The ash fell slowly over the dead bodies, like the rain of the world's final hour.
No sound remained except the whisper of the wind crawling across the scorched earth.
In the middle of the ruin, Syran stood silently, his expression wavering between anger and disbelief.
His body was covered in wounds, his clothes torn apart, but his eyes stayed locked on the figure lying before him — Novan.
The shadow that had cloaked Novan began to fade, leaving behind cracked skin as if it had been born from fire.
His breathing was slow… but still there.
> "He's still alive…"
Syran muttered as he took a cautious step closer.
Behind him, two men emerged from the smoke — one was broad-shouldered, carrying a rusty axe on his back; the other had a single glowing eye.
> The One-Eyed Man: "Should we finish him off? If he wakes, he'll kill us all."
Syran: "No. Not yet."
The Giant: "But the curse inside him is still active… even the ground trembles around him!"
Syran (calmly): "If it wanted you dead, you'd already be ash."
He knelt beside Novan, placing his fingers on his neck.
The pulse beneath was strange — irregular, like a broken melody from another world.
Syran raised his head and spoke in a tone that was more command than request:
> "Bind him. Use blood chains, not iron. Iron cannot hold a pulse."
He raised his palm and slit his thumb with a dagger. Blood burst from the wound as if alive.
It quickly twisted into thin, glowing crimson threads that wrapped around Novan's arms and legs — until real chains formed, pulsing in rhythm with his breath.
> The One-Eyed Man (whispering): "They're… moving!"
Syran: "Anything born from the Pulse… lives — even if made of my blood."
---
Hours later, they walked in a crooked line through the gray plains.
The sky was colorless, the earth lifeless.
Novan lay chained on an old wooden cart, and the blood-forged links around him whispered faintly with each heartbeat.
> The Giant: "Why carry him with us? He's dead weight, Syran."
Syran (without turning): "You saw what he did in battle. You think I'd leave that kind of power to rot in the dust?"
The One-Eyed Man: "Power? He's a walking curse!"
Syran: "A curse is only what you believe it to be. Some worship it… others use it."
The Giant (gritting his teeth): "And you? Which are you?"
Syran (faint smile): "Me? I'm the one trying to balance both — before one consumes the world."
Silence fell. Only the cart's wheels grinding over the dirt could be heard, and the wind sweeping over the stone statues.
One by one, they appeared — human statues, frozen in grotesque poses: some screaming, some shielding their faces, others reaching toward the sky as if begging for mercy.
> The One-Eyed Man (uneasy): "Every time I pass through here… I swear these statues still watch us."
The Giant (quietly): "They had souls once. Look at their eyes… some still hold tears."
Syran (softly): "They didn't die. The Pulse only stripped away their movement… left them waiting for an end."
The One-Eyed Man: "You call this waiting? They're just petrified dust!"
Syran (looking at him): "And you? How many times have you thought yourself alive — when you're just dust that walks?"
The One-Eyed Man fell silent, his face pale. Syran's words struck deeper than he'd expected.
---
By sunset, they reached the camp — a dimly lit place surrounded by walls made of bone and black stone.
The air was thick with the scent of old blood, and the ground seemed to breathe.
Men and women moved silently, some marked with strange symbols, others wearing clay masks covering half their faces.
> The Giant (in a low voice): "The camp's full… you really plan to bring that thing inside?"
Syran: "No one touches him without my command."
They entered a large tent at the center of the camp.
Syran ordered Novan to be placed inside, then sat beside him, watching his face — still dusted with ash.
> Syran (low voice): "If you were just a weapon, your curse would've consumed you long ago… there's something else inside you, isn't there?"
Silence.
Then, as if speaking to himself, he continued:
> "Five years ago, when the world began to fall apart, the first Pulse appeared. We thought it was a miracle… until it started devouring cities."
"Now, only a few survivors remain — each carrying a fragment of the curse in their own way."
A woman entered the tent. Her hair was short, her eyes the color of ash.
> The Woman: "Commander, the third unit returned from the north. They found remains of a city."
Syran: "Any survivors?"
The Woman: "Only echoes of voices… and blood turned to crystal."
Her gaze drifted toward Novan.
> The Woman: "Who is he?"
Syran: "Maybe the cause… or maybe the cure."
> The Woman (mocking laugh): "You always say that. And every time, we lose another one of us."
Syran: "That's why I keep trying."
He gestured for her to leave.
Then sat alone beside Novan as the night thickened outside.
> Syran (whispering): "You know… I saw that look in your eyes before you fell. The look of someone who's lost everything… yet still refuses to die."
"If you can survive your curse… maybe you're exactly what we need."
A faint pulse echoed in the air.
Novan stirred — barely — as if his body was responding to a voice Syran couldn't hear.
The tent trembled slightly; the chains around him flickered red, then fell silent.
> Syran (exhaling slowly): "No… it's not over yet."
He stepped out of the tent, leaving Novan amid the ash and chains — while the Pulse inside his chest began to beat once more.
Not as a heartbeat… but as a summon.