Chapter 5
The Tower of Infinite Reflections stood at the edge of reality.
No light reached it, no shadow escaped it. The closer Nyxen walked, the more the world folded in upon itself—skies melted, stars bent, and the faint sound of breathing filled the silence, as if the tower itself was alive.
Each step was heavy with echo. Each breath condensed into threads of gold that vanished before touching the ground. The disguise of Nyxara was gone. The city had seen through it. What remained was the truth — a being not born of heaven or hell, but something that had walked both and refused to kneel.
Nyxen's crimson eyes dimmed into the color of dusk. His long black hair fell freely across his back, dusted with pale starlight. He could feel the hum of countless souls buried beneath the streets, feeding the tower's base — each a fragment of those who had once sought the Heaven-Sealing Sword and failed.
And yet, the sword still waited.
At the tower's gate, he stopped.
There was no door, only a reflection.
A mirror taller than mountains, stretching infinitely upward, showing not the city — but the cosmos. Billions of dying suns floated within it, each orbiting a faint line of light that pulsed like a heartbeat.
As he stepped closer, his reflection began to shift.
It was not his form he saw, but the forms he had worn.
The swordsman who destroyed his own world.
The god who ruled the Nine Hells.
The monk who buried his name beneath silence.
The demon who loved and lost and burned the sky in grief.
Each version of him looked back, eyes gleaming with something different — pride, hatred, sorrow, emptiness.
Each one whispered in unison.
"Do you still believe you are different?"
The tower's surface rippled, and a voice — ancient, distant, and genderless — whispered within his mind.
—You are late, child of chaos.
Nyxen's breath hitched. He had heard this tone before, in a forgotten dream buried beneath his demonic sea.
"You're… the sword."
—I am the regret of the sword. The last thought before sealing heaven.
The mirror brightened, and a figure formed within it — a woman of impossible grace, her body woven from the same light as the stars she carried in her eyes. Her voice was cold and weightless.
—Those who reach this place seek power. Yet you seek to destroy it. Why?
He stood silent. Then, quietly, he said, "Because power without purpose becomes the god's disease. I've seen that disease in myself."
—Then you are no better.
The reflection smiled sadly. —You seek to wield what once sealed eternity. The Heaven-Sealing Sword cannot be owned, only understood. Can you bear the memory of its creation?
Nyxen hesitated. "If I refuse?"
—Then you'll wander this tower until your reflection forgets your name.
He exhaled slowly. "Show me, then."
The world shattered.
The air turned to molten glass. The tower became the womb of the cosmos.
He fell—no, rose—through time, through dying constellations and fading gods, until he stood upon a battlefield that stretched beyond infinity.
Thousands of divine beings lay broken. Heaven itself was aflame, bleeding starlight and screams.
At the center of it all stood the sword.
It was colossal, embedded into the heart of reality. The Heaven-Sealing Sword was no mere weapon—it was a law, a concept, a final refusal. Every strike it had unleashed had cut not just flesh, but the right to exist.
And beside it stood its wielder—a woman draped in white and gold, eyes hollow, smile gentle. Her voice carried across eternity.
"If gods cannot be silent, then let the sword silence them."
With a single swing, she cut the sky apart. The heavens sealed themselves shut. The universe wept.
And then, she turned the sword upon herself.
Her dying whisper echoed through the ages.
"To seal heaven, one must first destroy the desire to reach it."
The vision ended.
Nyxen gasped, falling to one knee, sweat mingling with crimson light that bled from his skin. The tower's illusions withdrew like waves from shore, leaving him trembling, breathless, and silent.
"...She sealed herself away," he murmured. "To keep the balance."
—Yes, the sword's voice said. And when she died, her will scattered. Part of it became me. Part of it became the curse of this city.
"Curse?"
—Every soul that seeks me becomes reflection-bound. The moment they wish to 'own' the sword, they are devoured by the image they show to others.
Nyxen raised his head, his gaze hard. "So every prince, princess, heir… all of them were victims of that curse."
—Not victims. Mirrors.
