EndlessReverie
Chapter 15: Moonlight Behind Fog
𝚉𝚊𝚒𝚛𝚘𝚗
06/04/2025
A/N: character development 3. i need him powerful enough.
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"Move."
He whispered to himself, curling over the pain. "You've seen this… haven't you? That other you… the future you…"
He shut his eyes.
And in the cold, something opened.
The world slowed. He fell inward—into the Corelace.
Threads shimmered. Not just his. The trees had them. The snow. The fox. Even the revenants—their blackened cords like oil-slicked scars against the woven weave of the world.
His own thread flickered in front of him, violet and frayed at the edges.
But it wasn't alone.
Another filament blinked to life alongside it. Dim. Pale. Like moonlight behind fog.
He reached toward it instinctively.
It latched.
Pain seared across his chest—but he didn't scream. Instead, somethingflowed. A memory, not his own, and yet its his, pouring into him like hot ink on snow.
A something made of memory. Of essence, shaped not by steel but by willing—
When he opened his eyes, he was back.
Still in the frost. Still bleeding.
But in his hand—
A blade of light.
No, not light. Thread.
Violet-glass with spiritual echoes shimmering along the edge. It crackled softly, more feeling than metal—familiar, yet entirely new.
The revenants paused.
Even they could feel it.
The fox glanced back, its eyes briefly wide with recognition—no, approval.
Zairon stood.
He staggered at first, but his knees held. His grip tightened on the woven blade.
He wanted to try his sister's words.
"Fear can be your blade."
The revenants surged.
Zairon stepped forward.
The first revenant swung down, a vertical cleave meant to split him clean through.
Zairon's blade met it—and didn't shatter.
It sang.
A resonance ripped through the revenant's sword, splitting it with a harmonic cry of unraveling essence. Its arm dissolved mid-strike, threads unraveling into snow.
The next revenant screamed and lunged.
Zairon didn't dodge this time. He moved through.
One breath.
One strike.
A clean cut—its armor fell in two.
The others hesitated.
The fox leapt at another, biting down into the wraith's neck and shattering its essence core. Another fell, and another.
The last tried to flee.
Zairon raised his new blade—not with rage, but with resolve.
And threw it.
The blade dissolved into violet threads midair, lancing forward like a spear of memory. It pierced the revenant's back—then exploded into a web of violet light that unraveled it completely.
Then…
Silence.
Zairon dropped to one knee.
Breathing. Bleeding. Shaking.
But alive.
The fox padded beside him and laid its head against his shoulder. Its warmth, soft and ancient, steadied his breath.
Zairon let the silence settle.
For now, he had passed the test.
But the world was not done with him.
And neither was destiny.
∗ ⋅◈⋅ ∗
Zairon pressed his back against the cold bark of a dying tree. The wound on his chest had closed days ago, but it still ached—not physically, not even through the thread, but deeper. Beneath all that.
The fox lay beside him, breathing softly. The forest had grown quiet again.
Zairon was stuck in this forest with no way out. He calmed down after the events, he was surviving just because of what he was taught by Ethereth. The basics of survival.
He sat down on the tree by the bonfire he had made. It was meant to warm him and signal others of smoke in the forest, he just wanted to go home right now.
"... Hah... This dumb fox broke my sword..."
He muttered—he already felt this familiar was connected to him in someway. He needn't to be scared not fearful of such presence when it already shown its loyalty to defend him.
A low rumble stirred beneath the snow, too deep to be mere wind. The fox tensed again, fur rising—not in fear, but in alertness. It glanced to the north, ears pinned.
Zairon followed its gaze.
Beyond the trees, the Frostwood shifted. Branches swayed though no wind passed. Snow spiraled upward instead of falling. And from that impossible stillness came a pressure—a presence—that crushed the breath from his lungs.
Zairon cleared his throat before standing up.
"... I don't want to do this again..."
Zairon wailed in his words yet he already steeled himself to make a move. He conversed himself with his core before forming the blade again—but he needed the support of the bladeless hilt to form the sword.
