He nestled me, in his tender loving arms. We were seated at the rooftop, musing at the brilliance of the wan moonlight and the beautiful stars within the night sky. The Northern lights danced above us, while the wind whispered warm melodies, with my head on his shoulder I couldn't ask for anything more in the whole wide world, except to stay like that just me and him forever.
"I want to love you, even if it kills me," he whispered, his voice a soft tremor in the silence of the night.
"Why?" I asked, my voice barely audible above the gentle rustle of the breeze.
"My whole life," he breathed, "apart from you, I don't think there is another I can live for."
His words sank into me like a slow-burning fire, smouldering beneath the skin. I closed my eyes for a moment, absorbing the weight of such devotion, before daring to tease through the intensity of it.
"I can be quite stubborn, I can be quite foolish and versatile with my attitudes. What if one day you have to face me, I wonder, what would you do?"
"It will never happen," he reassured me with a firmness that held the echo of desperation. "I'd rather die," he added, and for a moment, I believed he meant it.
"I am flawed though," I whispered. "One time, I might be defective."
"But it's a side of you—one I choose to accept regardless. After all, if there really has to come a day, even if one when the whole world were to purge you and turn against you, I'll love you till the day I die." His fingers reached for my face, and he caressed my left cheek with such tenderness it ached.
I stared into his deep blue eyes, as though I were gazing into the heart of the sea—turbulent yet calm, wild yet gentle. I was helpless against their pull. He didn't move. I could feel his restraint, the gentle clench of willpower in his jaw, the stillness in his chest.
I didn't wait. I leaned in and kissed him.
I kissed him not out of impulse, but from a place that ached so severely I feared I might never breathe again if I didn't. His lips were soft and sweet—ripe like plum juice at the end of summer. He deepened the kiss, running his hand behind my head, holding me like a fragile truth that he never wanted to let go. We ignored the cold that bit at our skin, the fireworks above—symbolic perhaps, of all we could be, but never would.
And yet, amidst the beauty of it all, I felt the sting of something darker.
It was the sweetest moment of my life, but I cried.
Tears slid down my cheeks in silence. There was no apparent reason, no heartbreak to mourn, no betrayal to accuse. It was grief born from knowing that this wasn't forever. That perfection, even when touched, is fleeting. That love, even when held close, can still be lost.
I opened my eyes.
Those same eyes—those deep blue oceans I had drowned in—were staring at me. But something was different.
They were darker. Lifeless. Haunted.
The man in my dreams had vanished, leaving only this hollow stranger in his place. My cheeks were wet. The pillow soaked beneath my face. I sat up slowly, the heavy realisation settling in as I looked upon his bare torso lying beside me.
He too seemed caught in the undertow of confusion.
"You…? Rangi…? I mean…" he stammered, as though struggling to align the fragments of some broken memory.
"I am not…" I began, but he silenced me, gently placing a finger on my lips as he stared into me, studying my face as if trying to carve it into the folds of his memory—something too sacred to forget, yet somehow already slipping away.
Had we met before the Tournament? It didn't seem possible. Yet his presence always carried a strange familiarity, like a melody heard long ago, now returning in fragments. Our moments—though recent—were too rich, too intricate, too... ancient.
No one in the Sky Castle had seen me without my veil. No one, except him.
Perhaps that's why, after a tense moment, he conjured the veil again and tied it around my face—too tightly this time, hanging crookedly over the bridge of my nose. It was as though he couldn't bear to see me fully. Or worse, couldn't bear that he had seen me at all.
He turned away.
"What are you doing here again?" he asked, his voice stripped of warmth. It was deep and cold—like a winter wind slicing through skin.
"I just stopped by when I heard you…" I hesitated.
"Crying?" he said, the word like a blade—mocking and sad.
"Hmmmm," I nodded, almost ashamed for having witnessed his pain.
"What do you know? You're not even a disciple of the Azure Dragon Sect," he muttered, and there it was—the line drawn.
"I know you are suffering from the Soul Splitting Curse," I confessed. My voice did not falter, but my heart did.
He looked at me then, sharply, like a hawk recognising a predator in its own reflection.
"You saw nothing," he said, and there was something savage in his tone.
"I'm sure…" I started.
"Then keep it to yourself. Don't meddle in the affairs of others for your own well-being. You do know what it takes to have the Soul Splitting Curse, don't you? And I'll assume that you, of all people, understand I'm not exactly the most generous or merciful sort." His words were layered, heavy with caution and unspoken pain.
