that so? Then my time is up. I knew the world wouldn’t let one too strong stand guard forever. The Demon King’s invasion is a game—give humans hope, yet not leave Demon Kings in despair. That’s what a Hero is, isn’t it?”

“You inherited your father’s wisdom, yet…”

“I’m ready. My children are grown. I have bid my wife farewell. Divine One, I’m ready for long sleep.”

“The next rite is far off; you still have days to live. What should die is the crown. The Hero is already beyond the world and shouldn’t steer mortal rule.”

Lambert fell silent, like ash settling after thunder.

A year later, tales spread like windborne seeds: the Hero-King Lambert Colonna was assassinated by Demonfolk; queen, princess, and prince died in the chaos; his sister Adeline Colonna took the throne.

Fifty years later, Demon Kings invaded again, and the first Hero of the Saya line, Wanda Saya, faced them like a sword rising from snow.

He said his proud father gave him that name; it meant “savior.”

“So our family really had royal blood back then!”

“Only fool’s blood. From Sorcerer Emperor to Hero—all fools, through and through.”

Stini clapped once, startled by the sting of it, like a spark popping in her palm.

Then she remembered her own pride: her jade-green hair, a spring leaf in a stone hall.

“Looks like the blood’s watered down. If I tried to mooch a meal from Gloria, she wouldn’t recognize me.”

“Not that there’s anything worth admiring anyway.”

She deflated a little, like a sail in failing wind, and kept walking and watching.

Kane Saya, the most miserable Hero.

Some Heroes died to Demon Kings, sure, but most reached the shore of a good end.

Kane died of overwork, like a candle drained by steady wind.

About four centuries after Wanda, civilization climbed like ivy, and darkness surged back like a flood-tide.

Six Demon Kings broke into the mortal world; after decades of grinding battle, Kane slew five with blood and breath, but the last ascended mid-war.

The “Abhorrence” Demon King, Sylvia, wielded a domain of authority so heavy it rivaled the oldest Demon Kings, like iron moonlight on black water.

From her domain in the Demon Realm, Sylvia exercised her authority and summoned Demonfolk legions; even the Hero Squad couldn’t stand against those mountains-and-seas of bodies.

And because “Abhorrence” seeks to unmake all she loathes under the sky, humanity truly faced extinction, like a candle in gale.

Every human, along with all allied races, sent every fighter they had; they formed warbands, and before the Demonfolk could fully marshal, they hurled everything at the continent’s demon-occupied heart.

Kane went alone into the Demon King’s hall and stole Abhorrence’s demonic artifact, clipping Sylvia’s power to the root.

The nine human kindreds broke through layer after layer of siege and smashed the gates to the Demon Realm, like axes in a frozen river.

At last the Hero and his companions joined hands and barely pinned the Demon King of Abhorrence; using a sacred relic of the Lunarfolk, they sealed her forever, like a moonmarked lock on night.

At forty-seven, Kane was in his prime. After the campaign, they raised a city on that soil. Most of the warband went home; some stayed, planning to teach battlecraft in case another Demon King rose, like farmers sowing steel in spring.

That day, Kane sat at the long table, finished the day’s stack of matters, and stretched hard, like a bow easing.

“Combat arts and spellwork are getting split finer and finer. Captain, why not just start an academy?” said a woman who used to be the Hero Squad’s Assassin, her voice a knife wrapped in silk.

“Maybe in a few years. We’ve left the scaffold for those after us. How far it grows depends on the inheritors.”

“Eh? You’re not going to be the headmaster? Your name carries more weight than anyone’s.”

“Too much trouble. I’ve been busy killing Demonfolk for thirty years. Time to rest. You know my wife?”

“You’re married already?! So I’m out of luck?!”

“Hahaha, sorry. I already bought an airship ticket. I’m heading home tomorrow. Wonder how tall my kid is now.”

The next day, Kane passed away in his bed, a hush like first snow; in his hand, he clutched the homebound ticket.

“What a waste. Such a waste.”

“What a pity indeed.”

Stini bit her nail and sulked, like a cat with rain in its fur.

“He was just a step away from going home.”

“Yet fate was inked from the start—this tragedy was written on day one.”

Stini turned. No one stood behind her, only still air like a held breath.

She looked around; still no one, only stone and shadow.

At last she studied the wall and its runes, like fish-scales catching light, and said:

“So it’s you muttering? Using my voice to steer my thoughts?”

Her blurred reflection swam up on the smooth stone, and the sigils poured into that shadow like stars pouring into a night sea, sharpening it.

The self across the stone smiled like a crescent and spoke:

“Of course not. How could a mural’s reflection talk?”

A naked girl leapt from the wall, face and body a mirror of Stini, like a twin birthed from glass.

“My my! This generation’s Hero has sharp instincts. Among all Heroes, you found me the second fastest. Congratulations.”

“I don’t want congratulations from a monster wearing my face!”

