The sky was splitting open. It was no illusion — something from on high had torn a wound across the fabric of the world.
The fissure cleaved the firmament, stretching at an oblique angle from horizon to horizon. Within it dwelt no light, only the roiling churn of ash-grey chaos. The instant the rift materialized, the air grew leaden, and even the act of drawing breath became an ordeal. He stood upon the ground with agonizing effort. Blood traced a slow path from his temple, tracing the line of his jaw before dripping onto his tattered garments. The wound upon his chest had yet to mend; each breath summoned a tearing agony that clawed through his ribs. By all reason he should have collapsed — yet he had not. He remained standing.
A dark silhouette, vaguely resembling a sword, descended languidly from within the rift. It made no sound, yet its presence bore down with a suffocating weight. It was an ancient blade, impossibly vast, and merely by hovering there it warped the surrounding space with subtle distortions, as though it carried a gravity that did not belong to this world. Then came a second. A third. Until at last there were seven. Seven colossal swords, arranged in a crescent arc high above, encircling him at their center. They did not move — they merely watched, as though engaged in ceaseless scrutiny.
Then a voice arrived from nowhere discernible, as though pressed directly into Finn's mind. "You — are unworthy." It possessed neither origin nor direction, yet its clarity was absolute and irresistible. In that single instant, his consciousness buckled as though struck by a great hammer.
A second voice followed close upon the first, laced with a colder intent: "You should not have survived this long." The youth trapped within the circle found his breathing falter, as though a portion of the very air had been siphoned away.
The third pressed deeper still: "You have walked the wrong path."
The fourth carried a faint undercurrent of revulsion and rejection: "There is no hope for you."
The fifth descended like a sentence pronounced upon the future: "You will destroy everything."
The sixth brooked no rebuttal: "You could never be chosen." At last the young man could endure no more; the crushing force drove him to one knee.
A faint sound issued from his bones. The blood within his veins turned scalding and turbulent, as though his very existence were being denied. He offered no retort, raised no furious cry — yet neither did he relinquish his struggle. Slowly, painstakingly, he lifted his head. His vision swam, yet still his gaze found the seven ancient blades suspended overhead, and in his eyes there burned a resolve so quiet it bordered on cold.
The seventh thought did not descend at once. It seemed to observe. Or perhaps — to hesitate. It was weighing him. That brief pause rendered the entire world more suffocating still, as though all of creation held its breath, awaiting the final verdict. Then it came, but this time it was no simple negation: "And yet — he has arrived here." There was no warmth in it, no commendation; it was merely a statement of fact. Yet it sent the faintest tremor through the other invisible forces of oppression — a ripple, almost imperceptible.
The youth's breath caught for a heartbeat. Then he spoke, his voice barely above a whisper, yet terrifyingly distinct: "Are you finished?"
No anger. No justification. As though remarking upon the most mundane thing in the world. He raised his blood-soaked hand. His fingertips trembled faintly, yet still they pointed toward the sky.
"Then it is my turn."
All seven ancient swords shuddered in unison — not with sound, but with the very trembling of space itself. The chaos buried deep within the rift surged violently, cascading downward like a cataract, devouring all it touched. This was no longer mere suppression — it was annihilation. His body was the first to falter. Bones splintered. Blood spilled from his lips. His vision darkened with terrible swiftness. Consciousness peeled away, layer by agonizing layer. And still he did not retreat. Even as his body seemed on the verge of dissolving entirely, his gaze held firm, his head lifted in stubborn defiance.
The suffering seemed to span an eternity. Then, abruptly, the world began to recede. Sound vanished. Light vanished. All that remained to the youth was a single sensation: falling — an endless, bottomless plunge. In the final instant before his consciousness shattered utterly, he thought he caught the faintest wisp of something anomalous — unlike those crushing, oppressive thoughts. It was more akin to some languid, indifferent presence, stirring from fathomless depths, shifting ever so slightly, as though only just roused from slumber.