DAY ONE
Dawn broke over a Memory Den transformed. What had been a sanctuary for information brokers was now a fortress preparing for siege.
Korrin stood in the canyon's training ground, facing eighty-three people who'd never held weapons in combat. Former merchants, carriers, laborers—people marked by guilt, not battle. They held scavenged swords, pre-Severance firearms, makeshift spears with the uncertain grip of those who knew they were about to die.
"Most of you will die," Korrin said bluntly. His voice carried across the canyon without amplification. "The Sanctum is sending three Saints and two hundred trained soldiers. You are civilians with five days of training. The mathematics are simple and brutal."
Fear rippled through the crowd. Several people shifted, clearly reconsidering their commitment.
"But," Korrin continued, "mathematics aren't everything. The Sanctum's soldiers fight for wages and ideology. You fight for survival and the future. That gives you an advantage they can't calculate: desperation. Used properly, desperation becomes ferocity. And ferocity wins battles that mathematics say should be lost."
He drew his blade, scarred and ancient. "I'm going to teach you three things. How to hold ground without breaking. How to create chaos in organized ranks. And how to die in a way that matters. Learn these, and some of you might survive. Master them, and we might actually win."
Jiko watched from the canyon's edge, his conscience heavy with responsibility for every person below. He'd recruited them, freed them, inspired them. Now Korrin was preparing them to die.
"You're thinking this is your fault," Ven said, appearing beside him.
"It is my fault. They're here because of me."
"They're here because they chose to be. You gave them freedom and purpose. What they do with those is their choice." She handed him reports. "Marik's compiled resource data. We have enough food and water for two weeks if we ration. Medical supplies for maybe thirty casualties. After that..." She shrugged.
"After that we hope thirty is enough," Jiko finished. He looked at the reports, his analytical mind processing logistics. "What about weapons?"
"The Brokers are selling us their emergency caches. Enough to arm everyone, but quality varies. Some pre-Severance firearms that still function, some blades, mostly improvised weapons." Ven paused. "They're also selling us out."
Jiko looked up sharply. "What?"
"Not actively. But they're maintaining their neutrality. That means if the Sanctum asks about us, the Brokers will confirm we're here. They won't help either side, but they won't protect our location either."
"So we have five days before the Sanctum arrives knowing exactly where we are."
"Essentially." Ven met his eyes. "Still think this was the right choice?"
Jiko's conscience screamed yes while his analytical mind calculated the probability of catastrophic failure. "Yes. Even if we lose, we prove the system can be challenged. That matters."
"Even if it gets everyone killed?"
"Even then." He felt certainty settling over him. "Though I'd prefer we win."
Ven smiled grimly. "Then let's make that happen."
They spent the day organizing. Korrin trained fighters. Marik coordinated supplies. Ven managed intelligence and communications. And Jiko did what only he could do: absorb guilt.
More pilgrims arrived throughout the day. Sixty-three became one hundred twelve. Then one hundred fifty. All seeking the Guilt Eater, all willing to fight in exchange for freedom from weight.
By evening, Jiko had absorbed another six thousand Marks. His conscience was straining under the load, the weight approaching critical levels. He could feel the guilt crystallizing inside him, building pressure that would eventually crack his framework if not released.
"You're reaching your limit," the Cartographer observed. He'd been monitoring Jiko's condition from his exile, providing medical data without commentary.
"I know. I can feel it."
"You need to release some of the weight. Transfer it to carriers, or to Echoes, or..." The old man hesitated. "Or accept that you'll crystallize trying to save everyone."
"There's a third option," Syla said, materializing from shadows. "Channel it."
"Channel how?" Jiko asked.
"You've been storing guilt, letting it accumulate. But you've also learned to manipulate moral weight—you reversed Elias's virtue, absorbed the Engine's constructs. What if you could weaponize the guilt you carry?" Syla's eyes glittered. "Turn your burden into power."
"That's exactly what the Testimony does," the Cartographer protested. "Weaponizing guilt is what we're trying to stop."
