Kieran felt strange, terribly strange.
For the first time in the months—since the beginning of this bizarre, manipulative, and catechizing Trial, which made him question things about himself through surreal impressions—Kieran's mind was focused.
Well, as focused as it could get while remaining victim of a hell where he could not speak, he was a prisoner of fanatics and lost his connection to every source of power he could think of.
Still, despite those circumstances, Kieran had obtained a shred of clarity and retained a trace of reason. With that came a renewed interest in reorganizing the disordered patchwork known as his soul.
With every piece put back together in its rightful place, Kieran felt a part of his original bearing come back together at the frayed seams. The Testament of Dying Blood had arranged his soul in a way that made him susceptible to every dark thought, murderous impulse, or vengeful desire.
He didn't understand how all of that was possible, but maybe anything was possible with enough Significance. That weight felt almighty and unrestricted. Its effects were not something Kieran could withstand.
Still, he did stand to gain absurd amounts of understanding from the esoteric concept.
Surprisingly, the Flame had not intervened in his attempts to banish it from his soul, nor did it try to encroach upon the fragments of Kieran's soul that bore the vestige of supreme mystical might.
Of course, he couldn't banish it either. It was there… stuck.
Kieran began to question if it couldn't infringe upon the mystical rather than willfully ignoring it. If that were true, it would mean the essence that drove mysticism and the energy the Flame consumed and thrived on were of the same station.
One was not superior to the other, but neither could overcome the other.
Should Kieran finish weaving his Mystic Gate back together, an everlasting war would erupt in his mind.
The mystical verses the maddened.
With that shred of a burgeoning reason, Kieran thought about the link between what the voice had told him before the Trial's beginning and what he was learning about his soul.
'I am the Anchor of the Trial, and because of that, the Trial affects me the greatest. These severe thoughts, uncharacteristic changes… they're not me. But I'm so damned powerless to stop them from happening. I want to and need to.'
Slowly, Kieran was coming to understand what this part of the Trial was doing to him and why. Initially, it asked him what he would resort to should he lose his power.
Well, it had down just that—taken his power from him and then some.
In addition to removing his power, the Testament of Dying Blood sealed away—or perhaps temporarily severed—the progress Kieran had made in terms of his character.
This kind of relapse in character went beyond regression. It was a complete reset, an irrefutable upheaval of what was hidden, buried, or erroneously discarded from his soul—an assassination.
On the surface, the relationship between mind and soul was convoluted and complicated, but at the core of it, there was a stark reciprocity to its nature. The soul impressed upon and uniquely influenced the mind, and the mind was the culmination of experiences, thoughts, principles, and feelings.
Within that link was the reason Kieran did not feel like himself. His improvements and experiences had been condemned and forgotten, which left him basking in the negative until he began assuming his role as a Voiceless with seamless affinity.
But he didn't want to do that.
Seamless assimilation posed the risk of his positive improvements being lost forever. That kind of regression, that grim condemnation… Kieran couldn't stomach it.
Then, Kieran looked at the integral parts of his soul bound by Significance. The Flame's nascent corruption paled compared to the weight of those vital parts. They were cemented in place by a titanic chain.
And if Kieran was correct, they were why he recalled some matters with perfect clarity. For example, how to wield a blade and use it to reap life with swift strokes.
'The soul is so unbelievably complex. It seems grand but deceptively small at the same time. It probably isn't that vast, but the fine pieces make it seem that way.'
Kieran worked tirelessly, and after months of hard work, only a minuscule portion of his Mystic Gate had been reformed. But that insignificant piece offered solace.
A trickle of mystic essence fell from a crevice. It was unconventional but appreciated. Usually, the Mystic Gate wouldn't open its ornate doors unless saturated with mystical brilliance.
Granted, Kieran's Mystic Gate had long since become saturated. It was likely supersaturated by now, given his forced inattentiveness. It had not been purged, cycled, or spent in months. It should be swollen and ready to burst by now.
…If that's how time worked here.
Kieran was working on his second month inside the Stone Hold of this nightmarish place, but how long had it been since he stepped in the Trial?
What was the dissonance of time doing to him in actuality?
Deep dread gripped Kieran as he spared the anchored parts of his soul a final furtive look before working himself ragged. Within hours, he was spent. But it was a shocking improvement from his first attempts.
But at the pace he was going, it'd be years before even half of the Mystic Gate had been reconstructed. He didn't have several years. With Cardinal Weiss supplementing his absence from the Culling with private bouts of bloodshed and barbarism, Kieran reckoned there was a few years at best before the Flame commanded the lion's share of his soul.
The gears in his mind churned, and then a sense of loss washed over him like he was forgetting something gravely important. He had wanted something.
'Uh, what was it?'
Kieran stared absentmindedly into the distance. Half his attention was focused on the Mystic Gate, but the other half was trained on the Realm of Self. It resembled an abyss or maybe a dormant and unlit sky. Though he inhabited the Realm of Self with his presence, it felt primarily vacant.
It had room for storing many things, but that wasn't important for the time being. Mysticism had drawn him here, not the use of blood power. Which meant mysticism was his key.
Kieran snapped and exclaimed, a light bulb going off in his head.
'Words! The words can help me. That's what I forgot.'
More importantly, the Supreme Lettering.
The Testament of Dying Blood was a Trial for the Myths, but the Supreme Lettering was an ability on the same level as the Myths. Perhaps stronger once mastered, but Kieran couldn't say.
Even the Old Myths had comparatively lacking control over and understanding of the power they wielded. There was more to discover and loads more to wield.
Kieran exhaled and inhaled rapidly, preparing himself mentally… spiritually?
'Whatever this place is.'
Then… he ripped apart the Mystic Gate and felt indescribable anguish. What possessed him to mutilate himself like that? An assumption—one made using his currently flawed discretion.
The Flame's disregard for well-being had likely gained purchase in Kieran's conduct. It wasn't wholly unfamiliar, though, not after seeing the way Scar had fought.
A fiend was equally ruthless to everything, including themselves.
His throes drew the Flame's attention, but it did not act, following the same behavior pattern as before. It could not encroach upon the dominion of the mystical essence.
Thus, Kieran's progress went on unhampered. With breaks to eat in between and time to practice his swordsmanship alone, without the Flame's incursion, Kieran's tolerance for soul-inflicted pain grew daily.
His resistance increased, but it was not something he would ever grow used to. It transcended physical pain and wrenched something profound.
Still, his focus was tenacious.
'It's done!'
The fervent, fiendish gleam in his eyes started to calm… he was acquiring balance.
