After the battle was over, I—along with many other children from ruined villages—was taken by the army. It was not only my home that had burned. Many villages had been erased, reduced to ash and memory. Hundreds of children were gathered and transported in long convoys of armored trucks. After many days of travel, we finally arrived at Jerusalem.
I was awestruck.
Massive walls encompassed the land, carved with countless holy symbols. Every brick was etched with scripture, each one blessed beyond doubt. Atop the walls stood towering figures clad in white armor. I recognized them instantly.
The Templars.
Defenders of the Holy Capital.
Legends made flesh.
After a moment that felt eternal, the colossal gates began to open. A blinding light poured forth, as if the gates of heaven itself had parted. Inside, the sight was beyond anything I had imagined—vast glowing structures, sprawling factories, cathedrals, and devoted masses stretching as far as the eye could see. Everything within those walls felt alive with divinity, as if God himself watched from every shadow.
We moved deeper until we reached a massive cathedral "the House of God" I whispered.
We were ordered off the transport and lined up before a great open square, like a stadium carved of stone and faith. A High Priest stepped forward and spoke.
"My unfortunate children," he said, his voice heavy with sorrow,
"I weep for the loss of God's subjects, cut down like unlit candles by non-believers who threaten the peace promised by the Almighty.
But now is not the time to drown in ashes.
War does not rest, and neither does faith.
You have been pulled from the fire and not consumed.
You have been marked by loss yet not erased.
You have been blessed with a second chance—
a second chance at life,
a second chance at salvation,
a second chance to become the blade God draws from the sheath of suffering.
Rise, proud warriors of the Almighty.
Let your voices become bells that wake heaven.
Chant His name until the earth remembers who it belongs to.
Bleed for His purpose,
and know that every drop spilled in His name is written into eternity."
The words struck us like divine judgment. Many wept. Many prayed. Some cheered. Others stood in stunned silence.
As for me, my choice was already made.
We orphans were given two paths:
to train as regular soldiers, or to attempt the Trial of Ascension—the path of the Paladin. We were warned that most would die. Only the strongest would survive.
I did not hesitate.
I stepped forward with roughly one hundred and fifty others—brothers and sisters united by loss and faith.
The First Trial
We were taken to a stone structure and separated. Each of us was placed alone in a room made entirely of cold stone, with only a steel door sealing us inside. When the door shut behind me, the first trial began.
Food and water were given only once each week.
The room was silent.
Frozen.
Timeless.
It felt like eternity had passed, and yet not a single second at all.
Many could not endure it.
Some screamed.
Some begged.
Some lost themselves entirely.
I waited.
I waited, feeding my hatred, sharpening my resolve, dreaming of the day I would crush the heretics with my own hands.
Months passed.
When the door finally opened, an inspector entered. His eyes scanned me without emotion.
We locked eyes, a fire burning within me—one that had burned for far longer than this trial.
He leaned toward a priest and whispered a single word:
"Pass."
The Second Trial
I was taken to another chamber and strapped into a chair. Stone walls rose around me, cold and unyielding. Priests surrounded me, each wearing a thorn crown, chanting without rest. Their voices intertwined, a ceaseless river of scripture that echoed off the walls, bouncing back into my head until my own thoughts became indistinguishable.
Slowly, they lowered a visor over my eyes. The moment it clicked into place—silence. Not a sound, not a breath, only the endless pulse of my own heartbeat and the whisper of their prayers.
Then it began.
Knowledge flooded my mind. History. Doctrine. Revelation. The Almighty, His mercy, His wrath. How humanity had been saved from annihilation. The false gods and heretics who now defied Him. Their salvation, I was taught, lay only in death. My skull felt tight, as if my brain were stretching to contain it all. My hands twitched involuntarily; I tried to move but could not.
One priest leaned close, a whisper in my ear like fire on ice. "Remember, the Almighty sees all. Reject Him, and your soul is forfeit." His hand pressed briefly to my shoulder, grounding, yet terrifying. I could feel the faith emanating from him, like a weight pressing through my visor into my skull.
