The room was massive, yet empty—like whoever built the place had poured all their passion into the statues outside, then took one look at the inside and thought, 'Nah. That's good enough.'
Before him loomed something ancient. Dusty. A throne—and sitting there like it had been waiting far longer than it should have.
The whole place felt… wrong.
And as if the throne itself wasn't ominous enough, a lifeless figure sat on it—motionless, yet exuding a pressure so heavy it felt like he was sinking into the floor.
'Great,' he thought. 'Not this again.'
He forced himself to take a step. His legs felt like they weighed a ton, every muscle screaming for him to stop, but his eyes refused to look away. The armor was magnificent.
It wore pitch-black silk armor, its head propped lazily against its fist, like it had gotten bored of ruling reality halfway through the job. It looked hollow. Still. Too still.
At first glance, it wasn't much different from the stone saints lining the halls.
Beside it rested a beautiful longsword, so dark it seemed forged from pure darkness. Even sitting there, it felt dangerous—like it didn't need to be swung to ruin someone's day.
He strode closer, his gaze wandering across the empty throne room, oblivious.
The armor cracked—like it was moving for the first time in decades. Dust spilled from the seams as it lifted its head.
Its crimson eyes flickered once, then burst into full, blazing life.
Shiro went still.
"I am sorry. I should have asked permission before entering."
"Are you worthy to be my master?" it said—ignoring his polite words entirely.
'No manners whatsoever.'
"Are you worthy to be my master?"
This time, its voice was menacing.
His thoughts shattered. What was it talking about? Things just kept getting stranger, one after another.
He opened his mouth to answer, but the voice cut him off.
'Stay focused. It doesn't matter what you answer—it will try to fight you, so don't drop your guard.'
"You're joking, right? I'm supposed to fight that? He's basically eight feet tall," he muttered, staring up at the armor.
'Incorrect. Seven feet five inches.'
"Oh, great. Now that I know that, I can totally win this," he said flatly.
'That's the spirit.'
"I was being sarcastic, you dumb parasite."
The armored man rose. Every movement rattled loose plates, and a dark purple glow leaked from the cracks.
Shiro eyed the ebony knight, briefly wondering if he could just annoy it until it fell apart—the same way the voice usually did to him.
The knight spoke again, the same dumb question as before:
"Are you worthy to be my master?"
Once again, the bastard didn't even give him a chance to answer. Impatient hunk of metal.
It moved like lightning, the world lagging behind it. By the time his eyes caught up, an eight-foot nightmare loomed over him, its pitch-black blade cutting down in one smooth, terrifying arc.
He dove and rolled to the side, barely dodging the strike as it shattered the ground where he'd been, dust exploding outward, the force pushing him back.
Shiro's eyes went wide. Not just scared—full-on terrified. He had just watched his life almost get cut in half. His heartbeat thundered in his ears, drowning everything else out.
He dragged in a breath and steadied himself. If he spaced out at a time like this, he'd die for real. He could panic later—most likely after death.
The knight turned its head—slowly, dramatically—those ruby eyes pinning him with a look that screamed murder. Cold sweat ran down his back.
He stumbled and fell backward, slamming onto the ground. His heart hammered against his ribs as old memories flooded back under that scorching stare.
The armored knight turned its head and rose to its full height, towering over him.
Their eyes met. In its visor, Shiro saw his own reflection—small, fragile, easily breakable. His eyes widened as the part of himself he'd tried to bury stared right back at him.
'Shiro, snap out of it. Now.'
The voice didn't just panic; it trembled, as if tasting fear for the first time, and all that earlier confidence in him had just… vanished.
Gritting his teeth, he hauled himself up and took a step forward. He raised his head and stared straight into its bright ruby eyes.
"How dare you look down on me, you walking tin can."
Whatever fear he'd felt a moment ago vanished, scorched by anger. Those hollow eyes were painfully familiar—the same ones his father always gave him. Tired. Distant. The eyes that said he should've never been born.
"You asked if I'm worthy to be your master," he said. "Fine. Then answer this—why does a 'great knight' need a sword just to fight someone who isn't even armed?"
He stepped back and opened his hands to show he was carrying nothing.
His gaze locked on those ruby eyes again.
"The question isn't whether I'm worthy of you," he said quietly. "It's whether you're worthy of me. And right now, you can't fight without a sword. I can."
He raised his empty fists, a tired smirk tugging at his lips.
"Drop the sword. Use your fists. Then we'll see who's 'worthy.'"
The knight stabbed its blade into the floor and came at him, silent as a shadow. Every movement was smooth, practiced—the kind you only got after outliving your humanity.
"That's more like it," Shiro whispered.
"I have served kings beyond counting. I have seen their ends. Yet I endure. I wait. I do not perish."
Shiro studied the knight. For a brief moment, there was something in its voice that almost sounded like sorrow.
"Yeah, yeah. Whatever," he said, rolling his shoulders. "Quit yapping and come at me."
He was just tired of all the random crap it kept spouting.
The black knight did exactly that. It lunged, moving faster than he expected, its armored fist coming down with brutal force.
Shiro twisted at the last second, the blow skimming past him. He went with the motion, hands snapping around the knight's massive arm, and slammed him into the ground.
The impact boomed through the chamber, stone cracking beneath the knight.
But the knight got right back up like nothing had happened.
And just as fast as it got up, its armor started to groan and tighten around its body, and it lunged—this time so much faster he could barely follow.
The strike tore through the air—too fast to dodge. He threw his arms up and blocked just in time, but the impact sent a jolt of pain all the way through his bones.
He leapt backward, trying to put some distance between them so he could at least think without being overwhelmed, but the damn bastard's arm shot out and clamped around his leg.
And from there, the beating began.
The armored beast lifted him high and slammed him again and again, smashing him into the floor, each hit harder than the last. Unbearable pain ripped through his body. His vision blurred at the edges.
The voice in his head was still shouting his name, but it sounded like it was coming from the bottom of a well. His thoughts fuzzed out, turning to static, and one stubborn question surfaced:
'If I die here… what will happen to the voice? Will he die with me?'
It wasn't just his life on the line—the voice's life was hanging there too. The thought made his chest tighten.
That realization snapped his focus back violently—at the worst possible timing—as the knight hoisted him up, ready to introduce him to the floor one last time.
He spun midair like a very annoyed tornado, his leg twisting in the knight's grip, and using the momentum, he whipped his other foot into the knight's helm. The helmet went flying, clattering across the floor.
His eyes went wide.
'Endless Hollow.'
He had expected it… but it was still nightmare fuel seeing it up close.
Without its head, it lost all sense of direction and simply hurled him toward the throne while it searched for his head. He slammed back-first into the massive seat.
His back pressed against the backrest. One leg was twisted like a rope; the other dangled uselessly at a bad angle.
Normally, that would've been a solid ten out of ten on the pain chart.
And right now? His body was too confused to sort any of it out, as if every part of him was trying to take first place.
[Do you want to abandon the trial for the throne?]
[Yes / No]