A stadium, thousands of trainees diligently at work, one guy roleplaying.

“...please,” Justinian begged the heavens, “please, most gracious and most wise, allow this blade to cut between the ambiguities of wrong and right, to slice in the direction of your all-knowing will...”

While the knight prayed for God’s guidance in his upcoming challenge, his voice trembled with doubts and confusion, both for himself—a medieval knight teleported to this magical realm—and himself, an Indonesian kid roleplaying this character.

What a conundrum Justinian had found himself in!

Sir Henry, Lady Cathy’s friend, that fellow member of Byzantium who’d refused to put down his blasphemously-complex fighting techniques, who’d refused to assist with managing their 6v6 team as part of Justinian’s noble crusade, who’d refused to renounce his unholy allegiances to Him – this vexing figure had turned out to be none other than Him himself. That’s right, Sir Henry was Him, the true head of The Company, the malice-breathing mastermind lurking in the dark upon His throne of pilfered wealth and rotten bones!

The devil himself could not have disguised his face so well, could not have woven such an absurd twist of fate.

Sir Henry—next to Justinian all along—had been Him, his mortal enemy, the fiend who’d slain Betruger and a thousand thousand more!

Well...kind of. Now, there were TWO Hims, TWO Caesars of shadow, TWO despots emerging from the evil dark, TWO foes that Justinian’s holy crusade demanded he righteously smite with God’s avenging wrath. He...was multiplying.

How dreadful!

“But LORD!” Justinian cried, shedding tears to douse the conflict burning inside his weapon, spooking the duellists beside him. “But Lord, I do not know if I possess the strength to fight this fight ahead, for my heart is slowed by doubt’s clasping fingers. My sword, it WAVERS – it wavers between two splitting roads, each shrouded in nocturnal mist!”

Roleplaying his internal difficulties, he shook his zweihander, the tip tottering back and forth between past certainties unbalanced by last night’s shock revelations.

How was Justinian, a simple soldier, a mere sword of the holy lord, to reconcile these topsy-turvy facts?

“Sir Henry is Him...and He is Sir Henry...how can this be? Explain this please, God! Educate your ignorant servant!”

A duellist from Central City, listening to the monologue, offered their help. “Guess you missed Oliver’s news broadcast? Here, buddy. He outlines the identity charade here.”

Before the stranger could replay the broadcast, a Villager stopped them, informing them it was pointless to reason with the hardcore roleplayer, who would only pretend to be unable to see the game’s clip feature.

Indeed, Justinian, ignoring the offer, continued to reel in the isolated world of his struggles. “Lord—PLEASE—cast an enlightening ray upon these shadowed times!”

On the morn of this shocking revelation, he’d been approached by one news-scribe after another. They’d plied him with questions about his training with the hidden villain, asking the knight what traces of shadow might have been hinted at during their days tussling in the sand of the arena and The Slums.

Truthfully, the knight had suspected nothing. And, still, as he sifted through the interactions of their acquaintance, he could hardly reconcile the abominable truth. Sure, Sir Henry had been rude, pretentious, conniving, underhanded, trapped in the wayward paths of combat like kiting and shield-use, and ardently in favour of his repugnant organisation. However—HOWEVER—Justinian could still not plant inside that teenage chest His heart, that heart of black malevolence, that heart that’d ordered the demise of so many. Despite the mass of moral failings, he’d also witnessed in Sir Henry the scattered gestures of aid to the suffering goodfolk, from the Scholar assistance at the community evening, to the quieter charity of allowing the traders to haggle him into overpaying. The purity of evil did not match His terrible reputation. Where were the hell flames that should spout from His demonic gaze? Where were the noxious plagues that should froth from His pustulent mouth?

“Lord, send this wretch a sign of relief! In this hour, I carry the shame of one who has fallen for falsehood, and I know not how to march while bent beneath its weight.”

So many doubts! So many nebulous uncertainties!

Already, he’d learned of another embarrassing folly. Ramiro, The Slum’s former liege, beloved by the humble folk, the king to whom Justinian had obediently laboured, this man had been exposed as a butcher of youths. The proof of his nocturnal misdeeds had been brought to light by what last night he’d tossed across the stage, which Justinian, investigating amongst the Goodfolk, had discovered to not have been a prop but a real innocent’s mutilated corpse. It’d been this monster that Justinian had served! Yet the one who put the sword of justice to the neck of this child-eating fiend? Why, that had been none other than Sir Henry, Him, malevolence incarnate.

So who of these two had been evil’s wicked agent? Who had fought on the side of neglected good?

Justinian did not know...he did not know...

The knight stared hard at his wavering blade, at Sir Henry—Him—behind it on stage. He defeated another duellist by Gorilla-smashing their shoulders, the opponent crumbling. Then, dropping His monstrous transformation and lifting them, as a young man, He gave pointers misleading them on how to use a shield more effectively instead of putting their faith in god’s protection. This was obviously a crime, but a mortal crime? A crime on the scale of Him? A crime that warranted...

The knight paused dramatically, choking up with emotion.

....

...a crime that warranted...

...

......

...DEATH?!

“Lord...” Justinian whispered with sorrow, “I go now to meet Him with doubts...”

The match officiator, declaring the victory of the ongoing set, glanced at the Crusader studying from the crowd. “Next,” they yelled, “Justinian, you're up!”

Justinian, summoned to battle before the Lord, passed through the crowd and up onto the arena testing grounds, his footsteps weighed down by the tragedy ahead, his golden sword hanging limp with despondence.

Since the truth could not be known to him, he would have to entrust his soul to a higher power. Let God shine upon the opening of the righteous path through whoever survived this clash and whoever...did not.

Yes, today, one of them...one of them would DIE!

“O miserable fate!” Justinian—meeting eyes with Sir Henry, with Him, whom he’d have to slay—tore at the agony beating in his knightly chest. “O sorrowful predicament!”

How wretched! How ignoble that they, two Village brothers who’d split the community bread and shared of the community wine, must come to this, the hand of brother slaying brother, the crime of Cain who’d closed the lids on Abel’s eyes!

Henry, staring flatly at His next challenger, groaned.