"Truth is mysterious, elusive—always to be conquered. Liberty is dangerous, as hard to live with as it is elating. We must march toward these two goals, painfully but resolutely, certain in advance of our failings on so long a road."
Noah's heart tightened with dread. He feared what might lie on the next pages, knowing deep down it would be beyond anything he could imagine. These words weren't just a chronicle of the past—they felt like a warning.
And he wished—desperately—that this was just a story. A myth, born from an author's imagination.
But it wasn't.
With a slow breath, he turned the page, narrowing his eyes and scanning the symbols. He checked his index, translating each line with growing intensity.
The passage before him described what once had been a utopia.
An advanced civilization called Azalon, on the planet known as Azyloth.
"So that's what it means…" he whispered. "Azyloth. What a unique name… but bearing such heavy meaning."
He continued reading, each line revealing more of a world that once thrived in brilliance. He was captivated by their achievements. The people of Azalon had succeeded where Earth had failed.
They had united as one nation beneath a single banner. Their world was millennia older than Earth, and in that time, they had transcended hunger, division, and dogma.
They had surpassed all the mundane problems of civilization.
They had built a perfect society—one where everyone lived in harmony, looking forward to a bright and unified future. The cities were in balance with nature: hanging gardens bloomed from every tier, towers pierced the sky, and fountains spilled endlessly into clear aqueducts. Water wasn't scarce on the planet—they had mastered its flow and purpose.
Even the colors of their buildings were in harmony with the landscape. No pollution. No selfish exploitation of resources. All worked toward a single, shared goal.
Physically, they weren't too different from humans. They had humanoid forms: two arms, two legs. But they stood taller, more statuesque—the average height reaching nearly three meters. Their skin was pale, almost luminescent white, and their necks slightly elongated with a natural elegance.
Long blond hair and piercing blue eyes were the norm among them, giving them a look both regal and serene.
The illustration on the page captured them in exquisite detail—beings of grace and intellect, carved in ink with such intricacy it almost seemed to breathe.
"Ah… what a beautiful civilization and beings," Noah whispered. "It makes me wonder how they could just vanish… and become those abominations."
A wave of mixed emotions passed through him—awe, sorrow, and unease.
He continued reading, drawn deeper into the memory of what once had been a heaven-like civilization. The texts described their way of life: elegant cities, a unified culture, an advanced system of education and philosophy. Their faith was centered around divine beings they referred to as the Seven Kings—the same figures immortalized in the statues at the entrance of the chamber.
The Seven were not only worshiped as gods, but also revered as protectors, guiding their people through wisdom and strength.
And yet, the scripts never detailed what exactly caused their downfall. There was no clear moment of destruction—only a hint, woven through the lines:
Azyloth was an elder world, living beneath a dying sun.
They were already facing extinction.
"So that explains the huge white sun…" Noah murmured. "That must've been the system's original star. Interesting."
With such a rich culture and advanced technology, they could've found a new home—or many.
Noah paused, wondering.
"They must've had an attachment to their home…" he murmured. "That's something I wouldn't understand."
A soft breath escaped him.
But as they say—your home is wherever your beloved ones are…
The words hit harder than he expected.
All his beloved ones were gone.
Which meant… he had no place left to belong.
Shaking the thought away before it swallowed him, Noah refocused on the scripts. He kept digging through the lines, flipping pages with urgency. One thing stood out: the descriptions of the Seven Kings.
They weren't treated as distant myths or symbolic gods. The texts described them like living beings—entities the Azalonians had once communicated with directly.
This wasn't a faith built on hope. It was a history of miracles.
One phrase caught his eye—so vivid it almost glowed on the page:
"The Primordials sent the Seven to teach and guide us, but we were ungrateful. We lost our blessings."
The line echoed with grief and reverence. It referred to the same calamity that had ended Azalon—but once again, the details were missing.
As if someone—or something—had erased them.
Noah turned his gaze toward the giant gate. The mural carved into its surface depicted something vast, cosmic… but not exact.
No matter how closely he studied it, no detail revealed how the catastrophe began or what truly happened.
"Nothing!" he muttered in frustration. "There's nothing about the catastrophe. All I know is that the Five were… some kind of evil entities the Azalonians faced…"
He ran a hand through his hair.
