The rain hadn't stopped. It had become a way for the night to tell its story—drumming on leaves, slapping the old stone paths, soaking every scar and memory into the bones of the mountain. He felt each drop like an echo, as if the world itself wanted him to remember every mistake, every miracle bought too dearly.
Jun trailed him, silent as a promise kept in the dark. Her hair stuck to her temple, eyes narrowed against the storm, blade hidden but never far from reach. They weren't alone out here—not really. The ruins sprawled around them, old statues hunched and waiting, watching with blank faces as two more outcasts tried their luck against fate and weather.
He adjusted the ruined robe, relic pressed to skin that'd forgotten warmth. Hunger gnawed; exhaustion painted his vision in gray. The world seemed half asleep, but the relic was restless. It pulled him toward the broken altar at the center of the nearest temple ruin, its heat more insistent tonight.
"Why here?" Jun whispered, voice fragile but unafraid.
He shrugged, lips tasting rain. "Feels like it wants something."
She rolled her shoulders, glancing at toppled pillars. "Everything in this mountain wants something."
He knelt, letting mud stain his knees, thumb skimming along the carved stone. Old prayers, mostly eroded, some still sharp—wishes for fortune, love, revenge. All gone. All paid for.
Thunder snapped. The relic flared—hot, then cold, then so sharp he winced. He pressed hands to the altar, whispered a dare or a plea.
Nothing. Then—pain. Real pain. Like a knife behind the eyes, gut squeezed dry.
He gasped, seeing flashes not his own: men and women with faces twisted from hope to horror, relics burning holes in their palms. A promise. A wound. A curse, old and new.
Jun cast a glance over her shoulder, body ready. "Something's watching."
He felt it too—low, crawling dread. At the far end of the ruin, figures flickered and faded. Not ghosts, but desperate living. Outcasts, bandits, black-clad, huddled for warmth and rumor.
The relic pulsed. He bit his tongue hard enough to taste copper.
From the shadows stepped a woman, hair braided tight, eyes sharp with exhaustion and desperate hope. She wore three relics—each battered, each pulsing an uneasy light.
"You," she said—a word like accusation, like prayer. "Give me yours."
Shivering, he met her glare. "Why?"
Her lips twisted. "Because you can't carry all their hopes alone. Because some of us died for less."
Jun stood firm beside him. "We all paid. Some just aren't finished."
He flexed his tired fingers. The relic burned. He let the pain creep in, begged it: not for a weapon, not for escape—just something to stake his place.
A blinding burst—metal flooding his hand. Not a sword, not a staff—this time, a knife, black as midnight, marked in symbols bleeding silver. Its edge hummed with every promise he'd broken.
A ripple of awe swept the ruin. The woman eyed the blade like it held her future—fear, hunger, regret.
"You cut fate with that?" she whispered.
He shook his head, dazed. "I cut myself, mostly."
Behind her, other outcasts pressed closer—faces rimed with hunger, hope shining in every bruise.
He understood. The relic wanted a crowd tonight. It wanted history.
He raised the knife, voice scraping the storm. "I'm not your savior. I'm just the lightning after the prayer failed."
Jun stepped beside him, eyes storm-bright, blade at the ready. For a moment, the world narrowed to rain, bones, and all the ugly parts of survival.
"Take it," he said, offering the relic-blade. "But take the price too."
The woman hesitated. Then, with trembling hands, she gripped the knife. It flared, hissed, bit deep—her cry a jagged lightning strike.
A moment later, she stood taller. Some pain carved into her, but something else too—strength, hope, the will to keep going.
The others watched, hungry for miracles. Some reached, some recoiled. He lowered his hand, the relic sagged in his chest, weak but proud.
Jun pressed a steady hand to his shoulder. "We won't sleep tonight."
He choked a laugh, half to forget the misery. "Didn't mean to win their faith."
"Survival's just another god," she answered, voice gentle.
As the rain thickened and the mountain shrugged off another storm, he knew he'd started something—a rumor, a rebellion, maybe a home for those damn fools who chased relics instead of mercy.
The night crawled toward dawn, each heartbeat a bargain: pain for hope, weakness for belonging, every price paid in the blood and memory of the never-quite-lost.
Somewhere in the ruins, old gods watched, no longer angry, maybe even curious.
He leaned against the altar, Jun at his side, outcasts sheltering close. The relic thrummed, quiet now, promises spent for tonight.
Let tomorrow bring its storms. Let history remember their names—the ones who bled for miracles and learned to forgive themselves enough to fight another day.