When the light returned, it wasn't from the sun. It came from beneath—slow, pulsing, like the heartbeat of something ancient buried beneath the world. Reiji stood within the void left by the opened wall, the air thick with ash and whispers. His blade was still warm, but he no longer felt its weight. The Hall with No Doors was gone. In its place stretched an endless plain of mirrors, each reflecting a different version of himself. Some were younger. Some older. None were alive.
The ground cracked when he moved. The sound echoed forever.
From the distance came the slow toll of a bell—faint, rhythmic, like a pulse counting down to judgment.
He walked toward it.
Each step reflected a memory: Kaede's smile before the fire, the witness's blood on the stand, Kurobane's dying breath. The faces merged and faded into glass. He wasn't walking toward the bell anymore. He was walking into it.
And then, the world shifted.
The mirrors bled light and folded inward until they formed a chamber—vast, circular, and blindingly white. At its center stood a tribunal of faceless figures draped in crimson. They watched him with the stillness of gods.
"Shinomiya Reiji," they spoke as one, their voices layering like echoes through bone. "The shadow that defied silence. The blade that judged its own reflection. You have reached the end of your path."
Reiji said nothing. His voice belonged to the storm inside him now.
The figures raised their hands, and the air thickened with light. The ground beneath him shifted—becoming glass that reflected not his image, but the memories of others. Every sin he had ever judged replayed beneath his feet.
"This is the Trial of the Shadow," they intoned. "You stand before the memory of the Court itself."
Reiji's jaw tightened. "I've faced your trial before."
"No," the voices replied. "You faced guilt. This is truth."
The glass beneath him fractured, revealing scenes from a past he didn't recognize: a boy standing before the same tribunal, sword raised in devotion; a man taking an oath in blood; the birth of the name Reiji.
He stumbled back. "That's not me."
"It was," the voices whispered. "Before the silence."
Reiji looked down again. The boy on the glass stared up at him, terrified, desperate to become something more. The words of the oath echoed faintly: "To become shadow is to abandon the self."
The realization hit him like a blade through the chest.
He had not joined the Court. He had been created by it.
---
The tribunal began to descend from their seats, their robes unraveling into threads of light. Each one's face shifted to mirror his own. They spoke together:
"You killed the witness. You destroyed the sigil. You opened the wall. Now, you will finish the trial."
Reiji lifted his sword. "And what do you want from me?"
"To pass judgment on yourself."
The chamber darkened. A second figure stepped forward from the shadows—his exact likeness, unscarred, eyes calm, almost gentle. The reflection that should have vanished in the Hall now stood before him, whole once more.
"I am the verdict you never gave," it said. "The Reiji who believed silence could protect the innocent."
Reiji's grip tightened. "And I am the one who learned silence kills them."
They circled each other. The glass beneath them reflected every version of their lives. One moved with faith; the other, with fury. When their blades met, the sound was not steel—it was the cracking of memory.
The reflection spoke between strikes, voice unwavering.
"You seek truth, but you've forgotten mercy."
"Mercy is what built the gallows," Reiji hissed.
"Then what are you now? A savior? A shadow?"
Reiji didn't answer. He lunged forward, slashing through his other self's guard. The blade struck true, but instead of blood, light poured from the wound—searing, pure, and blinding. The reflection smiled through it.
"You cannot kill what you were made to be."
Reiji staggered, clutching his chest as pain surged—not physical, but deeper, cutting through memory itself. The tribunal's voices rose, chanting the decree again and again:
> "To become shadow is to abandon the self."
"To become shadow is to abandon the self."
Each word tore at him, peeling fragments of thought, emotion, and history. His name, his voice, Kaede's face—all slipping.
He fell to one knee.
"No," he gasped. "Not again."
He forced himself to stand. His reflection raised its blade in silent pity. "End it, Reiji. Let silence reclaim you."
But Reiji did something the reflection didn't expect.
He dropped his sword.
"I've carried too many verdicts," he said. "I'm done judging ghosts."
The reflection froze. The light around them flickered, uncertain.
Reiji stepped forward and pressed a hand to the mirror of his other self's chest. "If I was born of silence, then I'll break it myself."
The mirror shattered.
A wave of light exploded outward, consuming the chamber. The tribunal's figures dissolved into ash. The ground cracked apart, revealing darkness beneath—real, endless darkness.
Reiji fell through it, weightless, the sound of his heartbeat echoing louder than the world itself.
Then silence.
---
He woke on cold stone. The world above was gone; only a vast chasm stretched before him, its walls lined with faint blue fire. In the distance stood a massive gate—ornate, unyielding, carved with the same sigil that haunted his every step.
The gate whispered as he approached:
"One last truth remains, Reiji."
He stopped a few paces away, exhausted, but calm.
"What truth?"
The voice answered from within.
"The Court is not a place. It is a memory that wears human skin."
And as he placed his hand upon the gate, a thought emerged—one he'd buried long ago, too afraid to face.
Maybe he hadn't escaped the Trial.
Maybe he'd never left it.
The gate began to open, revealing a blinding radiance. The whisper rose again, now softer, almost tender:
"To destroy the shadow, you must remember the light."
Reiji stepped through without hesitation.
And behind him, the chasm sealed shut—silent, eternal, as if it had never existed.