Carving Valley, which had only just begun to glow again, was now shrouded in a darkness thicker than night. The ancestral stones trembled, as if refusing to be forgotten again. But Kelam didn't come to fight. He came to freeze. To erase.
Yohwa stood in the center of the stone circle, his armor cracked, his hammer glowing faintly. He could feel resonance from the stones around him, but the light was fading. Kelam absorbed it slowly, like a wound swallowing hope.
"Light is not yours," Kelam whispered from the mist. "It is an illusion. A memory that should die."
Yohwa closed his eyes. He didn't answer with words. He answered with memory.
He remembered his father, carving stone with trembling hands but a steady heart. He remembered Numa, who always believed carving was a prayer. He remembered the night the cracked stone glowed, and his body changed. He remembered fear, loss, and hope.
And from within him, light emerged. Not blinding light, but warm light. Light that refused to die.
His armor sealed itself. His hammer burned bright. The stones around him responded, sending resonance into his body. He was no longer alone. He was the echo of all who had ever remembered.
Kelam moved forward, his form shifting into a human silhouette, but his eyes remained hollow. He attacked, and his mist wrapped around Yohwa. But this time, Yohwa didn't fight with strength. He fought with the courage to remember.
Each strike of his hammer wasn't meant to destroy, but to awaken. The stones that had turned black began to glow again. Villagers who had forgotten their names began to remember. Children spoke the names of their ancestors. Old prayers were heard once more.
Kelam screamed. His voice wasn't rage—it was pain. He wasn't an enemy. He was a wound left alone too long.
Yohwa stepped forward. He didn't raise his hammer to strike. He extended his hand.
"Light is not here to defeat you," he said. "Light is here to remember you."
The mist stopped moving. Kelam looked at Yohwa's hand. And for the first time, his eyes weren't empty. He cried.
Carving Valley glowed. The stones sang. And Yohwa stood among them—not as a hero, but as a guardian.
Light never dies. It only waits to be remembered.