The prayers never stopped. Even my own thoughts began to sound like scripture, each memory reshaped, rewritten, suffused with holy authority. I could feel my mind bending, reforming, splitting into pieces I did not know I possessed. Every nerve was alert, every instinct sharpened. It was terrifying. It was beautiful.
Hours passed. Days, perhaps. Time lost meaning. When the visor was finally lifted, the priests' eyes bore into mine. One stepped forward and smiled, cold and knowing.
"You have passed the second trial," he said, voice echoing like a bell through the chamber. "One remains."
The Final Trial
I was led down a long, silent hall. Stone walls stretched high, lit by flickering braziers that cast shadows like writhing figures. Priests walked beside me, each wearing a thorn crown, chanting softly—but their voices carried authority that pressed against my chest.
One priest, taller than the others, spoke directly to me, his voice calm but commanding.
"This is the final trial," he said. "Many have attempted it. Most do not survive. You will be reborn in the image of the Almighty, but only if your spirit is unyielding, and your body does not break. Pain, suffering, and fear will come. You will scream. You will feel death brush against your flesh. And yet, you must endure. The Blood of Christ will flow through you. It will reshape you. It will decide if you are worthy to serve as His sword."
I swallowed hard. My hands trembled as he continued.
"Know this, child: those who pass are no longer the same. You will rise taller, stronger, unshakable. You will bear the mark of divine favor. And those who watch will honor you as one chosen by God Himself."
The hall opened into a vast laboratory. Tables, instruments, and faintly glowing vials filled the room. I was pulled forward and strapped to a long steel table. A white cloth was pressed over my eyes, and a wooden rod was forced between my teeth. My heart raced. The chanting resumed, louder now, vibrating through the floor and into my bones.
Then I felt it.
A needle pierced my flesh. Ice and fire mixed as something foreign—yet close—entered my body Pain exploded through every nerve, and I clamped my teeth on the wooden rod, my only anchor in the agony. My body convulsed, muscles tearing, bones cracking, ligaments stretching like metal wires. I groaned in pain, teeth clenched, every nerve aflame.
"Endure," the priests chanted.
"You are His vessel. You are the sword of the Almighty."
Time lost meaning. Seconds stretched into eternity. My vision blurred behind the cloth, sweat and blood mingling on my face. Every nerve screamed, every fiber of my being cried out—but I refused to break. I bit harder. I clawed with my hands. The pain was turning my flesh into something new, something divine.
Hours passed. Perhaps more. Then—silence. The pain faded, and I felt... different.
After a second the cloth was removed. The room seemed impossibly bright. Priests stepped back and bowed deeply. Their eyes were wide with reverence. I rose from the table, unusually calm, chest heaving, the wood still clenched in my teeth.
"You have been chosen," one priest intoned. "You are no longer a child. You are a Paladin."
A hum ran through the hall. Every priest knelt, heads bowed. Whispers spread like wind: "Sir. Chosen. Blessed." I rose from the table, still reeling from the transformation. The head priest stepped forward, his eyes scanning me with awe.
"Most Paladins," he said, voice steady but reverent, "reach seven feet in height, their strength tempered by the blood of Christ. But you… you are unusually taller. Stronger. Favored in body as well as spirit it seems."
He gently lifted the wooden rod, its surface carved deep by my teeth during the trial. "This," he said, holding it aloft, "is now a relic of His will—a testament to the courage, the suffering, and the divine favor that forged you.".
I turned to a mirror. The frail boy I once was had vanished. I stood nine feet tall, muscles coiled like steel and for a moment I felt a warm and protective presence settle over me. God?
Before I could breathe it in, the priest spoke again.
"The final trial is complete. You will be assigned to a House for training and service. State your name, chosen one."
I paused, letting the weight of what I had endured sink in. Then I said, voice steady, firm, unwavering:
"Kortwil."