He entered a chamber that was vast and silent and instinctively walked towards its center, his body trembling with exhaustion. Six trials had carved away the boy he once was—each a crucible of pain, fear, and revelation. Now, as the seventh began, it did not arrive as an external assault, but as an internal conflagration.
The sigil upon his chest—a mark bestowed in the first trial, dormant until now—ignited with the ferocity of a captive sun. A silent scream tore from his throat as white-hot, divine fire erupted from the symbol. But it did not blast outward; it turned inward, searing through muscle and bone and scouring his very soul.
Simultaneously, every piece of armor he had earned in the previous trials—the gauntlets from the qualification trial melted and melded into his skin. The boots from the third trial became one with him.
The helmet—the crown of his endurance, earned from the trial of Salvation—glowed brightest of all, its visor blazing like a star as it too began its violent migration. The air filled with the horrific, metallic shriek of fusing adamantine and the sizzle of divine fire melting celestial steel. He felt each piece—the sword that had become an extension of his arm, the shield that had stood between him and oblivion—lose its physical form, becoming pure, agonizing energy before being violently drawn into the maelstrom on his chest.
It was a sensory overload of pure torment, a feeling of being unmade and remade simultaneously. His world narrowed to the excruciating process, a symphony of pain conducted by an unseen, merciless hand. Just as he felt his consciousness would shatter, the pain peaked in one cataclysmic, silent detonation of dark light.
And then, silence. Perfect, profound peace.
He stood, whole. But he was changed.
Where there had been separate plates of armor, there was now a single, seamless entity. A suit of full plate armor so dark it was like the void given form. It was beautifully obsidian black, polished to a mirror sheen that reflected nothing. Its design was both ancient and impossibly futuristic, with flowing, luxury gold organic lines that hinted at musculature and sharp, elegant angles that promised lethal purpose. The helmet was no longer a separate piece but part of a harmonious whole, its visor a smooth, dark pane that revealed nothing of the face within except two glowing slits. The sword and shield were gone, subsumed, their essence now part of the armor's deeper purpose but No.1 knew that with a thought, they would appear.
It was utterly mysterious, emanating an aura of immense, slumbering power and profound, eternal silence.
He willed the armor off and it did not unlatch or dematerialize. It simply… was not. And when he willed it on, it simply was. The same thing happened with the sword, the shield and the helmet.
The Trial voice came again after such a long time, "The Final Ordeal is complete. The vessel is forged. The Divine system is activated. Divine energy is now yours to command."
A surge of power, clean and limitless, flooded his veins. As this new energy touched him, the sigil on his chest flared once more, and new patterns burned themselves into his flesh.
He looked down at his hands. On the back of his right hand, an intricate sigil of deepest, abyssal black etched itself, its patterns resembling cracking earth and breaking chains. On his left, a mirror-image sigil of brilliant, blazing gold formed.
"The vessel requires a name to anchor its purpose," It continued. "You have endured. You have been forged in pain and tempered in will. You stand as the arbiter of consequence, Henceforth, your name is Judgement."
The name settled upon him with the weight of an undeniable truth. It was not a title; it was his identity, his function.