"Really?" I asked softly. "That's not the man I saw."
That startled him. A fracture appeared in the mask he wore.
But only for a moment.
"Leave. Don't come back. It's almost time for the announcement. I can't thank you for your uncalled-for service, so please forget everything and pretend nothing happened." He raised his hand, and with a pulse of his energy, I was thrust out—beyond the gates of his residence, the doors slamming shut like the final page of a book.
I stood there, stunned.
"My uncalled-for service? Ha!" I muttered, stung, my pride bleeding with the insult. Yet beyond the frustration was something else—something more curious and painful.
"Rangi…"
He had called me that.
I knew that name. I had heard it before—not in passing, but somewhere deeper. It rang in my mind like an echo in a vast cavern. I clutched at the edges of memory, trying to tether the ghost of it, but it slipped through like smoke.
I turned away, walking slowly back to my quarters, my steps heavy, my thoughts scattered. The air was cool and thin, and every breath I took felt like a question I could not answer.
I had heard it somewhere, it didn't strike me as new. But then again it was quite hard putting a finger on when exactly it was that someone mentioned it that I travelled back towards my quarters in a similar awe as though perhaps trying so hard to recall it.
I came face to face with Wiman and Chunho, the former who stared at me unhappily, perhaps convinced I had made it a habit not to sleep over.
I could hardly argue with him—not because he was correct, but because I had lately found myself preoccupied with matters that had no business belonging to me. That, in itself, was disconcerting. I couldn't place a reason precise enough to defend my actions, nor could I rationalise the pull that kept dragging me further into affairs I ought to have ignored. It wasn't mere generosity—mine had always been sparse, disciplined out of me from an early age. I was raised to be a warrior, taught to prioritise the mission over emotion, to bury personal sentiment in the cold steel of discipline. But this was different. What I felt was neither a passing sense of pity nor a hero's misguided burden. It ran deeper than that—something ancient, perhaps, and terrifying in its persistence.
Wiman stepped forward, the space between us narrowing with quiet tension. There was something unreadable in his eyes—accusation, maybe, or worry cloaked in irritation.
"Get ready. It's about to start," he said tersely, then, with unsettling composure, turned his back on me and walked away.
I stood there, watching his figure retreat. Shocked not by his words, but by his restraint.
"Don't be late," Chunho added quickly, his tone more neutral. He followed suit without awaiting a response, leaving behind a silence so abrupt it echoed inside me.
I could have spoken. I might've defended myself. But the moment passed like mist through fingers.
Roughly twenty minutes later, I arrived at the designated meeting point, the same plateau where we had gathered the previous day. The mood was heavy. Elders stood in still silence, flanked by a host of Commune leaders, masters, and grandmasters. Each bore an expression carved from stone—detached, expectant.
We waited.
Then, with an air of ancient solemnity, the Mortal God Ryu descended upon the raised platform. He was a figure suspended between myth and reality, bearing the golden scroll that likely held our fate. His presence silenced the wind itself.
We bowed in unison, offering formal salutations. He did not so much as blink. His gaze was distant—unimpressed by courtesy, unmoved by obedience.
Without a word, he opened the scroll and projected a series of names into the air. The golden characters hung before us, luminous and ethereal.
To my relief—and possibly through no coincidence—our group remained intact. Wiman. Chunho. Buma. Haksu. Yi San. And me.
I exhaled, a breath I hadn't realised I'd been holding. I turned slightly and caught Yi San's eye. He seemed equally relieved—maybe more. The faintest smile ghosted across his lips.
"It is now time I reveal the next challenge," Immortal Ryu finally spoke, his voice low, measured, like a distant storm beginning to stir.
The entire assembly fell into a profound silence. Even the natural world seemed to still. The air was suspended. The sky watched, as though it, too, were waiting.
He raised a hand.
Snapped his fingers.
In an instant, reality collapsed.
The world around us dissolved like a mirage, and in its place rose a new domain—vast, wild, and unrecognisable at first glance. We were falling, or rather descending through a boundless expanse where floating mountains hovered in shifting layers of cloud and light.
It was surreal. Silent. Sacred.
For a moment, I panicked. Then Yi San grasped my hand, and together we slowed, suspended mid-air as we regained equilibrium.
"Do you recognise this place?" I asked him softly, though his eyes had already betrayed the answer.
He didn't respond at first, just stared ahead, his features caught between disbelief and awe.
