“I wasn’t aware of your cooking prowess, brother,” Borlen told Elian. “If you open a tavern or a cookshop, I’m certain of your business’s success. All will sing praises of your food.”

“I’ll think about it after I get the Magistrate’s Boon,” Elian absentmindedly replied.

It was early morning of the next day and Borlen accompanied Elian to line up at the Temple of the Hundred-Armed Magistrate. Still dark and yet there were already hundreds of pilgrims before them.

“I should’ve slept here.” Elian pointed at the people wrapped in blankets huddling near the temple gate. There were also tents. “This is going to be a long day. And probably, night. Might even take the next day until it’s my turn.”

“Don’t worry, brother,” Borlen said. “Most of them only intend to give offerings or ask blessings from the priests. A trickle few will pray for the bestowal of a Boon. Not everyone can suffer through the Tribulations.”

“Any tips for meeting the Hundred-Armed Magistrate? Is what you told me last night really true? There’s no test for the Boon?”

“None whatsoever. The Magistrate is accepting of all. The test is having the courage to ask for the Boon.”

No, the Tribulation is the test, Elian thought.

Deities gave Boons to those who’d pass their tests. Those could range from difficult but logical to batshit insane with absolutely no connection to the Boon. People could die during tests. Some could be quests that took years to complete. There were rumors of tests that were impossible to pass; Elian hadn’t encountered any like that, thankfully.

Tests weren’t about worthiness but about devotion to the deity. Overcoming a test showed devotion far above the faith of normal worship.

The Hundred-Armed Magistrate appeared magnanimous by doling out Boons for free.

But it wasn’t free.

The Tribulations were tests that harvested a constant stream of devotion to the Magistrate. Elian wouldn’t be surprised if the system of Penitents competing for top scores was engineered by the Magistrate to turn his Boon into a religion. The Champion Penitents fueled the ever-strengthening Tribulations, in turn resulting in stronger devotion to pass the next one.

This Magistrate is a shrewd character, Elian thought. Not the first time he’d dealt with a deity with this personality. He could simply ask for a Boon and leave, like all the others, or he could try to gain an advantage.

As the sun rose, the gongs of the temple sounded, the gates opened, and the lines started moving. Green solar winds circled the sun, glinting off the massive temple dome. Something sparkled on the roof—a smaller dome of glass on top. The Magistrate’s house was quite fancy, more so than the physical dwellings of any of the deities residing in the Solvi Empire.

“Green greets us with luck, brother.” Borlen pointed at the sky and then at the lines in front of him. The pilgrims were sorted according to their business at the temple. The line for climbing the main steps was quite short.

“Is asking for a Boon the only way to visit the Magistrate?” Elian asked.

“That is so, brother. Penitent Tharguras was given an exception by the priests. Although he wasn’t allowed to enter the sacred room if what I’ve heard of rumors are correct. They only opened the doors and he stayed outside as he communed with our deity.”

“All that lengthy procession only for—” Elian tensed.

An overwhelming presence. His body wasn’t yet trained to detect the strength of others, nor did he have scrying spells at the ready, but he sensed this projection. It was intentional.

The pilgrims knelt and murmured prayers. Borlen pulled down Elian. On one of the temple’s many high balconies stood a tall and slender figure wearing pure white robes that matched her bleached hair. She looked at the masses below with colorless eyes before turning around to disappear behind the curtains.

“The Priestess Hazelheart,” Borlen said as he stood up. “Once known as Hazelheart Caelidon of the Blistering Wind. Close to ten years since she became a Stagnant.”

“Caelidon?” Elian had heard of that name before but couldn’t remember where.

“The Caelidon family of Auric Blademasters. They’re famous in the northern lands of Raelyon. You must know of them.”

“Famous, yes…” Elian stared at the balcony where Priestess Hazelheart had stood.

Her family was the ruler of Sarnival Port, prestigious because of their Blademaster schools and wealthy due to managing the ports. The Caelidons were the first among all humans to fight and kill a Giant. Many Giants, actually. Those colossal oafs were certainly surprised at how strong the defenders of a not-so-big port town were. Elian hoped to impress the Caelidons by winning their tournament and convincing them to prepare defenses for the impending Giant vanguard.

“Only the Priestess Hazelheart who spreads her aura in that manner,” Borlen said. “The other priests aren’t as intimidating.”

“Will I meet a priest later?”

“One will accompany you to the Magistrate’s chambers. Let us hope it is not the Priestess Hazelheart.”

An eternity of climbing up the stairs of unreasonable steepness had passed and Elian finally neared the golden doors of the tallest tower of the temple. No heavy atmosphere or pressure. The priest next to the doors wasn’t the Caelidon woman.

“A good day for devotion, new brother,” said a short old man with round glasses. His meager hair swept forward over his balding spot as he bowed.

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“I greet you, priest of the Hundred-Armed Magistrate.” Elian bent his knees so he could bow even lower than the priest.

He was expecting someone who looked like Tharguras, not a retired librarian. But he wasn’t underestimating the old man. Elian couldn’t sense anything from him. Not that the priest was weak. He sensed nothing as in the priest had no presence. If Elian wasn’t looking at him, he’d probably slip out of his mind. The old man could be an illusion for all he knew.

“My name is Thalman,” said the priest. “Let me be your guide to a better you.”

Priest Thalman led Elian through a grand hall covered floor to ceiling with silver. Glass cabinets, pedestals, and racks displayed hundreds of items. There were potions in bottles of all shapes and sizes. Scrolls as big as rolled-up carpets. Armors and shields. Rings and other glimmering jewelry.

“And that’s why this room is silver,” said Priest Thalman, finishing an explanation that Elian didn’t listen to because he was distracted by their surroundings.

“What are these treasures?” Elian asked. “Are they for enduring Tribulations?”

“The finest products the Paths of the Forge, Construction, and Cauldron has to offer,” Priest Thalman replied. “Champion Penitents are free to use them for a fee. It is quite a hefty fee as the possibility of the item getting destroyed is great.”

The next hall was almost blindingly gleaming gold. Unlike the previous room, the golden one held only twelve items lining one side of the carpeted path in the middle. Twelve if one set of armor was counted as one. They were kept behind adept-level protections that Elian couldn’t have broken at his strongest. Granted, Elian was severely hindered by the Timekeeper’s Boon, but these protections were still formidable.

The armor inside the shields crackled with energy. Elian was drawn to them. “Are these also made by the Paths?” he asked, interrupting the priest’s explanation of why the room was gold.

“The Paths aspire to make equipment of this caliber someday,” was Priest Thalman’s reply. “A long story for each of their origin. This supremely valuable equipment is used only by Enlightened Penitents receiving the Tribulations of the Greater Boon.”

Elian wanted to ask Priest Thalman if he had used them but that seemed insensitive. He just let himself fall into a stupor as the priest spouted the lessons that Borlen had also taught. Elian listened through it all, for what else was there to do? He wouldn’t risk disrespecting the Magistrate’s priest or breaking some rule before he got the Boon.

“The world is most difficult and harsh, brother,” said Priest Thalman as they reached the end of the golden hall. “And you are choosing to add to your burdens.”

“The Tribulation will be the least of my burdens,” Elian truthfully said. “It will become my strength. That’s why I’m going through with this.”

Priest Thalman opened the normal-sized plain door in front of them and entered. Elian followed him into a small room that seemed to have been carved out of stone. There were no items or furniture inside the room. Only the two of them stood in the sudden coldness that wrapped them.

“This is the Depositary,” Priest Thalman said. “Here, you will leave your regrets in life before meeting the Hundred-Armed Magistrate.”

“Leave… my regrets?” Elian slowly repeated.

A new requirement? Borlen didn’t say anything about this unless this was supposed to be a secret to newcomers. Elian couldn’t fathom how to fulfill it. How would this priest even check?

“You must be free from the world,” said Priest Thalman, “to take on the challenges heaven will impose… is my supposed line.”

“Wait, what?” Elian frowned. He was already preparing made-up regrets, weaving a sad backstory to share and claim that he had moved on.

Priest Thalman paced the room with soundless footsteps. “It isn’t reasonable to expect anyone to drop their regrets in a snap. I, myself, cannot unburden my own regrets, and I’m supposed to be a priest. You may be wondering why I’m telling you this, brother. It is because of a final lesson I want to share before you meet the Magistrate—you choose how to carry your burdens.”

“What do you mean?” Elian was tired of this profundity nonsense. Part of him suspected the winding phrases and hidden meanings were simply to add mystique to the priest’s image.

“The Tribulations illustrate my lesson. You call upon it when you think you are ready. You might be. You might not be… and you pay the price. But unlike the Tribulations, we usually have a second chance if we fail. Choose how to carry your burdens.”

I have no idea what he’s talking about, Elian thought as he nodded with fake earnestness. If he’d also face this sort of nonsense from the warrior monks of the War Monastery, then it was probably better that he went here. At least, with the Temples of Tribulations, after he’d received the Boon, he wouldn’t need to meet any priest if he didn’t want to.

“I know that you don’t understand, brother.” Priest Thalman smiled as he adjusted his glass. “But you someday will. I hope that someday I will as well.” He stretched his hand. Light traced a rectangle on one of the stone walls. The stone receded into the ground, revealing a doorway. “Go and meet the Hundred-Armed Magistrate.”

As soon as Elian stepped through the doorway, the stone immediately returned to its place with a woosh and a snap.

He was inside a wide circular room. Pillars carved with heads of various beasts were equally spaced around its circumference. In the middle of this room, illuminated by sunlight passing through the glass roof, was the Hundred-Armed Magistrate.

“My guess was right,” Elian said, beholding the Magistrate’s form. “This is why you can exert so much power in the mortal plane.”

In front of him was a gigantic hand large enough to cup Wendell’s farmhouse, ending at a severed wrist wearing a golden bracelet engraved with symbols Elian was sure he had seen before. Probably from some ancient texts he had tried to decipher. The hand was fair and unblemished with a marble-like sheen; each of the fingernails dazzlingly clean like polished shells.

“You left your actual hand on Fellenyr,” Elian said. “Probably not intentionally. I suppose you have ninety-nine left?”

Only a handful of deities had fragments of their original bodies left behind after ascending from the mortal plane thousands of years before the Kymorathi civilization rose. After the Covenant was forged, deities manifested on the mortal plane in various ways such as possession, be it objects or living creatures, or creating illusions and projections.

The extremely rare few deities with body parts remaining on Fellenyr had the most power.

The Magistrate’s hand floated and beckoned at Elian with a finger.

Elian approached the deity. “Before I ask anything of you, I have an important story to share. I’m from fifteen years into the future and have returned to the past because of the Timekeeper’s Boon. You know the Timekeeper, right? Shouldn’t all deities know each other or something? Anyway, in two years, the Giants will destroy these lands. I know you can tell whether I’m telling the truth or not. If you help me and… you don’t care.”

The Magistrate's hand stood upright, five fingers pointing up and palm facing Elian—it was the sign to stop.

“I stayed up all night thinking if I should tell you about this or not,” Elian muttered to himself with a heavy sigh. “I should’ve listened to the half of my brain saying this won’t matter to you—this is no longer your world. I still get to ask something from you, right?”

Changing positions, the hand lowered itself to the ground. The palm faced upward while its fingers pointed at Elian. It appeared to be a gesture to receive something. He took it to mean that the Magistrate was ready to accept his request.

Elian touched the Magistrate’s finger which was bigger than his whole body. “I pray you bestow upon me… a Curse.”