Read this. Then step in.
You're not ready.
Doesn't matter.
The trench doesn't wait for understanding.
It waits for movement.
You weren't made for winning.
You were made for...
not-stopping.
That's different.
That's worse.
What are you?
You're a Core.
A half-machine weight-mirror wrapped around failure and motion.
No medals.
No flag
Just a Galieya you didn't ask for and a trench that won't stop remembering what you forgot to carry.
A Core doesn't bleed.
(Except sometimes, in the right pressure sectors. That was logged once. Possibly anecdotal.)
A Core descends.
That's it.
That's all.
You don't get magic.
You get memory.
And when you use it wrong, it stays with you.
Cores don't cast. They collapse.
Forward, alwayss.
Because turning back? The trench logs that.
And echoes it.
You want to know what a Galieya is?
It's not a weapon.
It's not even yours.
It's a spiral-shaped accountability trap that lights up every time you pretend you didn't know better.
When someone else picks it up?
That means you didn't make it back.
The trench isn't a place.
It's a system.
It's a response.
It watches.
Doesn't forgive.
Doesn't explain.
It just copies your worst decision and sends it walking back toward the next Core.
You.
What's down there?
Not monsters.
(Not in the fun sense.)
What's down there is you.
Your older mistakes.
Your replays.
The versions of you that didn't get to write a chapter 1.
They're still walking.
Still trying.
Some of them scream.
Some just mimic.
Some beg you not to follow them—and that's the trap.
Because you will.
Why descend?
Because standing still rusts the joints.
Because no one up there remembers your name anyway.
Because the trench doesn't care about your dreams.
It just wants your weight.
And your choice.
So , now what?
You hold your Galieya.
You feel it hum.
You forget why you ever stopped.
And you take the step.
Because if you don't?
The trench still moves.
And it will carry your name anyway.
Even if you're not there to say it.
Begin Descent.(Or don't. Someone else will carry what's left.)