The Forgotten Peak didn't exist until Cael was halfway up the mountain.
One step on solid stone. The next in a place that hurt to perceive.
Aether:"Reality distortion detected. We have entered a memorial space. Warning: Identity anchoring compromised."
The path beneath his feet was made of compressed forms—thousands of failed sword styles, each one a whisper of what could have been. His boots disturbed their dust, sending up clouds that tasted like abandoned dreams.
Three hours of climbing through nothing.
Then he saw them.
Seven figures seated in a circle, backs to him, facing inward toward something that glowed without light. They didn't move. Didn't breathe. But they were alive.
"The forgotten," one said without turning. "Come to join us?"
Cael stepped closer. Their faces were smooth. Not young—erased. Features blurred like wet paint.
"I came for answers."
"We all did." Another figure, voice neither male nor female. "The Peak answered by taking our questions."
Aether:"Memory degradation field active. Estimated time until identity loss: 4 hours."
"What is the trial?" Cael asked.
The seven turned as one. Where their eyes should have been, only impressions remained.
"There is no trial," they said together. "Only truth. The Blade That Was Never Named exists here. Perpetually. It asks one question."
They pointed to the center of their circle.
A sword hung in midair. Not floating—simply existing without need for ground or hand. It was every sword and no sword, shifting between forms like water remembering shapes.
"What question?" Cael stepped forward.
The sword spoke without words, directly into the spaces between his thoughts:
"Why do you swing?"
The question hit harder than any blow. Cael's knees buckled. The Memory Blade at his side went cold.
Images flooded through him—every fight avoided, every conflict dissolved, every moment he'd chosen stillness over action. But beneath them, older memories. From before. When he was an archmage who solved problems with fire and lightning.
Had he ever truly changed? Or just found a quieter way to dominate?
"I swing..." he began, then stopped.
The seven watchers leaned forward.
"I swing because—"
The sword pulsed. His words crumbled. Why did he swing? To end fights? But ending was still a form of control. To teach peace? But teaching was still imposing his will.
Aether:"Warning: Core identity fragmentation beginning. Suggest immediate retreat."
"No." Cael stood straighter. "I know why."
The sword waited.
"I don't swing," he said. "I choose. Every motion is a choice to not become what I was. The blade doesn't end fights—it reminds me that I can choose not to start them."
Silence.
Then the sword laughed—a sound like wind through ruins.
"Truth," it acknowledged. "But incomplete. Watch."
Reality folded.
Cael stood in a field of bodies. Not dead—suspended. Thousands of warriors frozen mid-swing, their conflicts eternal and unresolved. Above them all, a figure floated.
Himself. But older. Perfected. Untouchable.
And utterly alone.
"This is Severed Silence fulfilled," the vision-Cael said. "Every conflict prevented. Every violence unchosen. And nobody left who remembers how to choose differently."
The real Cael stared at his future self—at the perfect peace that was indistinguishable from death.
"No," he whispered. "That's not—"
"It is," the seven said. "Every Form, taken to its conclusion, becomes its opposite. The Blade That Was Never Named learned this. It chose to be forgotten rather than become what it feared."
The vision shattered.
Cael found himself back in the circle, but something had changed. The Memory Blade hummed differently. Not with power—with understanding.
Aether:"Form evolution detected. Severed Silence has integrated paradox. New trait: Imperfect Peace. Your form now acknowledges that some conflicts must exist for choice to have meaning."
One of the seven stood, face becoming slightly clearer.
"You didn't lose yourself," she said. "First in decades. The Peak offers a gift."
She handed him a shard of the floating sword—a piece that looked like crystallized intention.
"Plant this at your tournament. Let it grow. See what Severed Silence becomes when it stops trying to be perfect."
Cael took the shard. It weighed nothing and everything.
"Will you stay?" another watcher asked. "Join our circle? Perfect understanding, forever?"
"No," Cael said. "Understanding without action is just another cage."
He turned and walked away.
Behind him, the seven resumed their eternal watch, and the Blade That Was Never Named continued its existence as a question without an answer.
The descent took minutes. Time moved differently leaving the Peak—eager to return to its normal flow.
At the mountain's base, Cael found a message carved in stone:
"They have begun. The tournament. Your silence will be tested by those who mistake it for surrender. Hurry."
No signature. But he recognized the blade work.
Ren.