"This is so damn tiring… but still—I've made some progress. I guess."
With that, Noah closed the book gently and rose to his feet.
It was time to explore the cathedral again.
Maybe—just maybe—there was something still hidden, waiting to be found.
Noah walked through the giant hall of the cathedral, still mesmerized by the towering architecture and exquisite craftsmanship. The air within was still—not cold like the tunnels outside, but unnaturally calm.
By his estimation, he had spent one full night and day inside the cathedral. Yet, he felt no hunger… no thirst.
The realization stirred something uneasy in him.
Am I still human?
His shadow trailed beside him as always—silent, flickering in rhythm with the pulsing blue veins of the chamber walls. Noah muttered idly to it, half-serious, half to himself.
"I'd give anything to walk through Azalon in its prime… Just a single conversation with one of their scholars. That's all."
As expected, the shadow gave no reply.
He came to a stop in front of the seven statues—the Kings carved in immortal stone. He studied them closely now, drawn in by their features, the fine lines in their armor, the expressions frozen in both power and peace.
There was something about them… something achingly familiar. That same strange feeling he'd been carrying since entering the chamber tightened in his chest.
"Saviors, huh…" he whispered. "What kind of saviors couldn't save their people?"
He ran his fingers along the nearest sculpture, tracing the ancient artistry.
"I guess you're not so different from the bozos back home..."
The four male statues stood tall—etched with strength, valor, and divine authority. Their armor was complex, layered in ceremonial plates, their poses proud and vigilant.
The three female statues exuded warmth and serenity. They wore lighter, flowing armor—leather that embraced their forms rather than masked them. Each cradled a glowing blue orb in her hands, held like a sacred flame.
Noah's eyes lingered on the orbs. He frowned.
"What are you hiding?"
He reached out and placed his hand on one of the glowing spheres. The light intensified at his touch.
The statue trembled.
A rumble echoed from within.
Dust rained down as ancient gears groaned to life. Then, with a slow, deliberate motion, the statue split—stone sliding against stone—revealing the entrance to another hidden chamber, buried behind the monument all along.
Noah turned to his shadow with a smirk.
"See? I knew it. I knew there had to be something else hidden here!"
"Guess I learned something from all those Indiana Jones movies…"
Excitement surged through him—for a moment, he felt like some kind of adventurer stumbling into a long-lost tomb.
With cautious steps, he entered the narrow passage. The tunnel was dim and narrow, leading him into yet another hidden chamber.
The air was still—unnaturally still. Dust blanketed every surface like a burial shroud.
The room was small, intimate. More like a living room than a sacred vault. And there, gathered around a long stone table, sat five skeletons, slumped in silence. Plates and glasses still rested before them, untouched for what could have been millennia.
Noah's breath caught. He stood motionless, eyes scanning the scene.
"These were the ones who stayed behind…" he whispered.
"Not to fight, but to remember."
He took a step closer, his voice hollow.
"They knew they wouldn't survive. So they wrote… until they couldn't."
His gaze lingered on one skeleton with a broken quill in hand, as if it had died mid-sentence.
"Their story died with them."
For a moment, he couldn't help but wonder:
Would this have been my fate… if I'd stayed on Earth?
He had survived five years of war, chaos, and plague. He had fought off the infected, evaded the apostles' followers, endured loss.
But the question still lingered—was this what awaited him in the end anyway?
Alone. Forgotten. A rotting corpse in some forsaken chamber of time.
He shook the thought off. Dwelling on ghosts wouldn't change the past.
Noah began checking every corner of the room for clues—anything that might explain what had truly happened here. But again, he found nothing. It was as if someone—or something—had gone to great lengths to ensure the truth stayed buried.
Then, his eyes caught something.
In the skeletal hand of the figure seated at the center of the table—a letter.
The figure wore the faded remains of elegant robes, the kind that spoke of status and leadership.
With a grimace, Noah carefully pried the brittle bones apart and retrieved the parchment.
To his surprise, the letter was almost perfectly preserved. The material was unlike any paper he'd seen before. He couldn't help but wonder what kind of civilization could create something so fragile, yet enduring.
He sat at the table beside the remains, holding the letter gently, reverently.
