“Since you’ve won, I can speak now—explain.”

Reason let out a long breath, like frost uncoiling in cold air, and walked in from afar into the arena of beasts.

Justice clashing with justice was iron on iron, winter against winter—harsher than good versus evil. In a short bout, the ageless hall’s foundation stones were scored with sword-grooves and stamped with boot-prints like claw marks on old rock.

From the sunset of gold to the bloom of silver, countless Heroes had fallen again and again under that golden sword and shield. Yet this was the first time Reason saw the face beneath that visor.

What met their eyes was all within expectation, all within their theory.

Stini hadn’t read it wrong.

“Is this a prophecy? A prophecy I’d be the one to defeat her?” Confused, Stini asked, voice like a pebble dropped in still water.

“No. That’s a bad read.”

Reason stepped closer and met the gaze of the gatekeeper pinned to the great door—like a butterfly nailed to a board—and had no intention of taking her down.

“She’s a wide-scope concept. You’re a part of her—Righteousness—and she is a part of you. So when you see her face, you see your own.”

“Mm… like when I first met you…”

Stini tilted her head, memory rippling; back then, Reason had worn her face.

“She and I are alike: inhuman among humans, unholy among saints—just a nameless line of thought that hears the Divine Being’s prompting. Only, I am ‘Reason,’ human Reason, and she is ‘Righteousness’ (Yi), human Righteousness. That’s the one difference.”

The Divine Being’s relic had pierced her chest, yet the gatekeeper called Righteousness didn’t die. Eyes round as moons, she stayed silent, as if the verdict “justice has been defeated” had reached her bones. She gave up struggle and hung there, honest as a mural, still as winter bark.

“So that means I’ll meet ‘human evil,’ ‘human desire,’ ‘human insight’ as gatekeepers next? This trial’s too much! Can I file a complaint? First gate’s a spawn kill!”

Stini stood before Righteousness and aired every gripe, not a shred of solemnity—more like a player joking in a game. What’s the point of whining at the lead dev when the dev is a Divine Being?

Reason was speechless and didn’t want to engage this generation’s Hero. Too flighty by nature, like a vine growing wild and crooked. Sure, the Demon King fanned the flames nearby, but it wasn’t over the line; she’d simply grown sideways on her own.

“I think you’re underestimating the trial—and the Demon King, and justice. Fine, I get it, you use jokes to relax. But don’t copy that guy. He mocks without restraint because he can’t die. You’re just a mortal child; snap your neck, punch your heart out, and you’ll die clean, like a candle snuffed.”

“Hey, hey, I already won. Don’t kill the mood. That means I cleared stage one, right? Then why won’t this door open?” Her palm pressed the wood like a tide testing a cliff.

“Because there’s one more choice.”

“So annoying. Too many choices!”

“Please listen. Your future’s on the line.”

“Do we need this?”

“Don’t you want a future where you and your beloved and your friends all live better?”

“A warrior doesn’t forecast their death. If you know the day, you stop fighting. So the future? I won’t ask, won’t listen. Maybe I’ll face a choice at the end, but let Now decide Now, and Future decide Future. That’s my choice.” Her tone was stone-solid, moon-cool.

“…Seems you did think with your head.”

Reason spoke, face knotted like tangled roots, and Stini had the leisure to enjoy the range of expressions you’d never see on Andor’s corpse-still face, ripples a dead lake would never make.

“Rude! What’s with ‘think with your head’! People use their heads, okay?”

“I am human Reason. My impression is the majority’s impression—that’s rarely wrong.”

“Mm… I can’t even argue. Fine, whatever. I’m starving. Let’s go.”

She said it and moved to push open the door, shoulders set like a ram against snow.

Reason didn’t stop her, only asked. The voice shifted from small talk to rule-speech—solemn as a Divine Being’s proclamation, thunder above a quiet field. Perhaps it was the Divine Being speaking through Reason’s mouth:

“You can kill the gatekeeper, wear her armor, and go farther. You won’t?”

“Beat justice, kill justice, then become justice? I don’t want to butt heads with the world’s old rules. Too tiring. I’m out. Ugh, this door’s heavy—is it rusted shut?” Her words were light, but her hands were rivers pressing a dam.