Stini reached for the Holy Sword at her waist—then remembered she carried nothing. She curled her fists and took a fighting stance, like a willow coiling to spring.

“There are differences. My heart’s on the right; yours is on the left. And, shameful to say, I’m terribly weak. I can’t beat you at all.”

They’d jumped too fast; their foreheads bonked with a dull thunk. The mirror-girl rubbed the swelling, utterly unapologetic—very much like the original.

Stini didn’t keep the stance; her gut said this thing couldn’t threaten her, like a wind with no blade.

“Who are you?” She hadn’t forgotten the trial by the Divine, but curiosity rose like steam.

“A non-person, a not-holy holy; a nameless thought with no surname; I can only listen when the Divine Being whispers.”

The mirror bowed with theatrical gravity, like a puppet remembering court manners.

Stini laughed, quick as a spark.

“You look a lot like Andor like this.”

“What I am and who I am depend on you.”

When the mirror lifted its head, it wore Andor’s face—the gloomy bard’s garb he had on when they parted—like a memory stitched into cloth.

“I’m not anyone. I’m only the one you see in your mind. What you think I am, I am.”

“Uh… feels harmless, but what even are you?”

“I told you. I have no name and no tags. If you must call me something, call me what I am inside.”

“Don’t get it.”

“Reason. You can call me Reason.”

So spoke the nameless thing wearing Andor’s likeness, voice like a string plucked once.

Sensing no malice and no harm, Stini let the thing walk beside her, like a shadow keeping pace.

Even moving on, the corridor felt endless, a river looping the same bend; only the murals moved, writing legend after legend of the Hero bloodline. Hunger gnawed, and impatience nipped like cold teeth.

“Are we really supposed to keep walking like this?”

She watched Reason sip more sigils, like dew; oddly, Reason stayed flimsy, no stronger than paper.

“There’s only this road, okay?” Reason spread its hands and grimaced, like a juggler with no balls.

“But I’m hungry. No guidance at all? At least guide me to a piece of bread!”

She always felt Andor was beside her; even knowing this was a phantom, her tone slipped into how she spoke to Andor.

Including a little shameless wheedling.

“I can’t help it. We just keep going. Wait—aren’t you interested in your family’s legends? Most Heroes who come for the trial adore their ancestors’ stories. Some pace this gallery two or three times.”

“I’m a little interested, sure. Just not feeling much.”

Stini lifted her eyes and skimmed the murals like a rider glancing at blossoms, taking in vast death-duels at a glance.

“Dad rarely told me about those before us. He said we shouldn’t remember the dead first, because they’re already buried with history.”

She walked with her palm on the wall, the solemn touch like a rite, witnessing battle after battle and leaving a bow of respect.

“Life is short. We should treasure the living. Spending it on the deaf and sightless dead is a waste.”

“You say life is short… Augustus taught you that too?” Reason touched its chin, thoughtful as a monk by a pond.

“Yeah. Life is short. It really is.”

Stini smiled, bright as a leaf in sun, and kept browsing the murals at a canter.

One legend after another unrolled across the stone, and slowly, the names began to feel familiar, like faces in a crowd resolving.

“…Great-grandfather… grandmother… then Dad—and me?”

Hero, Stini Saya. Her name was carved on the wall, a chisel mark ringing like a bell.

Stini stopped, puzzled, as if a step found no stair.

The murals weren’t what she’d thought—no scribe’s record written after the fact.

Augustus and she weren’t dead, and yet these walls looked ancient, like bones under lichen.

She wasn’t a historian; she didn’t know how to read stone or date a hand by its cuts.

She stared ahead. Ahead, the corridor still ran long as winter. Ahead, more murals, more Heroes.

This was a corridor that recorded history; and history holds what has been—and what’s yet to be.

“So. Will you keep looking?”

Reason spoke behind her. It was Andor’s voice, but the playfulness had drained away, like wine gone to water.

She felt as if she stood on an altar, answering a priest’s question, answering the Divine’s question, breath white in sacred cold.

Stini didn’t rush to answer. She asked back:

“Why ask like that?”

“Because this is a moment for choosing. From here on, what you see isn’t the past. Do you still want to see the future?”

So, answering this was part of the Divine trial too, a scale weighing heart and will.

“Who are you, really?” Stini kept her back to Reason and asked her first question again.

“A non-person, a not-holy holy; a nameless thought with no surname; a self-speaking rationale that only hears the Divine’s cue.” The answer rang the same as before.

“So, Hero Stini Saya, which way do you choose?”

“I won’t look.”

Stini didn’t glance back. Eyes forward, she quickened, like a blade committing to the cut.

“And your reason? Give me your reason.”

“Because my future, my father’s future, my child’s future—causes should be chosen by us, and consequences swallowed by us. Not fixed by a wall we act out like puppets.”

Behind her, Reason nodded, satisfied as a judge stamping a seal, then broke into a light run and caught up with Stini.