When heaven cries, the horror wakes,
And feeds upon the pain it makes.
Your fate is set, no one can sway,
The end you bring shall come your way.
You'll dress your own final bed,
And crown your coffin's face with red.
A fiery eye, born from flame,
Shall fall upon you — death its claim.
When rain pours down and shadows creep,
Your soul will drift to endless sleep.
Beyond this world, where none remain,
You'll find your peace through your own pain.
A cold breeze swept through the ruins, brushing past both Nocturo and Ignis like the whisper
of death itself. Ignis stood tall now—his posture unyielding, his eyes burning with vengeance
so fierce it could set the rain aflame.
As he took a step forward, the air thickened, the atmosphere growing heavier with every
breath. The world seemed to hold its breath. Then—plop—a single droplet of rain kissed
Ignis's cheek. Another followed. And then a thousand more.
The rain descended in torrents, veiling the battlefield in a trembling curtain of silver. Each
droplet shimmered against the faint light, tracing paths down Ignis's face, through his hair,
across his lips—mixing with the blood that still seeped from his wounds. The crimson and
the rain merged, dripping from his chin with a slow, rhythmic drop... drop... drop... that
echoed like a death knell.
Ignis's silhouette, framed by the storm, looked nothing short of feral—like a wounded wolf
ready to tear apart the world that wronged him. His eyes gleamed through the haze,
unblinking, wild, and unrelenting.
Across from him, Nocturo's once-commanding presence faltered. His blue kimono clung to
his body, drenched and heavy, the rain dimming its luster. His chains hung loose at his sides,
lifeless for the first time. His eyes widened—not with anger, but with something far rarer for a
Hellborne.
Fear.
Rain hammered against the shattered earth as Ignis lunged forward, fury blazing in his eyes.
His fist collided with Nocturo's arm, and with a thunderous crack, the Hellborne's limb
disintegrated in an instant—flesh, bone, and blood scattering into the storm.
Before Nocturo could even react, Ignis spun, his leg slicing through the air like a blade. His
kick slammed into Nocturo's spine, the impact echoing through the drenched ruins. Nocturo's
body split apart, torn cleanly in two, crashing lifelessly to the ground.
For a fleeting moment, silence ruled. The rain softened its rhythm, as though the heavens
themselves were stunned. Ignis stood amidst the wreckage, his chest heaving, his figure
illuminated by the flashes of lightning. He looked… different. Stronger. The arm he had
lost—the one cut off only hours ago—was whole again, its surface glowing faintly with veins
of crimson light beneath the skin. It wasn't merely restored… it was reborn.
Ignis stared at his hand for a moment, bewildered, then turned toward the fallen Hellborne.
Determination hardened his face once more. Step by step, he advanced toward Nocturo's
severed head, rain streaming down his hair and face.
But before he could take another breath, the impossible happened.
Nocturo's flesh quivered. His broken remains began to stitch themselves back together,
muscles snaking and twisting, bones reforming with grotesque precision. In a blink, the
Hellborne's body was whole again—his expression now one of both fear and disbelief.
Ignis froze. He struck again—splitting Nocturo's chest open. Then again—tearing through his
side. Again, and again, and again. Each time the same result. Every wound sealed. Every
limb reformed. The creature refused to die.
"You don't know… do you?" Nocturo's trembling voice broke the downpour, his eyes
flickering with both fear and a sick kind of triumph. "You don't know how to kill a Hellborne."
He raised his hand once more, chains materializing from the darkness, their metallic wails
blending with the roaring storm. The rain grew heavier, blurring the lines between heaven
and earth, drowning everything in grey.
Then, as lightning streaked across the sky, something shifted in Nocturo's gaze—his
expression twisted, as if struck by sudden remembrance. His pupils dilated. His lips parted in
dread.
That prophecy…
Decades ago… I destroyed an entire village.
Not a soul was spared.
There was a saint — young, frail , yet his eyes burned brighter than the fire I unleashed. He
pointed a trembling finger at me, his face twisted in horror and disgust. Around us, the
screams faded into silence, replaced by the crackle of flames devouring the remnants of life
I'd erased.
Among the ruins, I found a hut. Inside — a mother clutching her little boy, her swollen belly
proof of another life waiting to breathe. She looked up at me — not in fear, but in disbelief —
moments before I silenced her world forever. The boy's cry echoed for an instant… then
vanished.
Her husband was the saint.
The one who, with his dying breath, spoke the words that would haunt me for eternity — a
curse, wrapped in prophecy.
> When heaven cries, the horror wakes.
I understand it now. My death will come on a night like this — when the sky weeps and
thunder roars. That will be the hour I face true fear.
> You'll dress your own final bed,
And crown your coffin's face with red.
That line… It means I'll be the architect of my own demise. My death — not by the hands of
fate, but by my own doing.