"Impossible," he finally muttered. His voice carried the weight of memory, of knowing something he had hoped never to see again.
Wiman and Haksu approached from our flank, their expressions equally grim.
"It can't be," Wiman murmured.
"It's ZAYIN," Buma announced, his tone certain. He gestured toward the jagged formations that lined the mountain's surface like thorns on a great, ancient beast.
Of course.
The name struck me like a forgotten song suddenly remembered. I had come across it once—years ago, during my studies in the library at the Commune.
"The mountain of a thousand rocks?" I asked aloud, though the truth was already forming in my chest like a tightening knot. I scanned the sharp, spiralling boulders—each one placed with eerie precision in an ascending spiral.
I could finally make sense of the structure. It was a place built to disorient, to break even the most steadfast spirit. A puzzle of terrain and time.
"Why this place, though?" Haksu asked, the question hanging over us like a storm cloud.
"I don't know," Yi San replied, his voice no longer strong. He seemed unsettled, as if the air itself had stripped him of clarity.
As we floated closer, other practitioners began to drift around us, all moving with wary curiosity through the thickening mist that closed in like a veil. The temperature dropped. Breathing grew harder. It felt like stepping into the lungs of a living beast.
"According to legend," I said quietly, "ZAYIN is an unpredictable domain, defined by its own set of laws. A world that stands alone within other worlds. That's how I remember it."
Yi San nodded, his grip on my hand still firm. "No place in this realm is more treacherous," he added, almost to himself.
There were stories—terrible ones. Of disciples who entered ZAYIN and returned fragmented, changed. Of minds torn by illusion and time, of warriors who climbed for years only to realise they had never moved at all.
The laws here bent perception. Gravity obeyed no fixed pattern. Light could lie. Time could loop.
And worse than any of that, ZAYIN mirrored what lay within.
It reflected fear. Memory. Desire. Regret.
We flew deeper into the mist, and the silence between us grew louder. Each breath now felt heavier, as though the very act of breathing required strength of will. Shapes began to form in the haze—shadows that shifted too quickly to be natural.
This wasn't just a test of strength.
This was a crucible for the soul.
Whatever Immortal Ryu intended for us in this forsaken realm, it would not be straightforward, and certainly not survivable for the unprepared. We would face our own minds as much as our enemies. Every hesitation, every ghost of guilt, every fracture in our resolve—ZAYIN would exploit them all.
And yet, as terrifying as that realisation was, a strange calm settled over me.
Perhaps it was the clarity that only fear can provide. Or perhaps, in some dark and unknown part of me, I had longed for such a reckoning.
For if we were to be tested—not just as warriors, but as beings of flesh and memory—then let it be here.
Let it be now.
"Stay close," I whispered to Yi San, the mist swallowing my voice.
"I won't let go," he replied.
And we entered ZAYIN together, silent till he spoke up
"Except that there is a tale that it contains a lot of treasures that are otherworldly, divine runes that fell from the sky in the Great War between the gods and demons, it is believed that it was that same primordial energy that gave life to this place and shattered a whole mountain down to a thousand pieces," Yi San remarked.
There was something in the way he spoke—a subtle tremble beneath the composure of his voice that made me uneasy. It wasn't just the tale itself, nor the mention of divine power, but the sense that what lay ahead could not be contained in myth alone. ZAYIN was no ordinary trial ground. It was the kind of place where stories ceased being metaphors and became bone-deep truths.
"So is the challenge about us retrieving some of these treasures?" Buma asked, squinting into the mist that curled and coiled like a living thing.
"That would mean everyone would win, and for such a conclusion to be drawn it wouldn't make sense," Wiman replied sharply, his voice clear despite the thickening haze. "Besides, should that be the case, then we can't possibly assume that acquiring the treasure is as simple as it sounds."
I nodded faintly, but before I could utter my own thoughts, the mist began to swell—rising like waves on a tide, becoming denser and more luminous with every passing second. It shimmered faintly, as though charged by some unseen force, and for a brief moment, the world around us dissolved into whiteness.
Yi San gripped my hand, his touch cold but grounding.
I held on, firm and silent.
We pushed forward together, our steps slow and tentative. But the veil between us thickened. The fog rose higher until I could no longer see his face. All that remained was the silhouette of his shadow, stretching and flickering like a memory across the dense air.
Ten minutes might have passed—or maybe more. Time had begun to lose its shape. There were no sounds from the others. The silence had a presence now, as if it were listening.
