The trials begin within the cursed inn, forcing each hero to confront their deepest flaws. Sir Patsir faces illusions of unearned glory and admits to both pride and pretense, emerging humbler. Doc Pitoros encounters the broken souls he couldn’t heal and recognizes his own limits, rediscovering vulnerability. Gogos is lost in a fog of past identities until he finally sees himself, not a mask, but a man. Koump’aros battles a cosmic mutation tempting him with godlike power, and chooses painful integrity over corruption. Each returns changed — scarred, stripped, but stronger — as the inn watches silently, the true game deepening.
CHAPTER SEVEN
The Trial of Sir Patsir’ I.0. – The Hall of Hollow Triumphs
The door groaned as he pushed through it, and behind him, the noise of the inn seemed to vanish.
He stepped into a massive hall of mirrors, each reflecting a different version of himself — clad in shining armor, leading legions, kissing noble hands, dueling dragons with elegance and flair.
“Ah. A hall of greatness,” he muttered with a smirk. “Knew I’d get the hero’s welcome.”
A booming applause echoed through the chamber. Ghostly crowds materialized, clapping, cheering, chanting his name. Confetti drifted from nowhere. Trumpets blared.
But his smile faded.
Each crowd was slightly wrong — faces blurred, cheers hollow, a note of sarcasm behind every ovation.
He walked forward.
Then, a voice echoed — his father’s.
“The boy has potential. Shame he’s too busy admiring himself to sharpen it.”
Another mirror lit up.
Patsir watched a younger version of himself being trained, failing a basic sword form, storming off in a tantrum. Another mirror: him using his father’s crest to skip a waiting list. Another: bribing a superior for a favorable review. And another: losing a duel, then retelling it later as a victory.
“I earned my place,” he growled aloud.
A final mirror appeared. No applause now. Just silence.
It showed a version of him on the battlefield, wounded, bleeding, crawling for help — and no one coming. Not because he wasn’t worth saving… but because no one knew him beneath the glory.
Then the crowd turned on him.
Their applause became mockery.
Laughter. Boos. They began to chant again, but now it was:
“Patsir the Pretender! Banana Boy! Legacy’s shadow!”
The floor beneath him cracked.
He fell to one knee, eyes blazing with anger.
But then… he laughed. Once. Twice. A full snort.
He stood up.
“Alright, alright. I get it. Not everything was earned. But not everything was given either.”
He tore off the false medals on his chest.
Then slammed his own reflection with his fist, shattering it.
The room quaked.
And when the mirrors fell, only one version of him remained — armor scratched, crestless, but standing tall.
No applause. No crowd.
Only quiet.
And it felt good.
Outside – At the Inn
Sir Patsir emerged, dragging his feet, face pale but chin high.
Gleg raised a brow. “You look like someone who just fired his whole PR team.”
Patsir chuckled weakly. “They deserved it.”
Doc Pitoros patted him on the back. “Now that’s the lad I’d take to war.”
Kostanto glanced toward the door. “So it peels away ego? Good. Let’s hope it gets to the heart next.”
Patsir rolled his eyes. “Don’t push it, Lawman.”
But none of them missed that his family crest was gone from his chestplate.
The Trial of Sir Doc Pitoros – The Operating Theatre
The door swung shut behind him, and he was immediately surrounded by the stench of antiseptic and blood. Cold light shone from above. The air buzzed with the sharp tang of iron and old cries.
He was back where he belonged — an operating room — except this one was twisted. The walls pulsed like flesh. The instruments floated midair. And on the table in the center…
It was him.
Strapped down, chest cut open. His own face, slack-jawed and still, stared at the ceiling.
“Well that’s a bit on the nose,” he muttered.
The shadows around him formed into wounded soldiers, all groaning, missing limbs, eyes filled with unspoken blame.
“Doc Pitoros… you saved me. But now I wish I hadn’t been.”
“You fought like a god… but you left us half-men.”
“You fixed our bodies. Not our souls.”
He tried to move, to argue — but he was suddenly wearing his own surgical gloves, and the scalpel was in his hand. The table pulsed again.
“Cut deeper,” a voice whispered. It was his voice, but wrong — smug, overconfident. “Find the real rot.”
He leaned over the version of himself on the table. Its mouth moved.
“You’re better than most people think,” it said. “But you’re worse than you think.”
“You’re not a healer. You’re a hero addict.”
“And heroes don’t ask for help.”
Pitoros froze. The scalpel shook in his hand.
For the first time in years, his chest ached not from exhaustion, but from something else — something that whispered:
You’re tired.
The lights dimmed.
The wounds on the bodies around him began to glow — not with blood, but regret.
He dropped the scalpel.
“I did my best,” he said.
“But maybe I forgot… I’m not the cure for everything.”
The shadows softened. The room exhaled.
And slowly, the other Pitoros on the table smiled.
“Now… you can begin to heal.”
Outside – At the Inn
Pitoros stepped out, shoulders slumped, his long coat dragging behind him like a shed skin. No bravado. No swagger.