Then comes the last verse — the one that chills my blood even now:
> A fiery eye, born from flame,
Shall fall upon you — death its claim.
I thought it was mere metaphor — a warning from a dying fool. But now… I see the truth.
The one who will kill me bears that fire. The crimson glow in his eye… the same hue as the
flames that once devoured that village. The same fire I unleashed long ago has returned —
reborn in him.
"Born from flame…"
What does it mean? I can't figure it out. However…
Memories crashed into him like a tide—sharp, disjointed flashes that did not feel entirely his.
Were they his? Were they someone else's? He couldn't tell. His eyelids grew heavy. Tears
slipped free without warning, hot and unstoppable.
Nocturo's voice broke the rain as it came, hoarse but somehow firmer than before. "Hey,
kid… have you ever faced fire?"
The question hung in the storm, simple and terrible.
Ignis's face tightened with confusion. Why was the thing that had ripped the world apart
sounding as if it mourned? Was it another cruel trick? He couldn't afford to be fooled. Ava
was dead. That was all that mattered.
"I don't know what you're talking about," Ignis spat, voice shaking with a rage that barely
masked the grief, "but remember this—you die today. Your regeneration won't save you
now."
He squared his shoulders, muscles coiling. Rain and blood slid down his arms as he readied
himself, every nerve poised to strike.
A silence fell once more. The world itself seemed to stop breathing.
Only the soft rhythm of the rain remained—each drop striking the ruined ground with the
quiet finality of a heartbeat fading away.
Nocturo tilted his face toward the sky. The rain washed over him, streaking down his pale
skin, cleansing away the blood and fear. For the first time, there was no rage in his eyes. No
torment. No hatred. Only an unearthly calm.
He closed his eyes for a brief moment, and when they opened again, they held something
almost… human.
"Kid," he said softly, his voice no longer monstrous but weary, almost tender. "To kill a
Hellborne… you must crush their heart into pieces."
A pause.
His lips trembled as he added, quieter still, "Can you do it?"
Ignis froze.
Why… would a being like him—who destroyed everything—reveal his own death so easily?
His mind clouded with confusion, disbelief twisting into sorrow and rage. He stared into
Nocturo's eyes, searching for deception, for malice… but found none. Only a hollow sadness
reflected back.
And then, without another word, Ignis ran forward. The rain parted around him like shattered
glass.
With a roar born of pain and vengeance, he thrust his fist forward, aiming straight for
Nocturo's heart.
But Nocturo didn't move. He stood still, arms at his side, eyes half-closed as though
surrendering to a fate long awaited.
The moment Ignis's fist struck his chest, the world seemed to tremble.
The impact echoed like thunder.
And then… silence again.
When a child runs to embrace his mother, the collision is fierce but pure—the kind that
makes a mother close her eyes, feeling the sacred warmth of love.
Just like that, when Ignis's fist pierced his chest, Nocturo's eyes fluttered shut. Tears mingled
with the rain as they slipped down his face. His heart was shattered… yet his soul remained.
In that final instant, something unspoken passed between them. A connection deeper than
hatred.
Nocturo's fading soul trembled, as if trying to speak—trying to confess a thousand unfulfilled
dreams, a lifetime of longing buried beneath centuries of pain. But the words never came.
The faint memories that once flickered in Nocturo's mind now returned with clarity—calm
and pure, like a quiet river disturbed only by a falling leaf.
"Then you finally came home, my son… Juli," a gentle voice echoed — soft, warm, filled with
love. "How was your day today?"
Nocturo blinked. "W–where… where am I standing?"
He looked around — endless fields of emerald grass swayed beneath a golden sky. Before
him stood a small wooden house, sunlight glinting off its windows. And in front of it — a
woman, smiling tenderly at him.
He ran toward her, arms wide, his heart pounding with a forgotten warmth — but as soon as
he reached out, she vanished like smoke.
"Julian," a deeper voice called from behind. Nocturo turned — a broad-shouldered man
stood there, eyes proud yet kind. "Try hard, my son. One day, you must earn respect… for
respect is the only purpose of living."
Nocturo's lips trembled. "F–father…" He reached out, his small hands desperate to touch —
but again, his fingers met nothing but air.
Then came another voice — fragile, trembling. "Brother… you came back? Will you hold me
in your arms?"
Nocturo froze. A little girl stood a few steps away, clutching a worn-out doll. Her eyes were
the same shade of innocence he'd long forgotten. Tears spilled down Nocturo's cheeks as
he knelt, trying to touch her hair — but his hand passed through her like mist.
The world around him shimmered and faded — only his tears remained real.
That day was just like today.
That day, too, the rain fell from the sky — cold, merciless, endless.
I was helpless... and reckless.
There was no one to help me. There never was.
I always wanted to be a hero.