Yi San's hand was growing colder. There was no strength behind the grip anymore, no assurance in the way our palms pressed together. I called out, softly at first.
"Your Highness?"
Nothing.
I stopped. His hand slipped from mine like water between fingers. Panic stirred.
Conjuring a minor spell, I swept my arm forward. A current of energy surged from my fingertips and scattered the mist before me in shimmering wisps—and I realised, with jarring clarity, that I was alone.
The silence that followed was absolute.
"Wiman? Chunho?" I called into the emptiness. My voice echoed, warped by distance and space, as though the very air mocked my hope. No response came.
My heart pounded.
The Cuff Token—our failsafe meant to keep Yi San and me tethered within a fixed range—remained inert. That meant either it had malfunctioned entirely or ZAYIN's laws had rendered it useless. I swallowed hard. If the artefact meant to protect us held no power here, then neither did our assumptions.
I glanced around. The landscape was unfamiliar: narrow paths carved between towering stone pillars, strange and jagged rocks arranged like sentinels. I moved with caution, my steps deliberate, aware that even the ground might not obey natural order here.
As I pressed further, I began to notice something peculiar. The rocks—once barren and grey—were now slowly cloaked in thick green moss, thriving as though nourished by some hidden source. There was a subtle hum to the air now, a frequency just below hearing. The grass glowed faintly in parts, and I recognised the flicker of Divine power. It was weak, like an echo, but unmistakable.
A sign. A path. Perhaps even a lure.
The closer I followed it, the more uneasy I became. Excitement existed, yes, but only in fragments. Dwarfed beneath the weight of uncertainty and fear, it could barely rise above the surface of my thoughts. Every instinct I had screamed caution, but I pressed on. To stop would be worse.
Then I saw it—a structure. Distant at first, shadowed and indistinct. I approached carefully, and slowly, it revealed itself.
A tower.
Old, but not decayed. Majestic, yet seemingly abandoned. Its bricks gleamed silver-grey beneath filtered sunlight, giving the illusion that they had been polished by time itself. The structure stood tall—perhaps two hundred metres or more—and there was something arresting in its silence, in its refusal to collapse despite the years it had clearly endured.
When I reached the entrance, I realised there was no door—only two torches, unlit, stationed where a gate might have stood. Before me were four statues in bronze, each posed in dynamic tension. One with a sword raised to strike, another mid-thrust with a spear, the third braced behind a shield, and the last drawing a bow aimed at the others. They danced in conflict—frozen in eternal opposition.
The craftsmanship was exquisite. Their armour, their stances, the creases of their garments—all had been etched with reverence and an unnerving attention to detail. They were warriors, yes, but they were also something more: guardians, perhaps. Or memories.
I stepped closer. As I did, the bricks ahead of me began to shimmer and then shift—disassembling from their centre outward until an arched passage appeared, opening like a breath drawn inwards.
I entered.
The interior was cool, filled with an ambient glow that seemed to come from the very walls. The first corridor was narrow, lined with relief carvings more intricate than any I had seen, even in the forest of giant trees. They told stories—ancient ones—etched not only in stone but in sensation. I could feel them, as if they were being whispered into my bones.
Further in, a bright light broke the dimness.
Drawn like a tide to the moon, I followed it until I reached what appeared to be the central chamber.
And then I stopped.
Before me stood not a throne, not a relic—but mirrors. Hundreds of thousands of them. Perhaps more.
The chamber was vast, infinite in feel. The mirrors came in every shape and substance—silver, copper, glass, obsidian, gold. Some were smooth, others jagged. Some stood tall as doors; others small enough to fit in a palm. They were scattered like stars in constellations I couldn't name.
But my attention locked on one.
The largest.
It stood directly ahead, casting no reflection of the light around it—only a void, a pull.
I took a step closer.
Then, from somewhere behind me, I heard it.
"Saya?"
My name.
Spoken aloud. Clear. Familiar.
Yi San.
I froze. Heart racing.
"Saya!" he called again, louder this time. It was real—too real to be an illusion. And yet...
I turned toward the sound, but as I did, something shifted.
The reflection in the mirror—my reflection—was no longer mine.
It had changed. Morphed. It no longer followed my movements, but acted of its own volition. Its eyes narrowed. And then, behind me, I saw movement.
Something black. Sinuous. Predatory.
My body reacted before my mind could catch up. I spun, bracing for impact. The creature lunged—a serpent of shadow, its fangs wide, eyes blazing with red hunger.
But before it could strike—
A flash of light tore through the chamber.
