The first snowfall of the year blanketed the Holy Light Land in a shimmering silver hue. In the middle of his quiet church courtyard, Little Light stood with his sleeves rolled up, adjusting healing inscriptions on a stone pillar. Lan watched from the doorway, his breath fogging in the cold.
But peace never lasted long.
A trumpet echoed from the distant square. Not a royal call—but a challenge.
Two priests from the central district marched toward the courtyard. One was silver-haired, wielding a gleaming censer; the other, a tall man cloaked in layered robes with prayer tattoos crawling over his arms. Behind them followed a handful of Light disciples, their gazes scornful.
"Priest Light," the tall one said mockingly, "your fame has reached the higher tower."
Little Light turned, calmly tying the final knot in his healing cord. "Did it bring you here to receive treatment, or to cause more trouble?"
"I am Priest Yao of Second Rank," the man said coldly. "You will face me in the sacred duel of arts. Prove you're not an imposter."
A whisper passed through the watching crowd. Priest duels were rare—and dangerous.
Little Light brushed his robes and stepped forward. "I accept."
They moved to the stone dueling platform near the church's well, surrounded by carved light runes and a boundary of holy ash.
Lan gripped the railing, eyes wide. "Be careful, Teacher..."
The officiant raised a staff. "By decree of the Holy Path, let this be a trial of light, not shadow."
Yao struck first.
"Blinding Lance!"
A beam of silver light shot toward Little Light, sharp enough to pierce stone. He sidestepped, flicking his finger as golden symbols bloomed beneath his feet.
"Thread of Mending," he whispered.
Golden tendrils slithered from his hands, catching the lance mid-air. With a twist, he unraveled the energy and spun it into light particles.
The crowd gasped.
Yao roared. "You're no healer—you're a manipulator!"
He stomped forward, his tattoos lighting up. "Chains of Judgment!"
Thick light chains emerged from the ground, aiming to bind Little Light's limbs. But the young priest took a deep breath and muttered:
"Pulse of the Dawn."
A ring of warm light burst outward from his chest, snapping the chains like paper.
His movements were fluid, like a dancer in prayer, never once showing aggression—only soft redirection and dissolving counters.
Yao's rage reached its peak. He raised both arms and summoned his trump card:
"Wrath of Seven Stars!"
Seven fiery spheres of holy energy hovered above him, each charged with an emotion—wrath, pride, envy, sorrow, greed, fear, and doubt.
Little Light stood still, his eyes half-closed.
The spheres shot forward.
But then—he walked straight through them.
Not dodging. Not deflecting. Just walking.
Each sphere passed through his body—and fizzled into harmless dust.
The courtyard fell silent.
The officiant's jaw dropped. "The arts... they didn't recognize him as a target."
Yao staggered. "What... what are you?"
Little Light opened his eyes, revealing a calm, faded golden glow within. "Your emotions are whole. But mine... are incomplete."
He walked away without another word.
That evening, as he lit a candle at the altar, Lan wrapped his arms around him tightly. "You were amazing."
Little Light stroked his head. "Power doesn't make one noble. Mercy does."
But before the warmth could last, a knock came at the church door.
A messenger in white robes bowed and handed him a sealed scroll with the sigil of the Highest Circle of Light.
He read it in silence. Then again. And again.
Lan peeked up. "What is it?"
"…A summons," Little Light said, his voice soft. "They think I'm a dark infiltrator."
"No!"
"It's all right," he whispered. "They want me to take the Test of Light. I'll go."
---
The next morning, he set out alone. He left Lan in the care of a trusted herb seller nearby. "I'll return before the stars change their shape," he promised.
The Test of Light was held deep beneath the Holy Tower, in a temple only the accused and the worthy could enter.
Seven rings carved into marble, each lit with a different emotion's sigil.
A High Priestess clad in pale light robes stood by a stone brazier. "This is not merely a trial of power," she said, "but of soul."
Little Light stepped into the first ring.
Stage One: Wrath
A vision overcame him. He stood in the void, watching his brothers fight. Little Water mocking him, Little Death scarring him with curses. The old fear rose up, but...
He simply exhaled.
"They hit me because they knew I could survive it."
The wrath faded. He passed.
Stage Two: Pride
He stood before an audience cheering his name. Tower elders offering him rank and riches.
But he said, "I am not who you think I am."
And walked through the illusion.
Stage Three: Envy
He watched his brothers find companions, warmth, strength.
But instead of longing, he bowed his head.
"Let them shine. I light the path."
Stage Four: Sorrow
A dying child. A failed revival. Blood on his hands.
He knelt, eyes glistening—but stood up with resolve.
"I cannot save all. But I will never stop trying."
Stage Five: Greed
Books of forbidden light. A furnace glowing with power. Secrets of gods whispered in his ears.
He looked away.
"I already gave up everything once. What more could I need?"
Stage Six: Fear
He stood again before Little Water and Little Death. This time, they weren't mocking—they were burning, fading away, accusing him.
"You were too soft!"
"You wasted our power!"
He lowered his eyes. "You may be right. But I choose to stay soft."
Stage Seven: Doubt
A mirror.
His own face stared back. Then cracked.
"You're not real. You're just a fragment."
Little Light touched the mirror.
"…Then I will be the fragment that heals."
The mirror shattered.
The temple returned to silence.
A divine voice echoed from the roof of the chamber: "The emotions do not control him. They are like dreams to a broken mind—clear, but incomplete. He is passed."
The High Priestess stepped forward. "You… you are not what we expected."
Little Light smiled faintly. "I rarely am."
--[To be Continued]--