Stini didn’t turn back—not from laziness, not for anger at a withdrawn blessing. For her, that was what thinking hard looked like: using her own thoughts, deciding with her own will, not staring into divine glory and letting that light bend her like grass before wind.

It wasn’t the Divine Being’s intent. They are thought made peerless; let a mortal look straight on—or catch the edge of the shadow—and the god’s thinking washes your colors thin, like ink blurred by rain. It’s not about weak will; our rank is just too low.

So she refused to face that great light. She pushed the sealed doors, pried a sliver like dawn’s first cut, and widened it, inch by inch.

“You can take the gatekeeper’s sword and shield, fight with them, and quicken your road. You won’t?”

“If I borrow the name of justice, wear a mask under that great banner, and walk on lies, trickery, and malice—how long till my heart rots? Stini Saya isn’t some great figure. I admit I’m weak to temptation: see cake, I want to eat; see a villain, I want to kill. So before temptation drags me like a mudslide, I’ll cut off that road entirely.” She shook her head and kept shoving, a river wearing down stone.

“You can hand the sword and armor back to the gatekeeper, gain her blessing, and walk easier. You won’t?”

“I finally beat her. How would I surrender? Even if it’s myself across from me, no. My ideals and my stubbornness are my pack and my banner—my burden and my pride. They’re mine. I won’t discard them, and I won’t gift them away.”

The door yielded, but the world beyond was a sea of fog, soft and broad, blurring all.

Not as Reason had implied—pushing the door wasn’t passing.

Stini smirked, then turned, eyes bright with a mock-innocent shine, like a fox in snow, to face Reason.

The “choice” was over; no need to fear divine thought seeping in like tide through sand.

“What else? So this stage isn’t done yet. Looks like the trial isn’t scripted—it’s the gods watching me, huh.”

“After all, I’m only ‘theory’: inhuman among humans, unholy among saints, just a nameless thought. Complaining to me is wind on stone—no use.”

In Stini’s eyes, Reason’s Andor-style helpless shrug scored a clean nine out of ten.

“Alright, alright, last question—just a question, born of the Divine Being’s curiosity.” Reason cleared their throat twice, and the voice became a bell over mountains:

“So what’s your choice? You won’t become Righteousness, won’t move under justice’s name, won’t bow to justice. You’ve refused every answer the Divine Being gave. If you stand opposed to justice, what is your final choice?”

Stini thought—not about the choice, but about how to say it so people would see it like a lantern through mist.

She’d chosen the moment she lifted her sword at the gatekeeper, die cast, bridge burned.

She gripped the hilt pinning the gatekeeper to the door and wrenched it free with brute force. Metal rang, a crow’s cry at dusk.

Justice didn’t speak. She fell, knees to stone, still silent, face blank with confusion. Stini admired her own stunned face for a heartbeat and called it “pretty cute,” then slid the greatsword home and slung it across her back like a night-colored wing.

Then she turned again and stepped toward the far side of the door, into the thick mist like a river into cloud.

“The answer is: we do it like this.”

“How is that an answer?”

“It’s what Andor calls ‘not choosing,’ ‘refusal.’ You could call it ‘walking away,’ too.”

“That hardly counts as an answer.”

“It does. After this duel, here’s what I get: I could stand on either side—right or wrong. What I hold to may vary; the only thing I can guarantee is my own so-called yi—my own ‘righteousness.’ It might be a cruel righteousness, it might align with justice. I’ll try to talk first. If we can’t talk, can’t recognize each other…”

“…”

“Then we fight, and the ones who can still stand walk to the end.”

“Maybe the ending won’t make anyone smile. No—this is a tragic way to live, storm-torn and cliff-high. Such resolve rarely ends well. I so declare.”

Stini tilted her head and laughed softly. She didn’t care who the “I” in Reason’s mouth belonged to, or whose language it was.

“Either way, that’s the road I choose. Even if it’s ugly and awkward, I don’t care. So long as it’s the yi I hold, and I hold it to the end, that’s enough. I’ll face it calmly.”