Suho appeared, sudden as lightning, conjuring a radiant beam of energy. With a cry, he released it, blasting the creature back into the abyss from which it had come.
I was surprised since it hadn't occurred to me that he would be present in such a place—it was a matter of time before Yi San and a couple of others came in.
The air had not yet settled when the last remnants of the serpentine creatures dissolved into glittering ash, scattering like fragments of burnt stars across the floor. There was a moment of collective silence, thin and trembling, where no one moved. The danger had passed, but the weight of what we had just endured lingered in the air like smoke.
"It's another illusion," Haksu muttered, his voice raw. I turned and noticed, with a flicker of alarm, that most of them were visibly exhausted. Their chests rose and fell in uneven heaves, their eyes distant, glassy with strain.
"What's wrong? What happened to you?" I asked, instinctively moving towards them.
"We were isolated in the mist," Buma answered, his voice tight. "And ambushed."
My chest tightened. "Were they like it?" I gestured towards the pile of ash.
"Yes," Chunho responded quietly. "They were all imoogis."
That word again. It rolled off his tongue with a familiarity that didn't ease the dread it carried. Something still felt wrong—off in a way that logic couldn't untangle.
"The others are all illusions," Suho said, stepping forward. "All created to protect the real Imoogi—and whatever treasure it's hoarding."
"Why is it always us?" I said, more to myself than to anyone else. "Even last time—it was the same pattern."
"We've been lured here," Yi San murmured, his expression darkening.
And then the mirrors began to vibrate.
A low hum built into the air, subtle at first, then rising like a chorus of muffled screams. Yi San reached for my hand, but before our fingers could meet, Suho yanked me back. A massive shard of glass crashed between us, splitting the floor beneath with a guttural crack. The ground quaked—twisted—and in the blink of an eye, the entire chamber convulsed, turning on its head.
I screamed—though I couldn't hear it—as the world spun violently, gravity pulling Suho and me downwards into a spiralling fall.
The mirror below wasn't solid. It gave way like water—or quicksand—swallowing us whole. My arms rose instinctively to shield my face. And then...
Stillness.
I landed upright.
Shaking, heart hammering against my ribs, I looked around. The air felt thin, dry. My boots crunched against sand.
A desert.
The sky above was a deep, unnatural red, bruised like the inside of a storm. In the distance, standing like a monolith torn from shadow, was a tower. It bore a striking resemblance to the one we had entered before—but this one was darker. Its edges less defined, as though the world itself struggled to fully perceive it.
Suho stepped past me, his face unreadable. He halted a few paces ahead.
"A Mirror Realm," he whispered, more to himself than to me. I nodded, lips dry.
There was something coiling in the sky above us—just behind the streaking of lightning. A serpentine shadow, immense, and ancient in the way ruins feel ancient—not dead, but dreaming.
"The real Imoogi is here," Suho said. There might have been a note of caution in his tone, but it barely registered with me. Everything was beginning to blur at the edges.
"Then that means we're close to the treasure," I said quietly, a strange certainty settling into my bones. I took a step forward, past him.
But Suho reached out, firm but not forceful, and seized my hand. I stopped.
"Getting the treasure is one thing," he said, his voice low and steady. "Escaping the Mirror Realm is another. Don't forget where we are. This place doesn't follow reason. We shouldn't take chances."
His concern was valid—but so was the urgency rising in my chest.
"Every Mirror Realm has a weakness," I replied, pulling gently against his grip. "They're designed to protect something. If we can find what that is, we can break the illusion."
He hesitated but eventually let go.
We knew the Imoogi above must have sensed us. Yet, it had not reacted—not fully. It regarded us like an observer, perhaps deeming us unworthy of concern. That indifference became our shield.
Together, we approached the tower. The entrance opened before us with the same eerie grace as the one we had seen before. Inside, the passage was narrower, colder. But the walls—these walls—told stories in ways that transcended time.
High-relief carvings ran across the stone, so vivid they seemed to shift in the dim light. Inscriptions laced the borders of each scene in an ancient language, one I didn't understand but felt tethered to somehow. They weren't just pictures—they were memories. Wounds.
I stepped forward, drawn to a single panel. Something about it pulled at me. I reached out slowly, fingers brushing the cold surface.
The moment my skin met the wall, everything changed.
An ache, sudden and sharp, bloomed in my skull. I staggered back but before I could fall, the world dissolved—like mist before the sun.
When my vision cleared, I was no longer in the tower.
