Chapter 6: The Deadly Path and the Frozen Silence
The Master of the Empyrean stood at the very edge of the plateau, his white hair whipping in the violent winds of the high altitude. He pointed a trembling finger toward the north, where a single, needle-like peak pierced the heavens. This was the Spire of Heavens, a place where the atmosphere was so thin that mortals could not breathe, and the spiritual pressure was enough to crush a man's soul into dust.
"To reach the Angel's Ring, you must cross the Valley of Echoes and climb the Glacier of Lost Wills," the Master warned. "In the Valley, you will hear the voices of everyone you have ever failed. On the Glacier, your own body will try to convince you that death is a warmer alternative to the climb. If you falter, you will become another frozen statue in the mountain's collection."
Andrew, now clad in simple white trousers and a tunic that shimmered with a faint internal glow, adjusted the strap of his satchel. He looked at his hands—they were no longer the rough, calloused hands of a farmer. They were smooth, radiating a gentle warmth that kept the snow from settling on his skin.
"I am not afraid of the cold anymore, Master," Andrew said, his voice steady. "The fire my brother started in Jammu is much colder than this ice."
With a final nod of respect, Andrew stepped off the plateau. He didn't use the path; he leaped, his body lightened by the Empyrean energy, gliding hundreds of feet down into the misty ravine below. The journey to the Spire had begun.
The Valley of Echoes
By the second day of his trek, Andrew entered the Valley of Echoes. It was a narrow canyon where the walls were made of blue ice, polished to a mirror finish by centuries of wind. Here, the silence was unnatural.
As he walked, the silence began to fracture.
"Andrew... why did you let them take me?" Andrew stopped. It was his mother's voice. It sounded so real, so full of pain. He turned, but saw only his own reflection in the ice.
"You were at the market, Andrew. You were buying herbs while the guards took our last bit of grain. You let us starve." This time it was his father's voice, deep and accusatory.
Andrew squeezed his eyes shut. "It's an illusion. The Master warned me."
But the voices intensified. Thousands of them—the villagers of Jammu, the soldiers killed by Arthur, the children crying in the dark. They all blamed him. They blamed his weakness for Arthur's rise. The ice mirrors showed him images of a burning Jammu, with a younger Andrew standing by, doing nothing.
"I am the light!" Andrew shouted, his aura flaring.
"The light is a coward's shield!" the voices screamed back.
Suddenly, a massive Frost Wraith—a creature made of condensed mountain mist and ancient grief—emerged from the canyon wall. It had no face, only a gaping maw that exhaled a fog of pure depression.
Andrew drew the Aurelian Brand. The golden blade hissed as it touched the freezing air. The Wraith lunged, its claws made of jagged ice. Andrew dodged, but the creature's touch didn't hurt his flesh; it hurt his mind. Every strike made him feel heavier, slower, as if the weight of his guilt was physically pulling him into the snow.
"I cannot change the past," Andrew whispered, dodging a lethal swing. "But I will protect the future!"
He plunged his blade into the ground. A wave of "Pure Truth" erupted from the sword, shattering the ice mirrors of the canyon. The Frost Wraith shrieked as the light dissolved its form. The voices vanished, replaced by the honest, howling whistle of the wind. Andrew stood in the center of the shattered valley, breathing hard, his golden eyes glowing brighter. He had passed the first test: he had accepted his past instead of running from it.
The March of the Eclipsed
While Andrew battled ghosts in the north, Arthur was turning the world into a wasteland. The Legion of the Eclipsed was a terrifying sight. These were not just shadow constructs; they were humans whose souls had been replaced by dark matter. They marched in perfect, silent unison, their black armor absorbing all light.
Arthur rode at the center in a chariot made of dragon bone and shadow-silk. He was no longer interested in gold or land. He was hunting the source of the light.
"My King," a scout reported, kneeling on the scorched earth. "The Silver City has fallen. The people have been... converted."
Arthur didn't look at him. He was staring at a small, withered flower by the roadside. He touched it with his finger, and the flower didn't just die—it turned into a black crystalline shard.
"The North is resisting," Arthur said. "The mountains are trying to hide him. Tell the Legion to prepare the Soul-Eater Catapults. If the mountains won't let us pass, we will level the mountains."
He looked toward the Spire of Heavens, visible even from hundreds of miles away. He could feel Andrew's presence. It was like a needle pricking his dark heart.
"You think a ring will save you, brother?" Arthur whispered to the wind. "I have the Devil's hand on my shoulder. What does a dead Angel have to offer you?"
The Spire's Guardian
On the fifth day, Andrew reached the base of the Spire of Heavens. The vertical climb was impossible for any human. The rock was slick with "Ever-Frost," a substance that froze anything it touched instantly.
As Andrew began his ascent, using his golden blade to carve handholds into the ice, the sky turned a violent shade of violet. Lightning, black as ink, began to strike the rocks around him.
A massive creature, the Storm-Griffin, descended from the clouds. It was a beast of legend, with the body of a lion made of thunderclouds and the head of an eagle made of lightning. It was the ancient protector of the Angel's Ring.
"None shall disturb the slumber of the Seraph," the beast roared, its voice shaking the very foundations of the mountain.
The Griffin dived, its talons crackling with electricity. Andrew barely hung onto the cliffside as the beast's wing grazed him, the shock throwing his heart into a frantic rhythm. He was trapped on a vertical wall, thousand-foot drops on either side, facing a god of the sky.
"I don't seek power for myself!" Andrew yelled over the storm. "I seek it to stop the Shadow King!"
"Many have said those words," the Griffin replied, circling for another strike. "All of them wanted the ring for their own glory. Prove your heart, Seeker, or feed the mountain!"
The Griffin opened its beak, and a beam of concentrated lightning shot toward Andrew. In that split second, Andrew made a choice. He didn't raise his sword. He let go of the cliff.
As he fell into the abyss, he opened his arms, exposing his glowing heart. "If my intent is not pure, then let the mountain take me!"
The Griffin froze mid-air. It saw the golden threads of Andrew's soul—they were untangled, bright, and filled with a genuine, agonizing love for his enemy. Just feet before Andrew hit the jagged rocks below, the Griffin dived and caught him in its massive talons.
The beast landed gently on the highest balcony of the Spire.
"You are the first in a thousand years," the Griffin said, its voice now soft like a summer breeze. "The Ring is yours, Lightbringer. But be warned: the weight of the heavens is heavier than the darkness of the abyss."
Andrew looked up. In the center of a white marble pedestal sat a simple, unadorned ring made of a metal that looked like liquid starlight.
The Angel's Ring was waiting.