Mika had no previous knowledge about the exact details of the trial, all he knew was what his nana said, and that the moment he reached the trial's land he had to listen to the call and follow it. Those words, though simple, had gnawed at his mind for years. Listen to the call, follow it. But what was the call? What form would it take? His imagination had conjured hundreds of scenarios, none of which prepared him for the reality that awaited.
But after losing consciousness, Mika felt nothing. It was as if his senses betrayed him, each one stripped away with cruel precision. His balance vanished, vertigo consuming him like a whirlpool. He could swear his eyes were open, but he saw only white—an endless, nauseating whiteness that made his stomach lurch. He could not hear his own voice, though he tried to cry out. Instead, his heartbeat thundered in his ears like war drums, pounding so violently that he wondered if his chest would split open. If not for the faint movement of his ribcage, he would have believed he had ceased breathing altogether.
Mika felt lost, as though he had been cast into an anechoic chamber, a prison of silence where even the echoes of his existence had been stolen away.
For the first time in a long while, he panicked. His calm, cynical mask shattered. He wanted to feel something—anything—to prove he was alive. His hands flailed desperately, grasping for solidity, for a shred of reality that would anchor him to existence.
Fortunately, as if answering his disarrayed thoughts, his palm struck something hard and dry—ground. And just like a switch being flipped, his senses snapped back. The suffocating numbness lifted. The whiteness, though still blinding, began to recede skyward. Slowly, painstakingly, it stretched into a dome of brilliance overhead, transforming into a sky of sacred white and gold. It lent a solemn weight to the grim atmosphere of the place.
Mika gasped for air like a drowning man, one hand clutching his chest as his lungs heaved in ragged bursts. His lips moved against the cold earth as he cursed under his breath, voice hoarse: "Why didn't that old hag warn me about this?"
Trembling, he forced himself to his knees. His legs shook, his body still wracked with vertigo, but he struggled to stand. Then, as his eyes adjusted, he froze—every trace of breath stolen away by the sight before him.
Three words could describe it: a sea of steel. Before him stretched an infinite expanse of weapons—swords both long and short, some gleaming, others dulled by time; axes with broken handles and others adorned with gems; spears thrusting from the ground like ancient tombstones; bows of every size; even strange prototypes—rifles, muskets, devices Mika could scarcely name—all glimmering faintly. Each weapon pulsed, throbbing like a heart, radiating a cadence that hummed against his bones. They were not mere objects. They were alive, whispering in a language beyond words, a chorus of wills and hungers.
It was then that Mika realized he had entered the true domain of the Trial. Nana's words echoed in his mind, stern and immovable: Follow the call.
But what call? His gaze swept the endless battlefield, but no path revealed itself. The place resembled an abandoned field after a war, devoid of corpses yet heavy with death. The only thing resembling life were the weapons themselves, emanating a presence so tangible it pressed on his skin.
He sighed, muttering aloud, "What should I do now? It's not like I just extend my hand and pick the nearest weapon, right?"
Yet without realizing it, he found himself moving. One cautious step, then another, until he stood before something that drew his eye. A shield—though calling it such felt wrong. Its edges were lined with jagged spikes sharp enough to shear through bone and iron alike. A line ran down its middle, hinting that it could separate into twin blades. It looked powerful, dangerous, unlike anything he had ever seen. His hand lifted almost of its own will, fingers stretching toward its handle.
The shield seemed out of place among the rest, but it was cool, alluring in a way that demanded attention. Without thought, Mika reached, intent on grasping it.
He never completed the step. The moment intent solidified within him, agony ripped through his body. His stomach twisted as if a thousand hooks had latched onto his guts and torn them apart. A splitting headache drove into his skull like an iron spike. He vomited blood, a scarlet arc staining the pale earth, and collapsed onto his bottom. His hands trembled uncontrollably, his face ashen, streaked with sweat and crimson.
He felt it. He did not simply imagine—it was real. The weapon had spoken, though not in words. Its will slammed against his soul, raw and merciless, a message beyond question.
The shield rejected him. It scorned him. He could sense its disgust, its cold indignation at his unworthiness. He had dared to approach, and it had repelled him like vermin. The refusal was absolute, a contempt so sharp it pierced his very essence.
The message could not be clearer: Look elsewhere. The weapon was alive, imbued with will and—terrifyingly—feelings. Mika trembled, his voice shaking as he muttered, "How… how could a piece of metal have all these signs of life? What next? Will they stand on two feet and ask for food and water?" A laugh escaped him, brittle and hysterical.
He forced himself to calm, breathing deep, clutching his knees until the quiver in his limbs lessened. "Okay… calm down, Mika. Nana said to listen carefully. She must have said that for a reason."
He shut his eyes, forcing his heartbeat to slow. The sea of weapons stretched endlessly, their hums vibrating faintly. Silence, eerie and watchful, settled over him. But then—faint, distant—he heard it. A voice. Not words, but a whisper, incomprehensible and layered, brushing against the edges of his mind. If he had not been concentrating so fiercely, he would have missed it.
His eyes snapped open. He turned his head to the right. There it was again, the faint, maddening whisper. Voices not of this world, beckoning him closer, urging him forward.
But his face, already pale, drained of all color. The direction of the call was a nightmare made manifest. The weapons were densest there, packed so tightly the terrain itself seemed swallowed by steel. Swords jutted against spears, axes crossed over rifles, a tangled wall of death. To move more than ten steps would mean brushing against them—each contact another rejection, another torrent of pain, perhaps even death. The thought alone made his stomach twist.
How could he possibly reach the source of the call? This was no trial. This was a labyrinth of suffering, a death trap woven from steel. Mika clenched his teeth, fists trembling. "This is impossible… but… but I have to do it. It feels close, yet so far." His eyes narrowed toward the direction, straining to catch the faint voice again. The call grew stronger, threading through his veins, tugging at him with invisible chains. Every fiber of his being urged him to run, to throw himself into the thicket of blades without hesitation. But his body rebelled. His mind, bound by instinct, flinched from the promise of pain.
Seconds passed. Then Mika's gaze hardened, his lips pressed into a line. "Nana is waiting for me to return. I can't let this chance slip when it's right in front of me." He clenched his fists tighter, the weight of resolve settling into his chest, even as the abyss of steel loomed before him.