No more stairs. No more darkness, no more tests, no more weeping winds. Only a path of light—wide as a grand boulevard, stretching toward the open golden gate. The three men walked in silence.
There was nothing left to say. Every drop of blood, every wound, every fallen soul—had spoken for them.
Karl led the way, eyes fixed forward. His white hair swayed gently in an unseen wind. Beneath his feet, gravity was no longer something to command—
it obeyed his will naturally, like breathing.
Molvar rested his axe on his shoulder, back slightly hunched, like an old soldier emerging from his final war. He no longer smiled, but there was a faint relief in his eyes—
as if a long-buried weight had been lifted.
Cedric wore no armor, only the broken sword at his hip. His tattered cloak trailed bloodied cloth behind him, yet he walked with the dignity of a man entering his last knighting ceremony.
As they reached the golden gate, the world grew still.
Then, a familiar female voice echoed:
