-= Day 1 – Revelation =-
"Doubt is not your own. It is a sickness. A corruption."
You hadn't meant to speak. You hadn't even meant to stop walking. But for just a breath, you hesitated.
It wasn’t rebellion. It wasn’t defiance. Just… curiosity.
And yet, the summons came.
A quiet voice. A simple gesture. The Confessor’s hand on your shoulder.
"You are troubled, my child."
Now, you kneel before the altar. Your hands are unbound, yet impossibly heavy.
The weight is not physical. It is something deeper.
It is not the fear that something terrible may happen.
It is the certainty that something terrible already has, long ago, but nobody is aware.
The Confessor stands before you, sorrow in his gaze, scripture in his hands.
"You have been troubled," he says gently. "You have forgotten what it means to be at peace."
Behind him, the Warcaskets stand in silent vigil. Watching. Waiting.
You swallow."I have not lost faith," you whisper. "I only asked, why does the March never end?"
The Confessor steps closer. A hand upon your head. So light, so gentle.
"It is not your fault, my child. The mind is fragile. But faith is strong."
A hum begins beneath your skin. Whispers curl at the edges of your thoughts:
"Your doubt is not your own. It is the enemy’s hand upon your soul."
"To question is to invite corruption. To hesitate is to give evil a foothold."
"But you are not lost. The Faith has chosen you. You will be made whole."
The hum becomes a roar. The voices merge into one. A tide, vast and unyielding, crashes against your mind.
You try to grasp at your own thoughts. Your name, your childhood, your voice. But they are already unraveling.
Your vision fractures. Your self scatters like shattered glass.
And then: silence.
Perfect, absolute silence.
The weight is gone. The fog is gone. The question is gone.
The Confessor smiles."Do you see now?"
And you do.
You see everything.
And you are at peace.
-= Day 2 – Ordination =-
"Faith is not a burden. It is a gift."
You do not remember waking. You do not remember standing.
There is only the present. There is only the March.
You kneel before the Confessor once more.
The weight of thought is gone. The burden of choice has been lifted.
The March continues. And you continue with it.
The Confessor raises his hands. The congregation kneels in reverence.
"Once, you were troubled. Once, you were weak. Once, you did not understand."
The faithful hum in agreement. A prayer without words.
The Confessor places his hands upon your shoulders.
"But the Faith has blessed you with clarity."
A new weight settles over you. Not merely physical, but something deeper.
An Oath.
It settles over your body like armor. Over your mind like a brand.
"You are no longer of the self. You are no longer bound to doubt, to hunger, to rest, to pleasure. You are a disciple of the Eternal March."
The Warcaskets bow their heads. Their hollowed bodies stand as testaments to the path before you.
Your limbs feel lighter. Your vision sharpens. Your hands no longer tremble.
A hum resonates in your chest. A new sense of unity, of singularity, of purpose.
"You will not waver. You will not falter. You will guide your brothers and sisters, your will sharpening theirs."
The greatest lies are not enforced, they’re celebrated.
The most radical acts of control are indistinguishable from tradition.
The Confessor turns toward the banners.
Upon them, woven in gold thread, is the name St. Alexius, the Betrayer & Redeemed.
"Do you know the tale of Alexius?" the Confessor asks, his voice reverent.
You do.
Everyone does.
"He once fought against the March," the Confessor intones. "He called us oppressors, zealots, tyrants."
The congregation murmurs in admiration.
"And yet, as he stood upon the battlefield, blade in hand, he wavered. He hesitated. He questioned his purpose. And in that moment, the Faith reached out to him."
The banners shimmer in the candlelight. The golden embroidery tells the story. The moment of doubt, the kneeling, the revelation.
"He was the first to see the truth. And he was the first to kneel before the Confessor and accept Revelation."
The Warcaskets bow their heads in silent homage.
"The last rebel," the Confessor whispers, "became the first saint."
The realization settles into you with perfect, unwavering clarity.
Rebellion was never an obstacle. It was a necessary part of the faith.
It is not a cycle of oppression and resistance. It is a cycle of ascension.
"There will always be doubt, my child. There must always be doubt. For without doubt, there can be no Revelation."
The last rebel is now venerated as a saint.
You feel a new weight upon your shoulders. Not a burden. A calling.
The Confessor speaks the final words.
"Go forth, Disciple. Serve, and be made whole."
You rise.
You do not bow.
You salute.
-= Day 3 – Consecration =-
"To suffer in life is to be purified. To suffer in death is to be saved."
The Hall of Ascension is quiet.
Golden banners hang from the vaulted ceilings, woven with scripture, edged in light. Candles burn in perfect formation. Incense coils through the air, sweet and heavy with sacred weight.
At the center of the chamber stands the Foundry, an altar of industry and faith alike.
A Warcasket waits upon its dais.
Not armor. Not a machine. A shrine.
And behind it, towering, untouchable: the Empty Throne.
The Confessor does not look at it. No one does.
The congregation kneels.
The Confessor’s hands rest upon your shoulders. Firm. Not restraining, but guiding.
"You have served well, Disciple," he says softly. "You have walked the path without hesitation. You have shed the burden of the self. You have become the embodiment of faith."
The Foundry hums. Golden-lit arms move in perfect harmony, awaiting their sacred duty.
The Warcasket opens like a temple more than a machine, welcoming its last, greatest disciple.
"You will not waver. You will not fall. You will not die. You will be consecrated."
You step forward.
The first plate is fitted to your chest. Cool metal. Warm light.A hum. Your nerves linking to the frame.
Your arms and legs settle into place. The next plates are riveted into position, each one sealing away the frailty of flesh.
Your heartbeat slows. Your breath steadies.
The final plates are brought forth, inscribed with scripture. Your name. Your purpose. Your truth.
As the plates descend, something stirs in your mind.
Not a voice. Not a thought.
Just… a memory.
A flicker of something before the Revelation.
A question.
You remember asking it once.
You remember wondering.
"Why does the March never end?"
But doubt is not your own.
Doubt is a sickness. A corruption.
Faith is not a burden. It is a gift.
The Confessor’s voice is a whisper.
"Do you accept eternity?"
You try to respond.
But your voice is already gone.
You do not need it.
Your limbs no longer move on their own.
You do not need them.
The final rivet is placed. The last weld seals shut.
The Foundry hums.
The power core activates. A final breath. And then, no breath at all.
The doors of the Foundry open.
You try to hold onto the memory. But there is nothing left to hold.
The Confessor bows his head, filled with quiet reverence.
You do not move. Not until the Warcasket commands you to. And then, you rise.
You do not feel the weight of steel. You do not feel at all.
And it is good.
You step forward.
You are not the first. You will not be the last. Another already stands where you once stood.
The sacrifice that had once meant to break the cycle……has become the cornerstone of it.
And so, we march.
