The Man stands atop, observing from above.
Even his breath trembles.
Like a fly caught in a spider's web, he has come to his senses… and accepted his end.
Narrator (snapping fingers): "Hey—hold up. For you forgetful readers? Yeah, this guy. The lighter guy. Chapter 1 & 2. Don't act surprised now."
The Trial of the Past.
A journey through one's own life—every second replayed, every choice unavoidable.
And there he is… helplessly observing.
Each moment ticks forward until he reaches the exact point in time when he first entered this trial in reality.
And when that happens—
He will be forced to live it all again.
But that is not the case.
For here, in this twisted reality, the Man still clutches a supreme entity—
the Orb of Truth.
Narrator (snaps fingers): "Hey, hey! Don't look so confused. This was mentioned before, remember? Pay attention, people!"
…Anyway—let's slip back to the real show.
Xitij smirking.
Rosé and Einar still on the ground… doing, well… some sort of wrestling, I guess?
The frog picks itself back up, its wide mouth curving into a grotesque grin.
On its forehead, a glowing mark flickers—the number 2, etched in an ancient tongue.
Xitij's smirk sharpens. At last, he draws his blade.
The frog coils, tongue shimmering with venom.
Xitij inhales—deep. A lungful of air. A force stored within.
Then— crack. His foot strikes the earth. The ground breathes out a violent gust beneath him.
He soars. The Wind Dash.
Midair, he opens his left palm—
Air condenses, hardened, a translucent slab—
The Air Block.
The frog lashes out. Its venomous tongue rockets forward—unerring, merciless.
But midair grants no footing. No escape.
Unless—
Xitij twists. His body flips. Upside down—literally.
He thrusts the Air Block beneath himself. A foothold.
Again, his lungs empty, air bursting downward—
The Wind Dash, reborn.
The frog's tongue misses, tearing through empty space.
Xitij lands—directly before its path.
The beast's eyes bulge. Once again, its tongue hangs trapped, unable to recoil.
And this time—there is no mercy.
Xitij exhales with force, air gushing from his palm, cloaking his blade in a storm of slicing gusts.
The Wind Slash.
The sword carves. The wind howls.
The frog—
…never stood a chance.
The frog collapses, its body already unraveling into black strands.
On its head, the glowing 2 in ancient script shatters—splintering into countless wisps of shadow.
Those wisps spiral upward before being drawn into the band on Xitij's wrist like rivers returning to the sea.
The ring ignites.
A deep, resonant hum spreads across the glade—like a temple bell struck in the heavens.
At its center, the number 14 blazes into existence, carved in light.
It pulses once.
Twice.
Then a voice—neither male nor female, vast and echoing like the sky itself—rings out:
"Fourteen."
The number dissolves into brilliance, absorbed fully into the ring.
The shaded region swells, filling just a fraction more.
4.2% glows briefly, shimmering across the band—
then fades into silence.
The forest holds its breath.
Rosé, still half-pinned under Einar, whispers in awe:
"…That's not just a system. That's—"
Einar, pale and stunned, finishes for her:
"—a proclamation."
Xitij exhales, finally lowering his sword, a satisfied smirk tugging at his lips.
"Good. At least someone out here knows how to keep score."
In that moment—
Yelena strides into the glade, trench coat vibes, chin high, eyes gleaming. Sherlock Holmes mode: activated.
Yelena (dramatic whisper):
"Hey guys. I found a lead on the case—heh… heh… heeeeeeeeeeeeh??"
Her magnifying-glass-level focus snaps toward Rosé and Einar, still tangled on the ground.
Yelena (pointing, scandalized):
"What are you two doing down there—on top of each other? And you—" she swivels at Xitij"—why are you smirking like a maniac instead of, I dunno, taking action!?"
Xitij lifts his gaze, his grin stretching unnervingly wide—
a voice dripping with menace, mockery, and pure clownish chaos:
"Hey… this is Ardovale. Wait a bit. It only gets weirder—heh… heh… heeeeeh."
The glade chills. The air bends. Even the trees recoil.
Narrator—suddenly dressed in full clown regalia, red balloon bobbing at his side—
leans into the scene, grin painted wide:
"Well… that's it for today, folks. Heh. Heh. Heeeeeeeeh."
Curtain.
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Ch 8.2 : THE TRIAL OF SILENCE
(Note this is a mock passage not connected to the story ; or is it ?)
The air was heavy, not because of its weight, but because of what it wasn't.No sound. Not a breath. Not a whisper. Not even the hum of existence.
Xitij (grimacing): "Well. This feels… fun."
Rosé (rolling her eyes): "If by fun you mean slowly suffocating in a coffin made of awkward pauses."
Narrator (clearing throat loudly… except not, because this was the Trial of Silence): "Ahem—dear reader, notice the irony. Yes, irony survives even here. Silence is not just the absence of sound; it is the weight of everything unsaid, every truth left rotting in the dark."
And then—A shimmer.The Orb of Truth flickered once, as if mocking them.The silence pressed harder. Not absence anymore. Judgement.
Einar (gritting his teeth): "It's not silence. It's listening. Something is listening."
Narrator (grumbling): "Finally. Someone gets it. Took you long enough, heroes. What, you thought it was just an empty room? Pfft. Nothing in this world is empty. Especially not silence."
And the silence laughed.