Justice?

Climbing the Tearing Mountain was not proving to be very difficult. Occasionally, there were a few paths one could take, and even when they had to climb normally, they didn't face much trouble—with the exception of Jig, the slave.

He had survived up to this point purely by luck: not being killed in the first trial, finding Faust who helped him survive and pass the second trial, and even now, in the third trial, he was being helped by the other trial-takers because, for them, the more people, the better.

The dynamic of this newly formed group was interesting to observe. On one hand, Snake and Arien were leading at the front, climbing easily. Snake cracked jokes from time to time, while Arien and Jig laughed at them.

Behind them, both Faust and Cloud remained silent. Faust appeared serene, showing no visible emotion, while Cloud wore a faint smile, giving off an air of superiority.

Step by step, they made their way toward the mountain's peak—and step by step, it became harder.

Near the base, they noticed no effects of the 'feel'. However, with each bit of progress upward, a burden grew heavier on their shoulders. It started light, as if someone was simply resting a hand on them.

Eventually, it felt like they were carrying rocks, and at their current point, it was as though a boulder was crushing them.

The jokes had long stopped; no one wore a calm expression anymore.

They were all drenched in sweat. Jig mumbled incomprehensible words to himself. Snake breathed deeply and heavily, closing his eyes, murmuring something repeatedly, and advancing step by step.

Arien and Cloud were not in much better shape — they were breathing raggedly, their legs threatening to give out from time to time, tears involuntarily spilling from their eyes.

They were all experiencing something internally, something powerful and personal, and even though this was supposed to be the easiest trial, it was far from easy.

In Faust's mind, images flashed vividly. He saw his village — playing freely, talking with his parents, laughing loudly. These memories felt exaggerated, not entirely real.

Then came the day of the attack. His parents were killed before his eyes, slashed to pieces, then burned — and so was everyone else.

His eyes grew heavy. Breathing became a struggle as he forced himself forward. He mumbled over and over, "It's not real. It's not real. It's not real."

He knew it wasn't real — yet he couldn't help but feel everything. The emotions were magnified, much stronger than anything he would normally feel, and this was true for everyone else as well.

Then, he saw different scenes:

A figure clad in armor, bearing a military crest, slashing through townspeople while others marched behind him shouting, "For Alveria!"

A man touching a woman's chest, leaning in for a kiss — then the scene shifted to that same woman lying dead on a bed, her body sickly, her tears dried.

A desperate cry, "Sister, help me!" — only for the person hearing it to flee without looking back as a house burned down.

Someone whipped nearly to death, recovering, only to be beaten half to death again.

All of their memories were being shared, and everyone was experiencing them — their own, and each other's — all at once.

"It's not real. It's not real," Faust repeated, both out loud and silently.

They kept moving forward, their bodies drenched and trembling. They would fall sometimes, but they would help each other up and continue.

If someone tried to stop, the others would pull them forward. Only two of them never faltered: Faust and Snake. Both advanced without once looking back.

Eventually, the feelings started to fade, and the crushing weight was lifted from their shoulders.

When they finally stabilized themselves, they realized it — they were at the peak of the mountain. They hadn't kept track of time, but they were sure it was much faster than the previous trial.

It had taken almost a full day. Yet, the sky remained blue—it hadn't changed at all.

Before they could even catch their breath, a voice echoed in their minds:

"One must remain here. The decision must be made by majority vote."

"What?" Jig gasped.

They all looked at each other. They felt a slight sense of friendship in this short time, and now they had to leave someone behind.

Everyone kept quiet, but Snake broke the silence once again, "Just looking at each other won't be useful. We should just decide and be done with it already. Stalling for time won't change anything."

Faust was feeling the same way, but he preferred to remain quiet.

"Sigh, alright. I choose Jig then," Cloud said with a soft voice, as if he didn't care about it.

Jig questioned instantly, "WHY?!"

"You held us back multiple times while we were climbing up. There's a high chance you won't be able to pass the next trial anyway — you'll just be useless," Cloud said. "Also, my vote is already cast. I won't change my mind."

Jig was open-mouthed, but Cloud ignored him and crossed his arms.

Then Arien looked around and said plainly, "I also vote for Jig, for the same reasons. Sorry."

Jig started to sweat. "No, no! Look, listen. I'm the only one here who hasn't killed anyone — you are all murderers! That's not fair! Why do I have to die and you get to live? The gods will punish you two. Faust, please, a little help here!"

He was nervous as he turned around, but Faust simply answered, "I agree with them. I choose Jig."

The only answer left was Snake.

"Snake, look… I swear I can do anything, just help me here, please, please!" His voice was cracking as he begged.

But Snake looked away and simply said, "Sorry, man, but I won't be able to change their choices… I choose you too."

The decision was made quickly. The light friendship atmosphere Jig had felt was crushed, just like his body as it was enveloped by a white mist.

A white mist rose around Jig, and he screamed, "This is unjust! Unfair! Murderers! Help me! Please, help—!"

His body was crushed by the mist in an instant, reduced to bloodied pulp, the noise of his last breath swallowed by the emptiness.

Justice? Was it just that the only one without blood on his hands was the one chosen to die? The world offered no answers, it was indifferent. To the world, everyone is equal. No one is born with a crown, the dead can't make use of one.

Justice was a lie told by the victors to wash their hands. In truth, it was a concept as hollow and shifting as the clouds above. To Faust, justice was not about right or wrong — it was not about morals or gods.

Justice was power.

Power to define right. Power to impose wrong.

Those who were considered wrong weren't necessarily the wrong ones; they had simply been too weak to be considered right. In this world, weakness is the only sin, power the only virtue.

After Jig's body, now paste, started to spread on the floor, a mist began to envelop all the survivors.

Arien quickly looked at Faust. "See you later, heh."

And at that moment, all of them were completely enshrouded in the fog and vanished from the summit of the tearing mountain.