With slow precision, he began to translate the symbols, cross-checking them with his index—one word at a time, ensuring no meaning was lost.
**"I am Aerion Solthar,
Leader of Azalon's Council.
Protector of the Seed.
One of the pioneers.
This is the will of the last of us… or perhaps, all of us.
We lived with our heads turned toward the stars. We followed the righteous path.
We reached beyond the void and survived for millennia—thriving through unity, peace, and purpose.
But when our great end arrived, we made mistakes.
We invited Chaos and Void into our home.
And in doing so, we were forsaken by the Seven Kings.
Yet we held our promise.
We protected the Seed.
We, the Azalonians, saved the Seed of Creation from the hands of the Five Apostles.
We hid it—for the one worthy of grasping its power.
The one who would carry our will, bear our sorrow, and correct our sins.
Make no mistake—the Apostles will come for you.
They will wear many shapes.
They will come as friends.
As family.
As those you once loved.
But the worthy one shall overcome.
The fate of the realms depends on it.
Oh, I cry for you…
Oh, I fear for you…
We vanish now, into nothingness, for what we've done.
But may your end be different from ours.
We who stayed."**
Noah stared at the letter, unmoving. The words clung to him—heavy as stone, sharp as loss.
This wasn't just a message.
It was a scream—echoing across time.
A last plea from a vanished world.
And somehow… it felt like it had been written for him.
His grief—once vast and consuming—now felt small against the weight of it all.
He wasn't just wandering a dead world anymore.
He was walking through the aftermath of a cosmic tragedy.
A legacy had been passed to him.
And the fight was far from over.
He looked around at the skeletons—silent, slouched, fragile. Their lives had ended with purpose still burning in their hearts. They had chosen to witness the end, to preserve memory instead of flee from death.
And now… they were part of the dust.
A quiet heaviness settled in his chest. He couldn't just walk away.
Noah moved slowly, gently lifting each brittle frame from its chair. One by one, he laid them side by side on the chamber floor. Reverently. Respectfully.
In a corner, he found what remained of old linens—too decayed to be of use, but just enough to cover them. He draped the fabric across their forms like a makeshift shroud.
"I know it's not much," he murmured. "But maybe it's a kind of closure… for all the waiting."
He knelt beside them for a long moment, resting his hand over the letter.
"I can't promise I'll fulfill your will. Hell, I don't even know what I'm doing most days…"
He let out a breath.
"But if I get the chance… I'll follow your path."
It wasn't just pity he felt for them anymore—it was admiration. They had lived with purpose. They had chosen meaning over survival. And now, through that final act, they had given him direction.
In many ways, Azyloth wasn't so different from Earth.
Both had reached for greatness.
Both had fallen.
Both had left behind whispers of what might have been.
Noah folded the letter carefully and tucked it into the inner pocket of his coat. Then he rose to his feet, casting one last look at the five forgotten scholars.
"Goodbye," he whispered.
There was nothing left to uncover here.
The answers he needed now lay beyond these ancient walls.
He stepped out of the hidden chamber, reentering the cathedral's vast hall. The vaulted ceiling loomed above like a cathedral built for gods, silent and waiting. Shadows danced in rhythm with the pulsing blue light embedded in the architecture.
He approached the center of the room once more.
The massive machine—the Seed of Creation—still floated on its suspended dais, humming with silent power. He could feel it watching him. Waiting. Breathing.
He didn't need confirmation. He knew it.
This was the power Aerion had written about. The source. The hope. The danger.
A shell wrapped around a storm.
A prison containing the last light of creation.
He stepped closer, eyes locked on the core as it pulsed with blue luminescence. It was beautiful… and terrifying.
"I'm not sure of anything anymore," he whispered.
"What if they were wrong? What if I'm not the one?"
He took a slow step back.
"I don't belong here. Not yet."
He turned, leaving the machine untouched—for now.
There was still more of this world to understand. And if he had learned anything in the last few hours, it was that knowledge was the only way forward.
He gathered his things: his worn bag, the Sibylline Book, the knives he'd forged from the severed limb of the night-dweller.
The cathedral's air felt heavier now. Not with dust—but with expectation.
He had come seeking refuge. He had found legacy. But peace was not part of the gift he'd been given.
And outside… something was waiting.