After the seventh try, after her farthest dash broke two-thirds of the way like a wave on rock, Stini wisely gave up on one more run.

Hunger gnawed like a cold rat. Her body dulled, slow as wet ash. The Hero clan’s breathing art eased the bite, like wind over coals. But even the deepest magic can’t fill an empty belly—creation from nothing sits in a Divine Being’s hands.

More attempts meant more spent strength, like sand leaking from a cracked jar. In this state, repetition wouldn’t find a weak seam. It would just grind her down.

Stini stomped back to the ghost-blue fire, flames licking like fox tails. She shot a glare at the golden-armored gatekeeper in the hall’s heart, then dropped hard to the ground.

“Can’t beat him…”

“No one said you had to win.”

“Shut up.”

In her mind, shattered plates knit like frost mending glass. The armor rose new-born.

Here, thought alone could shape the weapons she wanted. No mana burned, no muscle bled. Stini had learned that rule by touch and bruise. So she called up full plate and the Greatsword Valor for a headlong charge. She strung a multi-enchanted warbow and rained shots like meteors. She loosed an iron host of Constructs that thundered like a steel tide. She even raised Abigail’s sky-splitting, earth-cleaving Godslayer Sword.

She tried the strongest arms she had ever seen and paired them with tactics, like threads woven tight. She tried to pierce the gatekeeper’s wall of gold.

Every attempt shattered.

The iron army got hammered flat into disks by a golden shield, like dough under a millstone. Full plate split in one golden swing, clean as a reed cut by a knife. The sky-cleaving blade light met his guard and broke like lightning on a mountain. The bow, layered with all the usual peak enchantments, couldn’t bite through that golden mail at all.

His strength tugged her mind back to the war against the Deity of Justice, like a wound aching before rain.

It differed from that staff-wielding god’s absolute suppression, that no-hope, no-breath oppression. The gatekeeper fought like a warrior who’d emptied his whole life into one path. He hunted every opening with a storm’s hunger.

It was feral and old, a long, raw way of wagering life. No leisure for pretty forms. Every rush and every cut praised the body’s brutal grace.

His speed lagged. His forms gapped. Yet his strength patched every flaw, like roots cracking stone.

Strength. In the clash of blades and the crush of bodies, it’s the most naked truth. Strength.

It was ruinous strength.

With speed, the girl could sidestep like a swallow and force him to give ground, step by hard step, edging the door.

For the first third, Stini could still grapple a little, like two tides meeting. Then through the second third, she could only slip and duck. Even the armor’s shock bleed made her ache.

What about the last third?

“Strength climbs by a geometric scale. You don’t need geometry. Just know this: in that final third, if the wind of his sword brushes your foot, half your body’s gone. That’s enough.”

“Shut up!”

“I’ll be quiet, as you wish. But can you really solve the true answer?”

Li sat by the fire with an ocean-deep look. The gaze pulled up things she didn’t want to dredge.

Like the Demon King of Slaughter’s Giant Scythe, moon-black and harvest-cold.

Like the World Saving Demon King’s Long Halberd, storm-long and river-strong.

Like the Void Annihilation Magi-cannon, a throat that drank light and spat nothingness.

The gatekeeper was strong, yet still a “man.” Could transcendent arms break him?

Her memory flowed, and at her side a cannon mouth formed, carved with sigils for “void,” like frost writing on obsidian.

No.

She snapped her head. The cannon unraveled to nothing, like smoke in wind. Li only smiled and watched, a pond without ripples.

To face a strong foe with a stronger force—was that the trial’s meaning?

Carry thought through to the end—the dwarven master and Li had both named that point. But how do you carry it all the way?

Stini felt a click in her chest. She rose and walked to the gatekeeper.

He didn’t move. If she didn’t cross the center line, he would do nothing.

She stared into the eyes beneath the visor. Gold flowed there like molten sun. Flame burned there like a bonfire before war. A choice-to-die steadied there like a blade in its groove.

A sting burned her sight. She felt she’d understood too much. She lifted a hand to Li, palm up, to say no more.

“I’ll ask and answer myself. Don’t butt in. Let me walk it.”

“Of course. You’re the one on trial. Mm… all right. I’ll watch.”

“I am Stini Saya, a Hero. This is my own Q and A.” She had stared too long. Knowing too much of his essence scorched like a god’s true form. Her eyes ached, so she pulled her gaze away.

“What are ‘you’? That’s the heart-pin question.” Frustration pricked first. She rubbed her eyes after.

