The low, baritone hum echoed across the broken school.
It came from no direction—and from every direction at once. A resonant sound, like it had been buried beneath the earth for centuries and now, finally, was clawing its way up through the soil to be heard.
The sound wasn't loud.
But it held weight.
The moment it touched the air, the students froze.
Their knees buckled, one after another, as if an invisible hand had reached into their spines and plucked free their strength. A boy sobbed once before collapsing, his forehead pressed to the dirt. A girl near him fell onto all fours, screaming—not from fear, but grief so vast she could no longer contain it.
"Make it stop—please make it stop—!" someone wailed.
"Why does it hurt so much—why does it hurt?!"
Burngear dropped to his knees. He clutched at his head as his mechanical eyes surged with light—blue, red, yellow, red again—ike a kaleidoscope of fractured memories tearing through him.
"Make it stop—MAKE IT STOP—!"
He slammed his fists into the ground hard enough to crater the stone beneath them, his voice shaking with rage and sorrow so profound it didn't sound like one boy—it sounded like three, all screaming from different timelines at once.
Kharon gritted his teeth.
His spears clattered to the floor beside him as he dropped into a crouch, both hands gripping his temples. He wept.
Not loud. Not wild.
But steadily.
Unwillingly.
Unstoppably.
Only Fang stood.
Eyes closed. Back straight. The song wrapped around him like an old shawl. Yet—
Tears still traced down his cheeks.
Silently.
Steadily.
Sorrow without resistance.
Because he knew this song.
Because he had once sung it too.
Around them, the monsters stopped attacking. Their elongated limbs twitched, and one by one, they lifted their arms again—not to strike, but to press against their chests. They sang, joining the deep baritone in perfect harmony.
And then—
From the highest roof of the school, where the shattered bell tower still stood tall despite all else crumbling—
A figure emerged.
He did not float.
He did not shimmer.
He simply walked, as though he had always been there.
An old man.
Mid-sixties, perhaps older. Hair long, tied at the back like a scholar. His black square glasses glinted in the dusk light, masking kind eyes that smiled before his lips even did. He wore a robe of pure white—untouched by dust or time or blood. His posture was warm. Open.
He looked not like a king.
Not like a prophet.
But like a father welcoming his children home.
And he smiled.
"Priest of Ember!" he called out, voice full of joy and familiarity, arms outstretched like he was about to descend and embrace an old friend. "It is so good to see you!"
Fang's smile broke through his tears.
"Father Ruin…!" he called back, his voice breathy with emotion. "I am happy to see you well!"
The students, the Doctor, Burngear, Kharon—they all stared.
At the scene unfolding in front of them like something out of a forgotten myth. The monsters continued to hum, swaying slightly, as if in prayer. The children dared not breathe.
The old man clasped his hands together, eyes twinkling.
"My, my. You've aged so gracefully. What are you eating? Steak? Fish? Perhaps some vegetables?"
Fang let out a quiet laugh, the first real laugh since the rescue.
"Warm stew, mostly."
"Mmm. Mortal comforts. You never did grow out of them." Father Ruin wiped an invisible tear from his eye, as if touched by the sentiment.
"And you?" Fang asked. "Still preaching the apocalypse?"
"Oh, only every third Tuesday now." He waved it off. "The older I get, the more I find comfort in repetition. And… well… the world is ending."
"Isn't it always?"
"Ahh. Yes." He smiled like a man who had seen the end of time and found it quaint.
They stood there—
Two men, bathed in sorrowful light.
Not enemies.
Not yet.
Just two souls who had once shared the same fire.
Their laughter echoed across the school's broken stone and blood-soaked gardens. It wasn't manic or mocking—it was warm. Genuine. As if, for a moment, the decades between them had been no more than a passing breath.
Father Ruin clapped softly, a sound that seemed to echo too long in the still air.
"Ah… your sense of duty," he said with a fond smile. "Still unyielding. It makes my old heart sing."
His eyes glistened—not with madness, but pride.
"To see you fight again… to see you protect again… It reminds me that maybe, just maybe, the world I seek to save… still holds such beautiful people."
Fang bowed his head slightly, touched despite the weight behind the words.
"I'm grateful," he murmured. "Truly. To see one whose convictions have not wavered in the face of despair… I'm glad you've endured, old friend."
Their voices lowered into reverence, a strange hush falling upon the battlefield.
But then—
The air grew colder.
A gentle frost brushed the wind. The students shivered. Even the monsters—those dreadful, towering mutations—stilled, as if awaiting a verdict.
Father Ruin's smile softened. Still kind. Still familiar.
But… now tinged with something deeper.
Disappointment.
"I had hoped to save these children," he said, tone quieter, almost wistful. "As I had saved their parents."
Fang's reply came just as softly, carried by the dying wind.
"And I… had hoped to carry their burden for them."
Their eyes closed.
Neither flinched.
Neither blinked.
But there, in silence, was the answer.
Father Ruin smiled once more. Beaming, even.
"Thank you, Priest of Ember. I knew I could always rely on you."
And then—
The monsters began to rise.
One by one, the mutants unfurled their limbs and turned away from the school, drifting into the air like fragile ashes caught on invisible strings. Their broken bodies reformed as they flew, glowing faintly as they returned to him—drawn like moths to flame, their song fading into a singular, final note.
He turned with them.
Walking slowly.
The last to leave.
But before he stepped off the ledge, he paused. His robe fluttered in the wind, white against the bloodstained roof.
"When it's time to end this world…" he said, not looking back, voice like a memory carved into stone, "…I hope your hand is on my shoulder, not my throat, my friend."
And then he was gone.
Only silence remained.