"Using guilt as a weapon against others, yes. But using your own guilt? That's different. That's transforming suffering into strength." Syla looked at Jiko. "You're carrying ten thousand sins now. That's enormous weight. But it's also enormous power if you know how to use it."
Jiko felt his conscience considering this. It was morally complex—using guilt as power felt wrong, exploitative. But Syla was right that there was a distinction between wielding others' guilt against them versus transforming his own burden.
"How would I do it?" he asked.
"I don't know. You're the one with conscious conscience. You can feel moral weight and analyze it simultaneously. Figure out how to convert weight into force." Syla smiled. "You have five days. I suggest you start experimenting."
DAY TWO
The first death came at noon.
Her name was Kessa, one of the original thirty-seven. She'd been sparring with practice weapons when she collapsed, her body seizing. By the time Jiko reached her, she was already crystallizing—her freed guilt returning all at once, overwhelming her system despite having no Marks.
"What's happening?" Ven demanded as healers tried to stabilize her.
"The guilt I removed," Jiko said, his conscience screaming understanding and horror. "It's still connected to me. When I approach my limit, the weight I've stored becomes unstable. It's bleeding back into the original bearers."
The Cartographer was already scanning with instruments. "You're right. The guilt you absorb isn't destroyed, it's stored in your framework. But your framework is approaching capacity. The weight is trying to find somewhere else to go, and it's returning to where it came from."
"Can we stop it?" Marik asked.
"I can try to pull it back," Jiko said, placing his hands on Kessa's crystallizing form. He focused, willing the guilt to return to him instead of crushing her.
It worked, barely. The crystallization stopped, reversed slightly. But Jiko felt the weight settle into him heavier than before, compressed and angry. His conscience screamed warnings about approaching his breaking point.
Kessa survived, unconscious but stable. But the message was clear: Jiko couldn't keep absorbing guilt indefinitely. He was approaching his limit, and when he reached it, everyone he'd freed would be crushed by returning weight.
"You need to stop taking new guilt," the Cartographer said. "Focus on finding a way to release what you carry."
"I can't stop. More pilgrims are arriving." Jiko looked at the canyon entrance where another group was approaching. "If I refuse them, they die."
"If you don't, you all die when your framework collapses and every Mark you've absorbed returns to its source simultaneously." The old man's voice was urgent. "You're trying to save everyone and you're going to kill everyone instead."
Jiko knew he was right. His conscience and analytical mind agreed: he needed to stop absorbing and start releasing. But turning away desperate people felt like abandoning them to death.
"Redirect them," Ven suggested. "Send them to carriers who can help. Mother Kess's camp, the Forgetting Depths, anywhere but here. You've freed enough people. Focus on the battle ahead."
It was pragmatic. Sensible. And it made Jiko's newly developed conscience scream with guilt about abandoning people who'd traveled to find him.
But it was also necessary.
"Do it," he said. "Anyone who arrives after today gets redirected. We can't help everyone."
Ven nodded and went to organize the redirection. Jiko stood in the training ground, feeling the weight of ten thousand sins pressing down on him, and tried to figure out how to transform suffering into strength before it crushed him.
DAY THREE
Jiko spent the day experimenting with his guilt.
He stood in an isolated chamber, the Cartographer monitoring from outside, and tried to manipulate the moral weight he carried. He'd absorbed virtue from constructs, reversed weaponized Mercy. Could he do something similar with guilt?
He focused on a single Mark—a murder, stolen from one of the pilgrims. The guilt was there in his conscience, present and heavy. He examined it, felt its structure, understood its nature.
Then he tried to change it.
At first, nothing happened. The guilt remained guilt, resistant to transformation. But Jiko persisted, using his conscious conscience to see the Mark not as truth but as weight that could be manipulated.
Slowly, incrementally, he felt the guilt shift. Not disappearing, but changing form. The emotional weight remained, but its nature altered. Instead of crushing shame, it became focused determination. The weight of having killed didn't vanish, but it transformed into commitment to prevent future killing.
"Did you feel that?" the Cartographer asked through the observation window.
