There was light everywhere, and the two hostages screamed as they were purified the moment they crossed into the Gates' reach. Their sins burned away instantly, and their forms dissolved into white motes.
Arthur was not the same. His cleansing started the instant his foot crossed the threshold. It hit him.
Agony.
It was not the kind of pain that tore flesh or shattered bone. It reached deeper into the marrow of his soul as if infinite hooks were stripping it layer by layer, dragging every hidden vice into the open. Arthur's breath caught; his vision warped. The world wavered between blinding white and suffocating black.
In Purgatory, the Gates, vast and ancient, shuddered. Their engraved runes flared once, twice, before dimming under the strain. Light leaked from the seams between the colossal slabs, searing lines like molten veins racing across their surface.
The soul-tearing ritual failed to cleanse him since the realm had now borne the burden of five immortals' karmic cleansing. And how could it? His karma was immovable.
The cracks spread, webbing from the arch's apex, down the towering pillars, and across the stone floor. The sound was deep and wrong, as if something older, something foundational, was crying as it cleansed Arthur.
Arthur staggered, clutching his head, the shrieks left his throat not entirely his own. They were layered, where some were his, while the majority belonged to the countless echoes of those he'd wronged.
He realised this as his end.
"I am sorry— "
The words left him without thought, half-choked, half-sincere.
The Gates exploded like the collapse of a cathedral bound together in one impossible roar.
The white light of the gates of Purgatory drowned Arthur.
The force of the collapse pulled at him, and he fell before he could regain his balance.
Down.
The last thing he saw was the retreating glow of the Gates, their final embers snuffed out. There was only the endless dark below.
It was like drowning.
At first, the dark was weightless, a void without sensation, but then it thickened, pressing against his skin, seeping into his mouth and lungs. He didn't realise the sudden predicament. His limbs thrashed in panic. He felt his heartbeat pounding in his ears; it was faster, desperate in a way he had never known.
The nothingness was now water so cold and crushing that his chest heaved on its own, trying to breathe, only to choke on liquid fire. His mind screamed, but the body was clumsy, untrained, flailing without rhythm.
Above, a dim shimmer swayed like the lights of the Gate. He swam toward it. His every motion was for survival, his lungs burned as if they would burst.
Finally, he breathed for air.
He broke the surface, coughing and gasping, but the sound was not his voice. It was higher, rawer, the gasp of someone young. The lake around him was still, its waters disturbed only by his struggle. Overhead, an unfamiliar blue sky hung.
He dragged himself toward shore. His knees scraped gravel, hands clutching mud. He collapsed forward, retching up mouthful after mouthful of water until the convulsions eased.
Somewhere beyond the haze, a voice broke through.
"Tian'er! Tian'er!"
It was frantic.
He lifted his head slightly, the vision blurring as the world tilted. The call came again, closer now, but his body was already shutting down, shivering as the cold bled into its bones.
Darkness claimed him once more.
In the darkness, a room slowly took shape. The environment was warm, gold-lit, with the murmur of voices and a massive chandelier just beyond a tall mahogany door. Arthur was standing in a private lounge, and the faint buzz of the banquet was spilling in through the door's cracks.
Across from him, a middle-aged woman sat poised, her hair streaked with silver, eyes still sharp yet softened when they met his. He leaned down, pressing a brief kiss to her lips, and a faint scent of jasmine lingered. Her hand brushed his cheek, as if to hold him there, but the sharp trill of his phone cut through the moment.
With a sigh, he stepped back, glancing at the screen. It was a private number. He denied the call, sliding the phone back into his pocket.
"I should attend to a few fellow guests," he murmured.
"Mhm," she replied, a faint smile ghosting her face.
Near the wall, a young man in a perfectly pressed suit stood stiffly; his posture was flawless, but his eyes were restless. Arthur gestured toward him.
"Daniel, why are you standing there alone? Go meet Mr. Wilkins — you have business ideas, don't you?"
"Yes, Father."
"Be careful in conversation… and be confident."
"Yes, Father." The boy gave a crisp nod before vanishing into the crowd.
The hum of the banquet beyond the doors swelled. The banquet room was filled with laughter, cutlery, and the gentle strains of a string quartet. Arthur straightened his tie, smoothed his cufflinks, and stepped into the light. He exchanged pleasantries with a group of gentlemen, drawing a burst of laughter with some remark.
The phone buzzed again.
"Excuse me, gentlemen." He slipped away toward the garden.
Outside, the night air was cooler, carrying the faint scent of roses. He finally answered.
"Ar…thur… t-they… fucked up—"
"What? Hello? You're breaking up—"
"Arthur! Evacuate—!"
The voice cut off.
A deafening explosion came from behind, a bloom of white-orange swallowing the manor behind him in a single, violent breath. The ground buckled beneath him, and a blast of heat surged outward.
And he was thrown flying.
He woke with a sharp gasp, chest heaving. For a heartbeat, he thought the sweat soaking him was the dream's fire clinging to his skin. But as his senses settled, he realized it was a damp cloth on his forehead.
And then came the warmth — steady, real, nothing like the crushing cold of the lake, not the gnawing pain which was the only sensation he felt for thousands of years, a steady, enveloping heat. His senses trickled back one by one. The faint aroma of something herbal and sharp clung to the air, mingling with the soft curl of incense smoke drifting lazily toward a wooden ceiling.
He was lying on a bed, the frame creaking faintly as he shifted. The damp cloth slid off his forehead, falling onto the quilt. His hand rose automatically, pressing against his temple. A headache pulsed. It was disorientation, the weight of too many memories colliding with the strange stillness of the moment.
His eyes wandered downward. His hands… small. The fingers were short, the skin soft and unscarred, nothing like the calloused, blood-stained hands he remembered.
A faint creak sounded beneath him. The bed was protesting the movement — and almost at once, footsteps approached. The door slid open with a muted thunk, and a man stepped inside.
"Tian'er," the man said. His voice was laced with relief and sternness in equal measure.
Arthur froze.
That language — the same flowing tongue the immortals in Purgatory had spoken now rolled effortlessly off the man's lips. The syllables were familiar. And his clothes…
Arthur's gaze ran over him. The loose, layered robes, the tied sash at the waist, the fabric patterned with understated cloud motifs — almost identical to the ceremonial attire he had seen the immortals manifest in Purgatory quite a few times. But here, they were worn like second nature.
Arthur stared at him blankly, his mind trying to close the distance between worlds.
What is going on? He thought.
The man took a step closer, and worry was sharpening his features.
"Tian'er? What's wrong?"
Arthur didn't answer. He just looked at the man, and the more he looked, the more certain he was which world he belonged to now.
The chill in the air, the strange stillness of the street, the very scent of the earth beneath him. All of it was wrong. Or if this was truly the beginning again. His mind sifted through fragments: the banquet, the fire, the explosion, the suffering, and the endless damnation that followed. And now… this. His hands were steady, his breath calm.
He had never been here before. But in this moment, the moment after death and the Purgatory, the truth settled in.
He was alive. This feeling… It was not a dream.
After all these years? A chance?
The thought lingered, heavy as the silence around him. But redemption for a man like him? A man who had built his power on ruin, who had bartered away lives as easily as coins. Redemption was not a simple word.
He could seize it. He could turn from the shadows, rebuild what he had shattered.
In this moment, he thought.
Do I take it? Do I deserve the light of redemption?