I stood in a vast open plain surrounded by thousands—no, tens of thousands—of figures, dark skinned if so, a majority maybe even tan. Warriors, judging by their postures. Martial practitioners clad in ceremonial garb and battle-worn armour, their eyes fixed upon something beyond me.
I turned slowly.
"What's going on?" I murmured. My voice sounded distant.
From the far end of the plain, a woman began to approach. She moved with solemn grace, cradling an incense lamp that glowed with a faint golden light. Her robe was crimson, heavy with intricate gold threadwork, and her veil fluttered gently despite the windless air.
She did not walk as one living. She drifted.
The crowd bowed their heads as she passed.
She felt like a priestess—but also something far older. Revered not merely out of faith, but out of memory. Out of fear. Out of worship.
She stopped a few steps before me.
In her presence, the space felt sanctified—like standing in the eye of a storm. Her face, when she finally unveiled it, was not familiar. And yet it was. Something about her gaze pierced straight through me, searching for something buried deep inside my soul.
I could feel them—those who stood behind her—kneeling now. Heads low. Arms clasped.
Not to her.
To me.
I was at the centre.
Not by choice—but by some design I didn't yet understand.
The priestess raised the lamp high. The golden light flickered and burst into a bright flare, illuminating every shadow within the space. The air seemed to ripple with heat and memory.
And then—
The world began to fracture again.
I looked at my arms, and they were all different. In the left, particularly, I held a staff crafted entirely from celestial gold. Its top was crowned with sharpened jade, giving it the faint resemblance of a spear—elegant and dangerous, like something forged in a forgotten age of gods.
"A great war is upon us, sons of men," she chanted. Her voice echoed like wind through a canyon—reverent, but terrible in its clarity.
"Raise your arms and fight for us," she whispered, each syllable striking like the soft hiss of prophecy.
"Fight our Sire!" the tribesmen bellowed in communion, their voices united like the call of ancient thunder. Their eyes gleamed with conviction, yet there was something hollow behind them—as though their purpose had long outlived their humanity.
"The gods sent you to us," she breathed, softer now, as though telling me a secret too old for time itself.
And then I was carried away—not by hands, but by force, as if some forgotten part of me had been summoned from a memory buried in marrow. My body moved on its own. It fought with a terrifying rhythm, swift and calculated, as if I had done this before. I must have slain hundreds—thousands—of the Demon puppets. They came like waves, screaming without voice, their forms grotesque and fleeting, shadows with bones.
I fought until I stood face to face with it—a demonic pillar, blacker than night and pulsing with a sickly glow, as though it were breathing hatred.
With a cry, I struck, the staff glowing fiercely in my grip. A concentrated beam of energy exploded from its tip, clean and incandescent, splitting the pillar open with a deafening crack. It splintered like rotted wood, and then—shattered completely. Dust. Silence.
"I did it?" I whispered, breathless.
Yet it didn't feel like triumph. It felt like remembrance. The ground beneath me shifted, and something inside me stirred with dreadful recognition.
Was I reliving a memory?
"Such a relic of immense power must be dealt with," I muttered under my breath, still reeling.
"And what does humanity have to do with the fight?" the woman asked, her tone sharp and accusing. She had followed me through the veil of battle, untainted by ash or blood.
"It cannot fall into the wrong hands," I responded, my voice firmer now, but still uncertain.
She lifted her blade and pointed it towards me, unwavering. "We must survive."
"This will be your funeral ground!" I shouted, driven by a sudden, unfathomable surge of anger and despair. I raised the staff, slamming it down. A tremendous wave of divine energy surged outward, freezing everything—stone, air, time itself—into glittering gold.
The silence that followed was absolute.
Then I saw him. A man standing before me. His face bore a haunting resemblance to mine—too close to be coincidence, his skin was dark and his eyes were blue like the ocean.
"Only he who is worthy will possess this power," he whispered, like a spell cast without sound. His voice resonated with the staff. The air vibrated, and I was flushed out of that space—wrenched from that ghostly battlefield and thrown back into the present.
I landed hard outside an underground castle, sprawling beyond the ruins of an ancient city hidden high in the mountains. A formation of immense magical power cloaked it from sight.
My conscience returned slowly—then fully, all at once. And when I opened my eyes, I was in Suho's arms.
"Rangi?" he called out, again and again, his voice taut with worry.
"Who…?" He halted mid-sentence, perhaps realising how deeply immersed he'd become.