When I was little, I used to stand in front of the mirror, holding a wooden sword, imagining
myself saving people, bringing justice, making my father proud. My father used to smile,
place his hand on my head, and say, "A true hero never loses his heart to darkness, my son.
Always be moral, always be honest."
He was my hero. My whole world.
We were a respected family — rich, known for kindness, loved by everyone. I thought life
would always stay that way. But I was wrong.
One night changed everything.
That night, my uncle came home with soldiers. He accused my father of theft, of treason, of
things I didn't even understand. People I used to call "family" stood as witnesses. The crowd
outside our gate screamed "Thieves!" as my father begged them to believe him. I can still
hear his voice breaking — "I didn't steal… I didn't…"
But nobody listened.
They took everything — our house, our name, our dignity.
We became beggars overnight. We had no place to go, no one to trust. My father sold his
ring just to buy bread. My mother cried herself to sleep, holding my little sister, Belle. I tried
to stay strong, but the world crushed us bit by bit.
Then, death came silently — first for my father, then for my mother. Tuberculosis, they said. I
buried them both with my own hands.
Only Belle remained. My little sister — my only reason to breathe.
I promised myself I would protect her… no matter what it took.
But life doesn't reward promises.
To keep her alive, I sold my soul piece by piece. I became what my father had warned me
never to be. I killed, stole, destroyed. People began calling me "The Superkiller." I hated that
name, yet I needed it. The blood I spilled kept us alive. Each time I killed, I told myself it was
for her.
For Belle.
Then came that night — the night it rained harder than ever before.
Belle had fallen sick. Her skin was burning, her breath shallow. I panicked. I ran from door to
door, begging doctors to help me. But they all shut their doors in my face. To them, I wasn't a
brother — I was a monster.
Rain soaked me completely. My hands trembled as I finally managed to steal a small bottle
of medicine. I held it close, whispering, "Just hold on, Belle. I'm coming."
When I reached home, I saw a crowd gathered outside. My heart froze.
I pushed through, my feet slipping in the mud, my lungs screaming.
And then… I saw her.
Belle… lying on the floor. Her neck cut open, blood painting the room red.
Her small hand stretched toward the door… as if she had been waiting for me.
The bottle fell from my hand and shattered.
I fell beside her, holding her cold body against my chest. I screamed until my voice broke —
but the rain only grew louder, drowning out everything.
I knew—knew it was my uncle. I found him. Without a word, I grabbed a blade. They were
celebrating, drunk on cruelty, proud of what they'd done to us. I cut them down one by one.
The floor became a map of red. My uncle begged and apologized between coughing gulps
of blood, but his words never reached me.
When I stumbled back into the night, blinded by fury, I struck at everyone who had called me
monster, everyone who turned away when I begged for help. Blood and mud mixed under
my boots.
Then I saw him — a figure holding a glowing blue stone. I moved to kill him, but my hand
failed. Instead, he touched me and something inside me unraveled. He reached into the
place where memory lived and pulled. My past slipped away like water through a clenched
fist.
Maybe I deserved it.
That night, the hero inside me died forever.
Now… as I face my own death, I see her again — standing in that rain, smiling like she used
to, her little hand reaching out.
And I wonder…
If I had stayed the boy my father raised — would she still be alive?
Maybe heroes don't exist in this world.
Maybe they never did.
All I ever wanted was to save everyone…
But in the end, I couldn't even save her.
"Now , now… I just want to sleep.
I can't feel the pain anymore.
Even nature mourns tonight — the sky weeps, the wind sighs, the world feels empty.
There was never anything pleasant in my life… only shadows, only loss.
But now… I just want to rest. Peacefully."
He looked up at the storming sky, raindrops blending with the tears on his face.
"Father… if you can hear me, forgive me. I couldn't follow the path you showed me. My
hands… they're soaked in the blood of those I once called enemies… and sometimes, of
those who didn't deserve it.
Belle… forgive me, I couldn't save you. I failed as a brother.
Mother… I wasn't the strong pillar you could lean on. I was too weak to protect anyone.
Forgive me… all of you."
His voice cracked, fading into the sound of thunder. The rain struck harder, washing away
the dirt, the blood, and the years of torment from his body.
Nocturo staggered a step forward, then fell. His body hit the wet ground — splash! — water
rippled out like the world itself exhaled in grief.
His eyes slowly closed, his breath stilled… and for a moment, time stopped.
But just before his soul drifted away, he felt something — a faint warmth, a heartbeat in the
storm.
And in that heartbeat, a whisper echoed gently through the rain:
"No, brother… you were the best brother."
A single tear slid from the corner of his eye. His lips curved into a faint, peaceful smile.
As the thunder softened and the rain began to fade, the monster named Nocturo was gone
—
and in his place lay Julian, the boy who once dreamed of being a hero.
And at last… he was.
Beyond this world, where none remain,
You'll find your peace through your own pain.