"As expected."
Nyx stepped back from the invisible wall, face unreadable. The barrier remained untouched—impenetrable as ever.
He made his way back toward the village, silent, alone. The group and several demons stood waiting. The moment they saw him return—empty-handed, unchanged—they understood.
He hadn't made it through.
"…It's alright, human," Gataar offered, trying to keep the hope alive. But his eyes betrayed him. "We'll find a way. There must be one."
But the silence didn't last.
Murmurs bloomed like weeds among the crowd.
"Is that the human the prophecy spoke of?" one demon sneered, arms crossed.
"Wasn't he supposed to open the world?" another scoffed. "If he's that weak, even I could be the prophesied one."
The words stung—not because they were wrong, but because Nyx let them land. He stood there, letting the disdain brush past him like wind. No retaliation. No smirk. Just a single glance at Gataar—then he walked away, brushing past Samantha without a word.
She didn't stop him.
The others looked to her, waiting. But she only gave them a slight shake of the head. And they followed her instead.
---
Nyx didn't stop moving. Not until he was deep in the village again—ignoring every demon who gave him a wide berth, averted their eyes, or whispered in his wake.
Eventually, he ran into Tara.
"Chieftain's house," she said quietly. Her voice was small, but not afraid.
Nyx gave a nod and moved. He didn't knock. Just opened the door.
Inside, the chieftain's home was in chaos. Scrolls and books were strewn across the floor. Cabinets left open. Artifacts knocked aside. Gataar, the composed leader from before, was bent over a pile of ancient junk, digging through it like a desperate man.
"You seem desperate," Nyx said flatly, stepping inside.
Gataar jolted, looked up. "Ah—my apologies for the mess," he said, standing quickly. "I was trying to find something that might help with the barrier. I didn't realize I'd torn the place apart."
But Nyx didn't come to make small talk.
"I want to know something," he said, eyes hard.
Gataar straightened fully, reading the shift in tone. "Yes?"
"What's this prophecy your people keep talking about?"
No preamble. No dancing around it. Nyx's voice was like a blade to the ribs—sharp, cold, precise.
Gataar hesitated for a breath. Then another. And finally… sighed.
"…It's not some thousand-year-old tale passed down from gods," he said. "It's only a few centuries old. But it began during one of the few moments of real peace this world's ever seen."
He turned, facing the scattered mess behind him like it was a mirror to his own memories.
"All the races came together once," Gataar continued. "Even the demons. We forged a pact—an unbreakable law. No matter the hatred, no matter the war… none of us were to ever annihilate another race completely."
Nyx said nothing.
"To enforce it, we created a divine seal. A piece of it was given to every race. We split our promise into parts—so that no one race could ever unmake it."
He paused, a bitter look crossing his face.
"Peace held. For a time. Until the humans shattered it."
Nyx's expression didn't shift—but the silence around him grew colder.
"Four hundred years ago, your people declared war on ours. Not alone. They brought two other races with them. Together, you didn't just try to win. You tried to erase us."
Gataar laughed—dry and broken.
"And that's when the prophecy came. That someday, a man would arrive… carrying the original seal. He would unite what was broken. Not just the world, but its memory."
He looked at Nyx now.
"The Cloth of the Ancient—that was our piece of the seal. And when it reacted to you, when it merged with the artifact you carry… I won't lie. It was the first time in four hundred years we dared to believe again."
Nyx's jaw clenched—but only faintly.
"…And yet," Gataar continued, "can you blame my people for their hatred? Even now, after everything, your kind paints us as savages. Monsters. Creatures of war."
He stepped closer, voice trembling with restraint.
"But it was your greed for power that led to all of this. Your fear of our blood. Our strength. You saw us not as equals, but as threats."
He bowed—not like a servant. Not like a coward. But like someone asking not for forgiveness, but for understanding.
"We don't ask for much. Only that the peace we once fought to create… is allowed to exist again."
Nyx stared at him for a long moment.
Then, slowly, his lips moved.
"…And you think I'm the one meant to fix it?"
Gataar looked up. "I don't know. But I know this—when the cloth fused with you, when that thing in your possession pulsed like it did—something changed. I felt it. And so did you."
And Nyx… didn't deny it.
"What if I'm not the one you're waiting for?"
Nyx's voice cut through the quiet like a whisper through smoke. There was no bravado in it—just the smallest crack of uncertainty beneath the steel.
Gataar didn't answer immediately. He just looked at the floor for a long, heavy moment before breathing out a tired smile—one that didn't reach his eyes.
"Then we wait," he said quietly. "We've already reached the point where our bloodline won't last more than a century or two. If you're not the one… then we hold out until someone else comes. Or we fade. Into legend. Into dust. Forgotten."
He stood up, slower this time. No pride. No posture. Just weariness… and the stubborn flicker of hope.
"We were a people too, Nyx," he said, locking eyes with him. "We had families. Children. Homes. Laughter. And we watched it all burn. Watched them die—slaughtered like cattle while we begged for mercy that never came."
His voice didn't rise. Didn't shake. It was steady. Controlled—too controlled.
"Tell me—could you stay rational if the person you loved most… was killed in front of you?"
That silence returned. Nyx didn't flinch. Didn't blink. But he didn't speak either.
Because he knew.
He had lived it.
He'd watched Sarah die, her eyes filled with pain and betrayal, and he'd been powerless to stop it. He had felt that rage—that madness. He had let it devour him.
And so… he understood. Without a word, Nyx stepped forward and placed a hand on Gataar's shoulder.
"I don't know if I'm the man you've been waiting for," he said, voice calm now. Grounded. "But I'll try. That's all I can promise."
He turned, walking away—just as quietly as he'd come. But right before the door closed behind him, he paused. Just for a heartbeat.
"…Hang on to that hope. A little longer."
And then—he left. But his final words still lingered in the air, soft but heavy:
"Farewell… friend."
---
Samantha stood at the edge of the forest, arms crossed, her expression unreadable. The rest of the group stood just behind her, the air thick with anticipation.
Then, finally—he came.
Nyx stepped out of the shadows like he'd always belonged there, silent as the wind. No words, no gestures—but the look he gave Samantha was enough.
She nodded subtly. She'd received his signal the moment he returned from the temple. It wasn't spoken. Didn't need to be.
Orders were already understood.
Nyx's gaze swept across the group, sharp and measured.
"You all ready?"
A chorus of nods. No one spoke.
"Good," he said simply.
"We're leaving."
And with that, he turned, heading back toward the temple—the same one he'd failed to enter that morning.
No one questioned him. They just followed. But of course, Valon couldn't keep his mouth shut forever.
As they moved under the moonlight, boots crunching over gravel and silence pressing in from the trees, he finally muttered:
"…Didn't you already fail? Why bother playing messiah for people who don't even know basic hospitality?"
The jab was sharp, the tone pure Valon—irritated to his bones.
Nyx didn't stop. Didn't flinch. He just kept walking.
Until— A smirk cracked the cold mask he wore.
"Who said I failed?"