"Yes. I converted the guilt. Changed its emotional character while keeping the weight." Jiko felt exhausted from the effort. "But it was just one Mark. I'm carrying ten thousand."
"So you'd need to do that ten thousand times. At your current rate, that would take months." The old man was calculating. "Unless you could do it in batches. Transform multiple Marks simultaneously."
Jiko tried, focusing on ten Marks at once. The strain was immense, his conscience screaming from the effort. But slowly, grudgingly, the guilt transformed. Ten murders became ten commitments to protect life. The weight remained but its nature changed.
He collapsed, gasping. "That's... harder than I expected."
"But possible. If you can transform guilt in batches, you might be able to convert your entire burden before you reach critical capacity." The Cartographer's voice held cautious hope. "It won't remove the weight, but it might let you channel it constructively instead of being crushed by it."
Jiko spent the rest of the day practicing. Ten Marks at a time, transforming guilt into determination, shame into commitment, regret into resolve. By evening, he'd converted perhaps two hundred Marks. Eight thousand remained.
And he had three days until the Sanctum arrived.
DAY FOUR
Korrin called Jiko to the training ground to demonstrate the militia's progress.
They'd improved remarkably in three days. Still civilians, still terrified, but they moved with some coordination now. Held formations. Responded to commands. Showed the kind of desperate competence that came from knowing death was imminent.
"They'll hold for a while," Korrin said. "Not long against Saints, but long enough to create chaos. Long enough for you to do whatever you're planning to do."
"I'm still figuring out what I'm planning to do," Jiko admitted.
"Then figure it out fast. Because in two days, this canyon becomes a battlefield." Korrin gestured at the assembled militia. "These people trust you. Believe in you. Don't waste that belief."
Jiko addressed the militia that evening. One hundred fifty people who'd chosen revolution over safety, standing in the canyon as the sun set.
"Tomorrow the Sanctum's army arrives," he said. "Three Saints who can weaponize virtue. Two hundred soldiers trained for war. They come to kill me and anyone standing with me."
He paused, letting that reality settle.
"I won't lie to you. Many of you will die. The Sanctum's forces are superior in training, equipment, and experience. But we have something they don't: we've already survived the worst the system could do. We've been crushed by guilt, marked as failures, designated for execution or crystallization. And we're still here."
Murmurs of agreement rippled through the crowd.
"Tomorrow, we show them that moral weight doesn't control us. That people can choose to be good without being forced. That the system they've built, the weaponization of conscience itself, can be challenged." Jiko felt his conscience and analytical mind unified. "Some of us will die. But we'll die proving something worth dying for."
"What happens if we win?" someone called out. "If we somehow defeat the Sanctum's forces?"
"Then we've proven the revolution is possible. That change can happen. And we continue the work of reprogramming the Engine, fixing the system that's caused so much suffering."
"And if we lose?"
Jiko met the questioner's eyes. "Then others will remember we tried. And maybe, someday, they'll succeed where we failed."
The militia dispersed to their final preparations. Weapons sharpened. Armor repaired. Prayers offered to whatever gods people still believed in.
Jiko returned to his chamber to find Syla waiting.
"Inspiring speech," she said. "Though I notice you didn't mention that you're approaching critical capacity. That if you don't release your guilt soon, everyone you've freed will be crushed by returning weight."
"They don't need that fear added to everything else."
"Fair. But you should know: I've been watching your framework. The guilt you've stored is starting to crystallize. Not on your skin, but inside you. In your conscience itself." Syla's expression was unusually serious. "You have maybe thirty hours before you hit critical mass. After that, you crystallize from the inside out, and every Mark you've taken returns to its source simultaneously."
"Thirty hours. The Sanctum arrives in less than twenty-four."
"Convenient timing, really. Either you die fighting them, or you die from guilt crystallization right after. Very dramatic." Syla smiled her cracked smile. "Unless you finish transforming your guilt before either happens."
"I've only converted two hundred Marks. Eight thousand remain."
