No.1 looked frantically around the barren hall. Speak with what? His own voice felt small and frail against the monolithic certainty of his opponent.
"The final piece should be both a weapon and a tool," he spoke to himself. "It should be the Sword of the Spirit, which is the word of truth. It is not a blade of steel, but of declaration. It is not wielded with the arm, but with the spirit. It is taking the ultimate reality—the word of the one who called you—and speaking it into the face of the enemy's twisted narrative. It is active, it is offensive, and it is my only path forward."
Immediately, a solitary pedestal of pure white stone emerged from the floor between No.1 and the advancing figure. Upon it lay a sword.
It was long and straight, a double-edged blade of the same brushed, light-drinking metal as the helmet. Its hilt was simple, wrapped in worn leather, and its crossguard was unadorned. It did not gleam. It did not shimmer with magic. It looked functional, severe, and incredibly sharp. It did not promise power; it promised truth.
The figure of oppressive reason was almost upon him, its monologue a relentless barrage of cold, hard facts that built a prison of despair around him.
"Your struggle has no external witness. Your victory has no lasting impact. Therefore, it is without meaning. Lay down your burden. It is the only logical conclusion."
No.1's body begged him to listen. His mind, protected by the helmet, held fast to a truth he could not articulate. He looked at the sword. He understood. The shield was to be raised. The sword was to be taken up.
With a groan of effort that came from the depths of his soul, he lunged for the pedestal. His fingers closed around the hilt.
It was light. Lighter than the shield, lighter than the helmet. It felt less like grabbing a weapon and more like grasping a solidified breath. Yet in his hand, it thrummed with a quiet, undeniable authority.
The figure loomed over him, a void of absolute reason. "Submit."
No.1's arm trembled from fatigue. He had no strength left for a physical swing. But this was not a physical battle. Gripping the sword, he did not swing it. He raised it, pointing the tip at the heart of the darkness. And he spoke. His voice was hoarse, cracked with exhaustion, but it was clear, filtered through the helmet and given an edge by the sword.
"I know the truth," No.1 began, the words coming not from memory, but from a place deep within, from the same source that had formed the path and molded the shield, "'I can do all things through Him who strengthens me.'"
The words left his lips and did not fade. They hung in the air, visible as a shimmer of silver light. They struck the figure not with force, but with context. The fact of his fatigue was met with the greater truth of available strength.
The figure recoiled, flickering. Its monotone broke. "Illogical! Empirical evidence suggests—"
No.1 took a step forward, the pressure easing infinitesimally. He spoke again, the Sword of Spirit humming in his hand.
"I know the truth," he declared, his voice growing stronger, "I will not be afraid, for He is with me. I am not dismayed, for He is my God. He strengthens and helps me.'"
The words were a sword thrust. The figure's form rippled, its darkness thinning. The historical fact of failure was pierced by the eternal reality of a present help.
The opponent shifted tactics, its voice rising in a cold shriek. "Your purpose is a fiction!"
No.1 advanced another step, now driving the figure back. The sword felt like an extension of his own will.
The figure then began to coalesce, to thicken and writhe. From it, forms began to emerge. They were not creatures of flesh and bone, but semblances woven from doubt, fear, and lies. A shifting, many-limbed thing that echoed the accusations from the Shield's trial. A slithering, formless mass that murmured the apathetic sighs from the Helmet's chamber. They were phantoms of his past trials, given shadowy form to confront him again, armed with the knowledge of his growing fatigue.
One of the shadowy forms lunged. It was a darting, sharp thing made of the whispered lie, "You are forgotten."
No.1's response was immediate.
"This is The Sword of the Spirit. It is not a weapon of steel, but of truth. It is the only weapon that can strike against the powers that assail me. It is active. It is offensive. The shield parries the lie, but the sword severs it. The helmet filters the doubt, but the sword cuts it down." No. 1 muttered to himself.
He swung. The form was severed.
Another form attacked—a larger, heavier beast of burden formed from the memory of his physical strain, the thought "You cannot go on". No. 1 did the only thing that he knew was right - He spoke. His voice was raw with strain, but it was clean, sharpened by the blade in his hand.