The first time he did it was of emergency, the feeling of necessity and need. Yet, as of now, he couldn't recollect the feeling. The blade itself was powerful enough to insert itself as a steel that could match diamond.
A/N: Kuwabara be like.
Then nothing came out—
Even the feeling of a thread that disturbed his soul wasn't there.
Then—
Rustle
It's not a revenant.
It's something older.
The branches parted—slowly. Deliberately. As if the forest itself bent in reverence.
No essence flared. No thread surged.
But the fox knelt, ears flattened, muzzle low to the snow.
Zairon didn't breathe.
Because whatever approached was no foe.
It wasn't hostile.
It was older.
From between the frost-covered trees stepped a woman.
No, not a woman.
A figure wovenfrom dusk anddiscipline.
Her robe flowed like still water, pale starlight stitched into its seams. A fractured owlmask veiled her face, but through one broken eye shone a soft, silver light—neither warm nor cold.
Behind her trailed wings, vast and broken. One intact, like moonlight bound in feathers. The other shattered, the remains drifting like embers behind her.
She stepped onto the snow.
It didn't crunch.
Elysera.
Zairon didn't know how he knew the name.
But he did.
It pressed into his mind like a childhood lullaby remembered in a fever dream.
Zairon
The being spoke. Neither was it a command nor order—it was judgment wrapped in kindness.
Zairon staggered a step back while the fox remained sat in its position in front of him. Sharp eyes and ears were gazing at the being—confidence, anger, upset, they weren't there—but loyalty and commitment to defend someone.
"... W-who are you?"
Then he felt a breeze hit him.
It wasn't strong, neither did it affect his physical presence. But he felt as if he was disintegrating.
"Ragh..."
You failed
The voice rang loud and clear—but it was soft, like feathers flowing against the skin.
And still lived? That is... rare
Zairon grit his teeth. He couldn't just hear the words, he felt it in each and every inch of his body. It was devastating him—yet it felt as if majestic melodies formed a unified tone.
"W-what do you want with me..?"
I did not come here to test
The figure stopped a few steps in front of the fox before a single touch of her feathers settled on top of the animal as it fell unconscious. It was ridden upwards as if the holy divinity forcibly took the soul.
Then she now appeared before Zairon. Her wings folded, snow coiling upward in spirals around her like breath drawn in slow contemplation.
I came to speak... To remind you
Zairon's fingers curled around the empty hilt at his belt. "Remind me of w-what?"
She reached out—not to touch, but to gesture to the fox. Her voice rang out like a poem that was meant to touch your inner soul.
You showed mercy
The world will call it weakness
You will think it hesitation
But mercy is a blade—subtle, unseen
Sharper than pride
He blinked.
The memory of the fox lunging. The instinct to kill. The choice not to.
Elysera's eye flickered with something soft.
There are many who bear power... Fewer who bear restraint
Zairon looked down at the hilt again. Still empty.
"...Then why can't I summon the blade again?" he asked.
Elysera's voice grew quiet.
Because you no longer fear death. But you fear something greater—
Yourself...
The snow stirred around them, snowflakes visible—barely. A glimmer, like starlight seen through tears.
The first time, you were desperate
Now, you seek control
That is harder
That requires more than will
Zairon exhaled—shaking.
"…What do I do then?"
Elysera tilted her head. For the first time, he sensed no answer in her stillness.
Only mourning.
You keep walking
You break
You rebuild
You remember that mercy… is not cowardice
Her wings unfurled—both of them. The broken one mending, only slightly, only briefly, as light poured outward in quiet radiance.
The fox stood. It felt as if nothing happened. The fox walked to her. And bowed.
She looked down—not at the fox. At Zairon.
You are yet to be finished
I will be there
Again
Waiting at your death...
Then she was gone.
No light. No flare.
Just silence.
Zairon stood there, empty hilt in hand.
Snow falling again like nothing happened.
But something had.
He looked to the fox.
"…You knew her."
The fox said nothing—but its tail curled around his leg.
Zairon sat back down, shaking.
But this time, not from cold.
He wasn't ready to fight gods. Or truths.
But he was ready to keep going.
"... But first. I need to get home."