Gogos looked up. “You alright, Doc?”
He nodded slowly. “Yeah… I just remembered I’m mortal.”
Patsir grinned. “Takes guts to admit that. Didn’t think you had any left.”
Pitoros smirked. “Oh, I’ve got guts. I’ve seen them. Too many times.”
They clinked mugs together without another word.
The Trial of Gogos – The Mirrorless Room
The door opened into nothing.
No walls. No floor. No ceiling.
Only a gray, shifting fog, thick like breath on cold glass.
Gogos stepped inside cautiously, and the door vanished behind him.
“Alright,” he said aloud, voice echoing infinitely. “Let’s get on with it.”
A light appeared — soft, dim, pulsing — and in front of it, a figure. Then another. Then a dozen.
They all looked like people Gogos had once become — kings, beggars, soldiers, nobles, even monsters. Some laughing, some weeping, some screaming. All wearing his voice.
“You were me when I died,” whispered a soldier.
“You wore my face to betray her,” growled a noblewoman.
“You danced at my wedding and stole the groom,” laughed a courtesan.
They swirled around him like a storm of identities — each tugging at his skin, morphing his features moment to moment. A chaos of selves.
“Who are you, Gogos?” came a child’s voice — his voice, young and trembling. “Do you even remember?”
He turned and found a small boy, alone and plain. No tricks. No masks.
Just… him, as he had been. Before the shifting. Before the game.
“You started pretending to survive,” the child said. “But somewhere along the way, you forgot where the pretending stopped.”
The fog cleared slightly.
In the center of the space stood a single mirror — tall, gilded, pristine.
Gogos approached it slowly.
When he looked in, the mirror showed nothing.
Not even a blur.
Not even a shadow.
“You’ve become so many things,” the child said, “that now you’re… nothing at all.”
The silence was unbearable.
But then Gogos did something he hadn’t done in a long time.
He sat down.
He breathed.
And he stopped shifting.
Slowly — painfully — features began to form in the glass.
Wrinkles. Worry lines. Eyes tired but alive. A smirk. A scar. A real man.
“You found yourself,” the child said.
Gogos didn’t respond.
He just reached into his coat… and pulled out a simple wooden mask — blank, untouched.
He placed it beside the mirror.
And walked away.
Outside – At the Inn
Gogos emerged, quietly.
The others looked up.
He smiled — not a smirk, not a disguise, but a quiet, honest smile.
Pitoros raised a brow. “What’d you see?”
Gogos shrugged. “For once… just me.”
Kostanto nodded. “Then you’ve earned a place among us.”
Gogos replied, “I’ve earned a start.”
The Trial of Koump’aros – The Echoing Spire
When he stepped through the door, Koump’aros found himself in a tower of obsidian glass, rising endlessly into the stars. The wind screamed outside the spire’s jagged slits. And far above, a pulsing eye of purple light loomed — watching.
His breathing quickened.
The mutation in his arm — the thing he usually kept wrapped in leather — twitched beneath the skin, as if it recognized this place.
“We are close to the source,” a voice hissed inside his head.
“Closer than ever…”
He stumbled forward. The floor beneath his boots shifted — metal and bone, fused like a machine built by a mad god. Whispers echoed along the walls, fragments of promises he’d heard before:
“You could have ruled…”
“You could have bent the stars…”
“We offered you the galaxy. You gave us your name.”
The eye above pulsed again. The mutant growth on his arm erupted, momentarily forming a long, alien claw, stretching toward the sky like a begging hand.
“You asked for power,” came a deep, resonant voice. “But not the price.”
Koump’aros gritted his teeth, seizing his arm, dragging it down with raw will. “I am still in control.”
A laugh echoed through the tower — thousands of versions of him, all warped and rotting, laughing in unison.
Then, suddenly: silence.
In the center of the spire stood a mirror of him, half-human, half-mutated — majestic, terrible, glorious. A perfect blend of ambition and alien.
“Join with us,” the mirror-Koump’aros said. “Complete the metamorphosis. Be free of weakness. Of doubt.”
He stepped closer.
The claws pulsed again.
His flesh screamed.
But so did his mind.
And somewhere, in the deepest part of him, the memory of who he used to be — before the whispers, before the pact — cried out.
He took a knife from his belt. Looked down at the mutated limb.
“I’ll find power,” he whispered. “But it will be mine.”
Then, without hesitation — he plunged the knife in.
The claw shrieked. The tower exploded in light. The eye shut.
And when the dust settled…
Koump’aros stood alone.
Bleeding. Shaking.
But whole.
Outside – At the Inn
He stumbled out of the door, supported by Gogos and Pitoros before he could fall. His arm — burned, scorched, but human again — trembled.
Gleg handed him a cloth. “You look like someone who said ‘no’ to a god.”
Koump’aros nodded, barely able to speak. “A god… or something worse.”
Sir Kostanto placed a firm hand on his shoulder. “You made the right choice.”
Koump’aros stared into the fire, silent.
And above them, for a moment, the rafters groaned — as if the inn itself was listening… and waiting.
