The silence that followed was deeper than before.
Not peaceful.
Hollow.
Damien stood in it, chest rising and falling with ragged defiance, blood dripping from his ruined hand, his knuckles cracked open like fault lines. Every inch of his body screamed in protest, but none of it mattered.
Because the soldier—the Trial—was down.
And Damien was not.
He stood.
Not victorious like a champion in light and applause.
But still.
Breathing.
Bleeding.
Alive.
And that was all the Trial ever asked for.
Then—
The ground shook.
A low tremor. Subtle. Rhythmic. Like something ancient was stirring beneath it all.
Not seismic.
Symbolic.
And then—finally—after what felt like an eternity of pain, movement, and bone-deep silence…
A voice.
[So you have completed the Trial.]
It didn't come from the sky this time.
It came from the side.
From the battlefield itself.
