The forest grew thinner as Tikshn pushed forward. Trees once dense and protective gave way to broken earth and cracked stone. Each step on the dry terrain sent dust swirling around his feet, and the sun, fierce and unrelenting, cast long shadows like jagged blades across the cracked ground. Days had passed since he had spoken. His wounds ached, hunger gnawed, but his eyes remained sharp.
The master walked behind him, not close, not far. Always watching. Always silent. He neither encouraged nor criticized—he simply observed, as if watching a story unfold.
Tikshn hated that.
At first, he had thought the master was testing him. Now he suspected the master was doing something worse: hoping he would break.
Ahead, a sudden gust of wind howled between towering cliffs, and the earth dropped away in a sheer abyss. Tikshn halted. Before him stretched the *Withered Gorge*—a scar in the land that cut so deep, it seemed to bleed the sky itself. A single rope bridge, tattered and swaying, connected the two cliffs. Below, nothing but fog and whispers.
He had heard tales of this place, told in hushed voices around fires. Some called it cursed. Others said it was alive—that it tested the spirit of any who crossed. None had returned unchanged.
He stared at it, his breathing slow. "This is it," he muttered. "A trial."
From behind, the master's voice finally came, quiet as the breeze. "This is not a trial I give you. It is one you chose by stepping onto this path."
Tikshn glanced back. "Will you speak of what lies ahead?"
"No," the master replied. "The Gorge reveals only what already lies within you."
Tikshn said nothing more. He stepped onto the bridge.
The ropes groaned under his weight. Boards creaked and swayed. Below him, the mists churned—thick, cold, and unnatural. Halfway across, the wind grew colder, slicing through his tattered robes. And then he felt it: a presence.
It rose from the fog like a nightmare, formless but massive. Its face was a skull of smoke, its body a cloak of shadow. The *Wraith of Endurance* had come.
"**You walk alone, Tikshn, but you carry nothing. No master. No brothers. No purpose. Just pain. Just pride. You are hollow.**"
The words didn't come from a mouth. They echoed inside his mind.
"I walk with my will," Tikshn growled, but his voice shook.
The ropes twitched, then snapped. One side of the bridge lurched downward. Tikshn fell, caught himself with one arm, blade still clutched in his right hand.
His shoulder screamed in pain. Blood smeared the fraying rope. The Wraith descended, curling around him like a serpent.
"**Let go. No one walks alone forever. All who try... fall.**"
Tikshn gritted his teeth. The chasm stretched below him like a mouth eager to devour.
He looked at his sword. His fingers were numb. His arm was trembling. But still, he gripped the hilt.
"Even if I fall," he said through clenched teeth, "it will be with the blade in my hand."
Then, with a cry that was half defiance, half agony, Tikshn drove the blade into one of the half-broken wooden planks still attached to the side rope. It jammed between the fibers and the old wood. Anchored.
He began to climb—not with grace, not with strength, but with pure, animal will. His body was battered. His mind screamed to surrender. But something deeper pulled him upward. Not pride. Not vengeance. Not even survival.
Conviction.
With the sword as his hook, he climbed, blood dripping from his palms. The Wraith hissed, swirling and clawing, but it could not dislodge him.
"**Why won't you fall?**" the spirit cried. "**Why won't you break?**"
"I already broke," Tikshn spat. "And I put myself back together."
At last, he rolled onto the far side of the gorge, chest heaving. His hands were ruined. His arms trembled. But his sword was still in his grasp. He laid there for a moment, the sky spinning above, pain like fire in every limb—but he was alive.
Moments later, a shadow moved overhead. The master stood at the edge of the cliff Tikshn had left behind. Then, without so much as a running start, he leapt.
His body moved like wind—calm, centered, impossibly fluid. He landed beside Tikshn without stirring a pebble.
"You used your sword not to strike," the master said, "but to climb."
Tikshn's breath was shallow. "A sword… is more than a weapon. It is my will. If I let it go… I fall."
The master looked at him for a long time. Then he crouched, placing a sealed packet of herbs on Tikshn's chest. "These will help the swelling," he said simply.
Tikshn looked up, stunned. "Is that… your help?"
"No," the master said. "That is your reward."
Tikshn smirked faintly. "So you *do* care."
The master stood, turning back to the path ahead. "I care what becomes of a sword that refuses to break."
And with that, they continued forward—one limping, one gliding—both stepping deeper into the unknown.