“I kept asking where ‘here’ is, why my arm regrew, why I can conjure weapons, who that one who calls himself ‘Li’ is, and a dozen more snags.”

“I couldn’t grasp the place of the trial. So I flipped the thought. The word that repeats here is ‘thought.’ What does thought mean here? With that, the knots eased.”

“When I fought you, I heard static… no, not static, once I understood. In the last third, I heard a war-song, in a tongue I didn’t know, praising something. And—I heard many last words from Heroes, in tongues I knew.”

“They said: ‘Carry everyone’s will and live.’ ‘Behind me are the ones I love and the land I love, so I can’t fall back.’ ‘Love may weaken us, but I don’t regret it.’ ‘Witness the will of humankind.’ I’ve seen many. I know what that is.”

That sword, the one the Deity of Justice left behind, sang in her bones. She had crossed blades with that Divine Being countless times. She had held that blade. She could resonate with it, and touch the part beyond the mortal. Stini paced, memory like a lantern.

“That’s your core, isn’t it? Hero? Greatness? Or—Justice. That’s why you yank my mind back to the Deity of Justice.”

“So ‘theory’ just sits there. It explains or listens, but it has no force. ‘Justice’ stands for absolute might, for ruin-making strength. Because this is a world of thought. Thought decides all. Thought turns to matter.”

“Use a physical way to live your thought, and live or die on it, to the end. That’s the right read of the trial.”

“Just a guess. Did I guess right, Li?”

She drew a breath like cold spring water. She waited. Applause cracked behind her like dry wood.

“Brilliant, Stini. I must salute you. And also a certain someone I don’t like who made you who you are. You’re the first Hero in history to solve the trial alone.”

Stini usually only caught half of what Li said. He loved his airs and fog. She got the shape. He was impressed. That was enough.

So she didn’t ask who that other someone was.

“You should’ve been more practical, colder. You shouldn’t have thought. You should’ve coasted through the trial… Fine. True history and recorded history always drift. Let’s not peer at skewed timelines. Useless. You’ve got some skew in your take, but for someone without any guidebook, you over-cleared it.”

“So that means I pass?” Stini arched a brow.

“If I were the examiner, sure… Sadly I’m only Li. My respect adds no points. The rules don’t change. You still have to walk through that door. But since you’ve solved the answer, filling the sheet should be easy.”

Li grinned like a fox. Andor’s stiff-faced self would never wear that. The grin was ugly.

Stini stepped back and watched the golden-armored gatekeeper. She said nothing.

Justice has never been a Hero’s burden. It’s a Hero’s oldest friend. The sharpest lance and sword. The stoutest armor.

Heroes fight under Justice’s banner like leaves under wind, shouting and dying. “For Justice.” Like “for the world.” Like “for humanity.” They shout it. They fall with it. No regrets.

Does the bugle of Justice drive the Hero forward, or does the Hero choose the direction of Justice’s blade? Hard to say. From the first step, Justice and Heroes are twined like rope.

But—

But.

If one day—like today—you must turn your back on Justice, if your will runs against the public good, what then?

“Justice won’t plead its own case. So let me—Theory—speak for it. You have your own stubborn line. Justice has the direction of hearts. You were right. This is the world of thought. It’s a shadow of past, present, and future. It’s your fate. No gods will meddle with your will. You have to choose.”

Freedom holds two edges. It’s cruel and beautiful, like moonlight on a knife.

You must choose now. For your obsession. How to face Justice. How to stand against it.

Even a Hero can’t stand forever in a pure and lovely place.

Stini watched the Holy Lance Thousand Gallop form again in her hand, white as a winter spear. She stroked its hard-carved lines, like river cuts in stone.

“You know what to do. You do.” Li pressed, voice soft as snow.

Confusion rose first, a fog behind her eyes. She lifted her head. She saw the gatekeeper sheathe his longsword across his back. He reached out his hand, steady as a bridge.

Give your weapons, your armor, your everything, to Justice. Lower yourself. Return beneath Justice’s banner. Then walk through the door.

That’s the right answer. The cleanest answer, bright as noon.

But the girl wouldn’t drop her own stubborn line. She wouldn’t lay down sword and mail. She wouldn’t strip herself bare, and cross over, sad and ashamed.

Because she didn’t feel she was wrong. She wouldn’t confess she was wrong—she learned that from a certain wayward Shadow Sorcerer.

“But facts are facts. Justice is harsh. The warped Justices you’ve seen—did they meet good ends?”

“No.”

“So you know what you should do.”

“I do.” Stini’s voice fell like a sigh. “I know it all.”