📕 Chapter 17: The Whisper That Carried Fire
The battlefield lay silent, shrouded in smoke and the scent of blood. The bodies of the Gojo and Zenin leaders were strewn like discarded myths beneath the grey sky. Broken stones whispered old curses. And in the middle of it all… stood Lucius.
> "You were never meant to survive... and yet here you are."
The voice wasn't loud. It didn't come from the wind or the trees — it came from inside, like a memory that wasn't his.
Lucius spun around, eyes wide. "Who… said that?"
But there was no one behind him. Only the shattered altar and cursed energy twitching like dying embers in the air.
High above, atop a crumbling pillar, a cloaked figure appeared. Half-hidden in shadow, they stood like they'd always been there — watching.
"You still hear the voice of the one who raised you," the figure said softly.
Lucius's breath caught. "Master…?"
A pause. Then the voice corrected him.
> "Not him. But what he passed into you…"
Lucius fell to his knees. His body was still trembling — not from the wounds, but from the hollow space where his Master's voice used to be.
> "He's gone," Lucius thought, eyes glassy. "The one person who believed in me…"
His mind took him backward — to the flickering warmth of firelight. He remembered being younger, cold and alone, and the Master kneeling beside him.
> "The world may turn its back on you," Master had said once, "but don't ever turn away from yourself."
Lucius clenched his jaw. A single tear slipped down his cheek.
A gust of cursed wind danced through the battlefield. Petals — black, glowing faintly — floated through the air.
"He lives in you," the cloaked figure said again. "That's why I came."
Lucius stood, fists clenched. "Who are you?! Speak clearly!"
But the figure only stepped closer, just enough to let the flame of their aura illuminate ancient symbols stitched into their robe.
> "Your path was never to follow in his footsteps," they said.
"It was to burn your own."
Then — as suddenly as they came — the figure disappeared in a swirl of mist, leaving behind silence and ashes.
Lucius looked down. The sigil of flame still glowed faintly on his chest. But the weight in his chest wasn't power. It was grief.
> "I wanted answers… but all I got was another burden."
The ground beneath him rumbled.
Far away, deep underground, a sanctuary of black stone pulsed with cursed energy. Inside, twelve thrones sat in a vast circular chamber. Only nine were occupied.
A female Demon Lord with silver eyes raised her head.
> "The boy lives," she said. "The flame is active."
Another Demon Lord, hunched over ancient scrolls, replied coldly. "Then the vessel has begun awakening…"
One of the Lords slammed his clawed hand down. "We must not delay. Kill the vessel before the King returns."
Meanwhile, Lucius stood amidst the remains of the battlefield.
> "I've lost my guide," he thought. "But I haven't lost my fire."
He knelt beside Master's final resting place, where nothing but torn cloth remained. From the robe, he tore a piece and wrapped it around his hand like a vow.
> "You lit the spark… I'll carry the flame."
He turned away from the mountaintop — alone now — and began to walk toward the horizon. A village flickered far away in the mist.
> "One journey ends," the wind seemed to say. "Another begins."
Above him, the sky remained quiet. But if one looked closely — just above the drifting clouds — they would see faint silhouettes.
Twelve. Watching.
Waiting.
In Lucius's eyes, a single ember flickered — a memory, a promise.
And in his mind, his Master's voice echoed once more:
> "You are not cursed.
You are chosen."
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📘 To be continued…