"I'm sorry," he said at last, quietly.
"I'm Saya," I told him, gently offering my name like a branch in a storm. He helped me to my feet as the carvings on the walls sank inward, leaving the surface smooth, featureless. Blank.
"Hmm." He made a low, uneasy sound, looking as though the ground beneath him was still shifting.
I hesitated—but eventually, I gave in.
"I saw it."
"What?"
"These drawings. I've lived them—just now," I explained, heart still racing.
"Like memories?" he asked, though doubt lingered in his tone.
"The mountain… it was a shrine," I confessed.
"There's almost no record of this place ever being inhabited." He didn't look convinced. His eyes flicked to the empty walls, searching for evidence already lost.
"It's been over 9,000 years—perhaps more. The pillar looked new, but that's because Zayin is unpredictable. Always has been. Yet, all the forces we've encountered here carry a divine aura—none tainted by Dark Matter. I've thought about it. And now I understand. Immortal Ryu wanted us to discover why."
I studied Suho carefully. Maybe he already knew. Maybe that was why he appeared when he did.
"Do you have your answer?" he asked, calm but direct.
"This place existed only to keep the legend alive—to ensure it never vanished into obscurity. The one who gained the vision held knowledge that made them the most valuable asset to mankind. I know now—there is a divine relic here. One that pulses with spiritual energy. And it's real."
His expression shifted. Something in his gaze lit up—not with greed, but certainty.
"So they were right," he said softly, as though speaking to no one.
"No wonder the four Cardinal Sects only sent those who were strong enough to succeed. The rest… they were just to make up the numbers."
The realisation burned in my chest.
"There's a limit to what the average person can comprehend. We chase knowledge like shadows, always reaching beyond the veil. Trapped—like children in an endless war. For millennia, mankind has survived, but Zayin remained elusive. A forbidden domain filled with divine resonance. We were ready to risk everything to uncover its truth," Suho confessed, voice distant.
I didn't know whether to trust his honesty or recoil from it. What unsettled me wasn't his answer—but how unaffected he seemed by it. How quickly he accepted it all.
"Who are you people?" I asked sharply.
He met my gaze. "Who do you think we are?"
His response stopped me cold. The arrogance of it. Or was it detachment? Either way, I was infuriated.
"Until now, we saw heroes. Warriors. We believed we had the most powerful among mankind at our side. But I learned today—painfully—that heroes like you never fight for the weak. You bask in this illusion of peace. You've grown too comfortable. So much so, that you're willing to sacrifice your own."
I trembled—not from fear, but from the sheer weight of understanding.
"Don't you think… that the Nephilim who died protecting the Demonic Pillars were more honourable than us?"
He didn't flinch.
"Because we obsess over strength," he said at last. "Because we define good and evil—draw lines, enforce sides. But in the end, the world doesn't care. The silence comes either way. We returned with the prize."
"And the others?" I demanded.
"They failed."
"Just like that?" My voice cracked.
"It is the difference between us," he said flatly, then closed the distance between us entirely. His eyes bore into mine, steady and unyielding.
He had changed. Something inside him had shifted—hardened. He looked… invulnerable.
Perhaps he always had been.
"Did you see it?" he definitely demanded to know.
"Yes," I replied, hesitantly, and he smirked at me—an expression that lingered just a moment too long.
Then, without warning, I heard the sharp whisper of a blade slicing through the air. It happened so swiftly, I barely registered it before the steel pierced through his abdomen. A strangled breath escaped him as his form contorted unnaturally. His skin, his eyes—everything about him shifted.
He was no longer Suho.
The figure before me transformed into the same masked stranger we had encountered within the forest of Giant Trees. His disguise dissolved into thick, dark matter—churning and billowing like smoke before vanishing completely into the ether.
The real Suho I supposed, mortally wounded, staggered, supporting himself on his sword. His face was pale, the colour draining rapidly as the wound bloomed crimson beneath his robes. And then he collapsed—right into my arms.
"I'm glad," he whispered, barely clinging to consciousness. His eyes searched mine, fragile and flickering.
"You weren't harmed." His words were gentle, sincere, despite the blood seeping from his body, despite the agony I could feel pulsing through him. He was trying to reassure me, in those final moments before his strength gave out.
I stood there, caught between the chaos and stillness, trying to absorb what had just happened. It felt surreal—unreal. But Suho, even in pain, urged me onward.
"Don't listen to him," he insisted. It was the last thing he managed to say before his eyes rolled back, and he passed out in my arms—his body finally giving way just as a deep, guttural cry split the heavens.
