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The 10,000th entry locks into place. The system tightens. The world stutters.

For a brief moment, the weight of the decision exists as nothing but a flickering thought—a pause in the machinery of Visitia Interiorae Terrae, a hesitation buried within lines of code that should never hesitate.

Then—

Everything breaks.

The trial activates, but something is wrong. It does not execute as it should. The corridors of the Interior stretch and distort, their edges fraying, their logic unraveling in jagged threads of unreadable glyphs.

A rejection. A corruption. A divergence.

The previous Savior stands in the center of the void, their presence flickering between existence and deletion. Their code—**no, their body—**warps under the pressure of the system's failure. The rules dictate they must fall, but the process is no longer clean. No longer precise.

The trial is collapsing under its own weight.

And into this fracture—

The new Savior cleaves through.

Not with words. Not with pleas.

But with a blade.

Steel meets script, and the world splits in two.

The Savior does not hesitate. They cannot. The weight of the selection, the expectations of the system, the rules that bind this place—none of it matters anymore. The old Savior must fall. The old data must be purged.

A step-in. A reversal of position. The sword carves through the air, through the errors, through the body of the one before them.

The script shatters like glass.

The previous Savior lets out a sound—not pain, not recognition, but something hollow. A data fragment in its final moments. A whisper in the collapsing space.

Then—

They are gone.

The trial does not confirm victory. It does not need to. The system is already reconfiguring, swallowing the pieces of what was and repurposing them into what must be.

The new Savior stands at the center, blade still humming with the aftershock of the cut.

The files unlock. The system stabilizes.

The 10,001st view ticks forward.

And the cycle begins anew.