"Then you'd better work faster." She started to dissolve into shadow, then paused. "For what it's worth, I think you're going to make it. You're stubborn enough to survive things that should kill you. It's why you're interesting."
She vanished, leaving Jiko alone with the crushing weight of eight thousand sins and less than thirty hours to transform them or die.
He returned to the isolation chamber and began the work. Ten Marks at a time, sometimes twenty when he found the rhythm. Guilt became determination. Shame became commitment. Regret became resolve to prevent future harm.
The weight remained, but its nature changed. Instead of crushing him, it focused him. Instead of destroying, it empowered.
Syla had been right. He could weaponize his guilt. Not against others, but as strength drawn from suffering transformed.
By midnight, he'd converted two thousand Marks. Six thousand remained. And he could feel the crystallization beginning inside him, guilt solidifying in his framework like ice forming in water.
Eighteen hours until the Sanctum arrived.
Twenty-eight hours until critical mass.
He had to work faster.
DAY FIVE - DAWN
Jiko had been transforming guilt for fourteen hours straight. His conscience was screaming from the effort, his analytical mind barely functioning from exhaustion. But he'd converted six thousand Marks total.
Four thousand remained.
And the Sanctum's forces would arrive by midday.
The Cartographer entered the isolation chamber with food and water. "You need to rest. Even ten minutes of sleep would help."
"Can't. Every minute I rest is minutes I don't have when crystallization hits." Jiko accepted the water but ignored the food. "How long until they arrive?"
"Our scouts report they're six hours out. Moving faster than expected." The old man sat beside him. "Jiko, even if you transform all the guilt, you're still one person facing three Saints. You can't win this alone."
"I'm not alone. I have a militia. I have Korrin's tactical expertise. I have Syla's support." He paused. "And I have you, watching from exile, providing data even though I excluded you from the team."
The Cartographer was quiet for a moment. "I wronged you. Multiple times. Designing you as a weapon, letting people die to manipulate you. But helping now, even from distance, feels like the least I can do."
"It's not redemption," Jiko said.
"I know. But it's a start." The old man stood. "Finish your work. Transform the guilt. We'll handle everything else."
Jiko returned to the transformation. Four thousand Marks. Faster now, finding efficiency through repetition. Fifty at a time when he found the perfect focus.
Three thousand.
Two thousand.
One thousand.
By the time the scouts reported the Sanctum's forces entering the canyon approach, Jiko had five hundred Marks remaining. His conscience was barely functioning, his analytical mind running on fumes. But the guilt inside him had transformed from crushing weight into focused strength.
He could feel it: ten thousand sins converted into determination to protect, commitment to change, resolve to fix what was broken. The weight remained enormous, but it no longer crushed him. It empowered him.
Weaponized guilt. Not against others, but drawn from his own suffering and transformed into strength.
Korrin found him in the isolation chamber. "They're here. Three Saints at the front, two hundred soldiers behind. They're demanding you surrender for judgment."
"What did you tell them?"
"That the Guilt Eater doesn't surrender." Korrin smiled grimly. "They're giving us one hour to comply before they attack. That gives you time to finish."
Jiko nodded and returned to the work. Five hundred Marks. Faster, faster, pushing his conscience to its limits.
Four hundred.
Three hundred.
Two hundred.
One hundred.
The final fifty Marks converted just as the Sanctum's ultimatum expired. Jiko stood, exhausted and transformed, carrying ten thousand transformed sins as strength instead of burden.
"I'm ready," he said.
Korrin handed him a blade. "Then let's show them what the First Heresy really means."
They walked together to the canyon's defensive position. The militia waited there, terrified and determined in equal measure. One hundred fifty civilians who'd chosen revolution over death.
And approaching them: three Saints glowing with golden virtue, two hundred soldiers in blessed armor, all certain that divine righteousness was on their side.
Jiko stood at the front of his militia, feeling the weight of ten thousand transformed sins empowering him, and waited for the battle that would determine whether moral weight could be challenged.
The First Heresy was about to become real.
And the Guilt Eater would lead it, ready or not.