He stood slowly, feeling the energy shift within the tower. The mirror before him rippled again—this time revealing the next trial.
Nine paths appeared before him, each a floating corridor of light suspended over a void that stretched into nothingness.
Eight of them led to death.
One led deeper into the tower.
The sword's whisper brushed against his thoughts. —Choose with your heart, not your sight.
He closed his eyes.
Within his chest, the Golden Scripture of the Unorthodox Path stirred. Faint threads of elemental energy rippled through him—metal, water, fire, earth, wood—all merging, all waiting.
Then came the whisper of the True Art of Mara—the demonic heart pulsing with quiet laughter.
He opened his eyes and smiled faintly. "Heart, not sight, huh? Then I'll walk where fear is strongest."
He stepped forward into the corridor that flickered black.
The air shifted immediately.
The moment his foot touched the path, illusions erupted—faces he had killed, voices he had buried, screams that were his own.
The path tried to consume him. Tried to rewrite his essence with guilt.
But the Art of Mora thrived on torment.
He let the memories flow through him like poison through a flame. His form twisted, the demonic aura rising around him like a second skin.
Every guilt, every sorrow, every act of violence turned to energy—feeding his ascent.
The tower shrieked, rejecting him. The reflection walls began to crack.
—You should not exist, the sword's voice thundered.
—You are the echo of what was erased.
"Then I'll remind you," he said quietly, "that even erased gods leave footprints."
When the corridor ended, he emerged into a chamber so vast it felt like a starless ocean.
In the center stood a throne of glass. Upon it lay the Heaven-Sealing Sword—smaller now, almost delicate, its blade pale and translucent as if forged from frozen time.
It pulsed faintly, alive yet asleep.
Nyxen stepped closer, feeling the gravity of its presence—every heartbeat of the sword pulled at his soul, testing, measuring, judging.
—You are incomplete, it whispered. You carry light and dark, yet belong to neither. Why should I obey you?
Nyxen stood before it and knelt. Not out of submission—but respect.
"I don't want obedience," he said. "Only silence."
—Silence?
He nodded. "The silence where gods cannot reach, and demons cannot devour. I want to walk that path."
The sword's hum deepened. The air began to fracture.
—Then seal it. Seal your heaven.
The words carried the weight of command. The Heaven-Sealing Sword rose, floating inches from his face, its point gleaming like the edge of dawn.
For a moment, it felt as though time itself was holding its breath.
He extended his hand.
When his fingers brushed the blade, the universe screamed.
Every star, every world, every forgotten law of heaven convulsed. The city of darkness collapsed inward, drawn into the sword's heart.
And in that moment, Nyxen understood—this weapon wasn't meant to destroy gods.
It was meant to remember them.
Every being it had slain was still alive within it, dreaming, whispering, waiting to be freed.
He could hear them—thousands of divine voices whispering his name.
—Bearer of silence…
—Breaker of order…
—Do you dare carry our sins?
The pressure crushed him. His veins burned, his spirit fractured, and the mark of the Golden Scripture ignited across his chest. The demonic and divine forces within him collided, forming a storm of pure existence.
"I… dare," he gasped. "Because I already bear my own."
The sword paused—then sang.
A note without sound. A light without color.
It accepted him.
The chamber exploded in golden radiance.
When the light faded, Nyxen stood alone, holding the Heaven-Sealing Sword in his right hand. Its form was no longer transparent—it had reshaped itself, reflecting his own duality: black blade, golden edge, runes of both scripture and sin swirling together.
His aura was calm. His heart, silent.
But the city was gone.
Everything—the princes, the heirs, the palaces—had dissolved into an infinite void of stillness.
Only the tower remained, and him.
He looked at the sword. It pulsed once, then fell silent, its consciousness retreating into the depths of his soul.
"Guess you really were waiting," he murmured.
He sheathed it across his back. "Now… let's see what regrets heaven still hides."
He turned toward the horizon that wasn't a horizon, walking deeper into the void, toward whatever world lay beyond the sealed heavens.
And far behind him, unseen, the reflection in the mirror he had shattered began to move.