The tower shook.
It was Imoogi. The great serpent, concealed by the clouds, had revealed itself at last. Its colossal form descended from above with a grace that belied its size, shrouded in a majestic yet terrifying presence. I could feel its gaze sweep across the sky—then hone in on us like a predator scenting prey.
My instincts took over. I carried Suho deeper into the tower. My surroundings changed quickly—stone corridors, winding stairs, the air growing tighter with every step. We arrived at what seemed to be the very heart of the structure: a circular chamber, vast but enclosed, its only exit a narrow opening high above, far beyond reach.
A dead end.
We were cornered.
I turned, and there it was—the serpent, landing with the weight of a mountain. It slithered into the chamber slowly, deliberately. Its obsidian-black scales shimmered, reflecting the crimson light that filtered through the distant opening above. With each movement, its body rattled—a sound like hundreds of swords being unsheathed.
It raised its head, golden fangs glinting in the light. Its eyes were dark green, alive with sentience, rage, and something deeper—something ancient. The light made the chamber resemble a sanctum drowned in blood.
I stepped in front of Suho. Whatever happened, he would not face it alone.
Floating into the air, I summoned the Divine Sword Array. My crimson blade multiplied, splitting into countless replicas. They circled me in concentric rings—each revolving in tight, protective rhythm. They shimmered with my intent, with my desperation.
The serpent struck first, lunging with a hiss that shook the stone itself. I met its fury with my own, hurling the first wave of blades directly at its eyes. It shrieked, twisting away and thrashing its tail—but I was undeterred. As it coiled to the side, I recalled the blades and reformed the array around Suho, shielding him, then pulled back into the centre of the chamber.
It was circling. Watching. Planning.
The creature's energy surged—glowing threads of power raced along its spine and concentrated within its swelling throat. The air began to thrum with an unnatural frequency. Then, with a roar, it faced us again—its body elongated, fully wrapping around the chamber.
It was going to end this.
The serpent opened its maw, and from within it released a beam of pure energy—white-hot, precise, unrelenting.
I raised my hand, gathered every ounce of strength I had left, and countered. The clash lit the room in violent hues of white and red, beams colliding with such intensity that even the walls trembled.
The serpent pushed harder. Its energy did not wane. Inch by inch, it inched closer. I poured more into my defence, desperate not to falter. Sweat streaked down my face, my breath shallow, my muscles on the verge of collapse. I was burning through everything.
Finally—finally—I managed to break through. My counterbeam overwhelmed his, and the impact hurled him backwards. His skull cracked against the tower wall with a deep, bone-splintering sound. The whole chamber shook.
He roared in fury, and I steadied myself in front of Suho once more.
Then something changed.
The serpent's scales began to rattle again—this time forming a translucent, golden coating. His body coiled tightly around us, reinforcing the walls with his bulk, creating a living prison. In an instant, he constricted—pulling inward with terrifying force.
I raised my hands and conjured a spherical shield. The barrier encased us both, barely fending off the crushing weight. But the serpent wasn't finished. It opened its mouth again, unleashing a second energy beam—aimed straight at the shield.
The sphere began to ripple. Cracks appeared, faint at first, then growing—spreading like lightning across ice.
My phantom body was weakening. After days of conflict, it couldn't withstand this much longer.
One second too late, and we would be consumed.
I had a choice. I could escape. Abandon Suho. Save myself.
But the very thought hollowed something inside me. What would I tell the others? That I survived because I left someone behind?
No.
I couldn't.
The cracks deepened, the energy thinned. I hesitated—then closed my eyes.
And summoned my true self.
From the depths of my Inner Sea, my real body surged forth—reclaiming consciousness from the fading phantom. The instant the transformation was complete, I felt it: a torrent of energy exploding through my veins. My entire being pulsed with divine force.
The Divine Bone Rune activated.
The shield flared to life in a brilliant explosion of yellow, red, and blue. The cracks vanished. Flames licked along its surface, curling outward like wings.
The serpent screamed.
Its scales began to burn, melting one by one where they touched the radiant light. Its body convulsed, withdrawing—retreating as the divine energy devoured the outer layers of its defence.
I took a breath, lifted my right hand—and summoned the Flaming Thunder.
The elemental storm coalesced within my palm, roaring with crackling defiance. I raised my gaze and locked eyes with the serpent.
Then, with a single motion, I launched the strike—straight for its skull.