Chapter 7
The city of darkness stretched endlessly before him, a sprawl of shadow and quiet gold that shimmered faintly under the dying moon. From afar, it looked like a ruin preserved inside a dream — towers built from ash and bone, bridges that glowed faintly with black light, and a temple that pulsed like a heart in slumber.
Nyxen stepped through the boundary of mist, his black robes trailing along the marble dust. He could feel the stench of divinity — the rotting kind that came from saints who had long betrayed their vows.
Whispers followed him. The monks of this city did not speak aloud; their voices lingered in the air like prayers too ancient to die. He could hear their faith, their delusion, their fear. Each syllable scraped his soul like glass.
A woman appeared on the stairway leading to the temple. She was tall, her movements fluid, her eyes golden beneath her hood. Her steps left ripples of light that faded instantly.
"You do not belong here," she said softly.
Nyxen tilted his head, his voice almost kind. "Neither do you. Yet here we are."
The woman hesitated, sensing the weight behind his words. "You seek the treasure sealed by heaven. The sword that no god dared to wield."
He smiled beneath his false face. "Heaven has sealed many things. None have lasted."
She raised her hand, summoning faint radiance — a light shaped like wings. But it dimmed almost immediately. The air bent around Nyxen, pressing against her will.
"I heard," he murmured, stepping closer, "that this place keeps the echoes of twelve voices — those who once thought themselves pure. Is that true?"
Before she could answer, the bells of the temple began to toll. The sound was beautiful, tragic, almost human.
The robed woman dropped to her knees, clutching her chest. Around them, the faint silhouettes of twelve figures began to appear — monks in radiant armor, faces half-erased by time. Their eyes shone with hollow divinity.
"The False Saints," Nyxen whispered.
They descended from the temple steps one by one, their feet making no sound, their gazes sharp as blades. The first raised his staff.
"You should not have come here, stranger," he intoned. "This city is sacred."
Nyxen's smile was small, almost mournful. "Sacred? I see only graves."
Light burst from the staff — golden, blinding, pure. It rushed toward him in a wave. Nyxen didn't move. The light split in two before touching him, carving a silent path around his body.
The woman gasped. The saints staggered.
Nyxen's eyes opened fully, their black hue igniting faint red at the center. "You sought to seal the heavens," he whispered, "and in doing so, you sealed your souls."
He raised one hand, two fingers forming a gentle curve — a motion like tracing a flower petal through the wind.
The world went still.
The saints tried to move, but their bodies refused. Their light turned dark, their voices cracked. The sound of their chanting became the scream of breaking glass.
When the first fell, no blood spilled — only faint motes of gold drifted upward, dissolving.
The woman screamed his name, but he did not hear her.
Nyxen walked through the dust and silence, every step carrying the weight of an executioner disguised as a pilgrim. His sword was not drawn, yet the air around him sliced cleanly, the edges invisible.
One by one, the twelve lights flickered out. The temple's glow began to fade.
When he reached the final saint — an old man kneeling at the altar — the monk's eyes were wet with fear. "Who are you?"
Nyxen paused, then touched the air before him. "A traveler," he said. "Who once mistook heaven for mercy."
He moved his hand. The saint's form shattered like a reflection on disturbed water.
Silence.
The woman stared in horror and awe. Her knees trembled as she whispered, "You destroyed them all… why?"
Nyxen turned to her. "Because they were never alive. This city — this world — is an echo of heaven's sin. You've been praying to ghosts."
His voice softened as he added, "Be free of them."
The ground beneath them began to tremble. The towers cracked; rivers of light spilled upward like reversed waterfalls. The city itself started to collapse inward, folding into its own illusion.
The woman reached out to him, eyes wide. "Wait—! If this world ends—"
Nyxen caught her wrist. For a moment, their eyes met — her fear against his sorrow. Then, gently, he let her go.
"It's better to fall into truth," he whispered, "than live in a false paradise."
The city roared as it imploded. Light engulfed everything, burning, devouring, cleansing.
When the silence returned, there was only him — standing amid endless white, the ruins of a dream dissolving behind him.
He exhaled slowly.
And for the first time, he felt it again — the faint hum of a sword calling to him from somewhere deeper within the void.
A voice that whispered,
"Seeker of ruin… come find me."
He looked toward the sound. His steps began again, silent and steady, as the broken world stitched itself back together beneath his feet.