"Oh, to what manner of place have you crossed?" He… after passing through the incandescent glare, a light that cast a strange, spectral hue, inverted in the shape of a wondrous triangle. He… stared at both his hands, frozen in a trance, before lifting his gaze to survey his current surroundings.
"Do you not feel the bite of the frost? Find something to clothe yourself, and quickly."
He… did not even choose to walk. He did not stumble or crawl as he had done throughout the entirety of his life. He… breathed heavily, standing with a slight slouch, his arms hanging limp at his sides. The whispers that had persisted for days, months, years—or perhaps an eternity—fell silent, becoming almost inaudible. He… peered into the devouring dark.
Pathless. Aimless. A void devoid of even a space for his feet to tread. He… had no one to speak with. Even the millions of spirits within his flesh remained hushed—paralyzed by neurosis, anxiety, and the shivering weight of despair. He… felt nothing like those souls; or perhaps, his burden was so much heavier that it defied definition…
"It hurts, but… Brother can endure it. I have done this work always… I am not weary."
He… spoke the first sentence. Truly the first. A sentence born of hardship, choked with nausea, and steeped in agony. His entire frame had been ravaged into a state of wretchedness—not that it invited pity, for pity was a currency of no value to… Him. Because He… had never once felt pity for himself.
He… merely looked upon himself with loathing, a profound sense of misery. He… was left with only himself and millions upon millions of souls that were not even his own. But now, they were silent. The voices in his head had vanished utterly, leaving only him, able to utter words once more, to speak once more, though the voice was frayed with exhaustion and suffering. Even if the listeners in this world—said to be like fragments of shattered glass—could never comprehend his tongue…
"It is so very dark, dear Brother."
He… felt a hand seize his in the gloom. A small hand, frigid as the unending frost. A hand thin and withered, yet possessed of a warmth that defied the cold. He… let tears fall, not daring to turn toward the owner of that tiny palm.
"Brother, I am so happy… to have been born—" The voice fractured… yet that palm still gripped him, leading him slowly, steadily, through the vast and hollow darkness.
"Where are you taking me? I must go out…" he spoke with a weary rasp, a breathlessness too deep to convey the true depth of his feeling.
"But it is dark, Brother. I must stay with you, and you must stay with me. We shall—" Her voice broke again, and again. "I want Mother to have the chance." And again…
"Then why… would you take me… with… you—?" He waited for an answer. But in that fleeting moment, within the deepest recesses of his subconscious, a realization rang out in his skull so fiercely he nearly coughed blood, unable to withstand the collision of emotion and memory.
"I did not stay… I did not stay with her… Little one… the truth… it floods back into me…."
He… along with dozens of memories, surged into his mind through the whispers of his own voice—not from the spirits. He screamed, clawing at his own face, but… that hand, that warm hand, never once let him go.
"Please… I beg of you, Brother. Do not abandon me again. I want to see, I want to know. I do not wish to remain in a place like that… No—" Men often tell themselves they are 'noble creatures.' But that is not it at all. No such noble creature has ever truly existed in any definition; it is but a self-delusion maintained for hundreds of millennia—that one stands outside the food chain. Not in the least. Deny it not, all of you. The children imprisoned while we learn; the men toiling while we revel in houses of vice. Are they not all hell-beasts? There are no noble creatures. There are only brutes, carving themselves out through heart, fear, and intellect.
"The beast tore her away… Poor child… how pitiable." Other memories began to interject, assuming their roles. He… chose to let them speak. This body, fashioned from their wreckage… it naturally granted them a right. But that right was limited only to speech—for a 'right' is but the meaning of words, never granted through action.
"Brother, if one day you should find atonement, then you shall—"
He… would never be granted any truth.
He… felt the crushing weight once more. He… ceased his walking as the tiny palm vanished into the dark. And as he collapsed upon his knees until the blood splattered… all he… asked for, as a final mercy, was… rest.
But…
"It approaches, comrade."
A voice in his head, a memory of a person, warned him coldly. Those toneless echoes followed without reprieve.
It would not let him rest. How much more must He… suffer? Was his agony insufficient, or was it simply that… He… still breathed, and thus, was in the wrong? O, most sorrowful Fate, ensuring his spirit could never bloom, not even for a moment. His body resonated with tremors. He… still chose to walk on. Though those voices were filled with maddening thoughts, even so, He… did not so much as look back. For beyond the darkness surrounding him lay a darkness even deeper. This night was so eternal that he might have already forgotten who he was.
"Hurry and find a vantage point. See for yourself what is unfolding."
The resonant voice in his head did not surprise Him. He nodded, treading onward. Though his back remained straight, his physique—once robust but now withered and gaunt—bore bones so hardened they defied nature. He… walked on, aimless.
He… asked no questions. But… He… walked. And He walked faster at intervals. Some moments his pace was slow; others, it was fast enough to be inhuman—though he had never been close to human in the first place. And because of all this… something was pulling the strings. If not by the aged Sage who tests… then why… have they not yet escaped this abnormality? Why? How can they break free from a land that has already consigned them to oblivion? What are they doing? What is the purpose of this trial? Of the warriors or the visitors of the Kingdom? Of the Forgotten King? For what cause… do they remain warriors?
Amidst the Scorching Desert
In the heart of the blistering sands, amidst the ruins of a hundred stone idols of goddesses strewn across the dunes. Some statues were submerged to the crown, leaving only hands the size of dozens of men joined together protruding from the earth. The pilgrims, clad in wretched shrouds, were a sea of contrast: some bodies were whole and unblemished by sickness, while others were skeletal, their skin slick with sweat and ravaged by malnutrition. Yet the eyes of every single one of them were filled with a certain conviction—a pure, unadulterated faith toward the idols of a Goddess they had never truly seen.
"O, Divine Goddess in the Heavens! Please return to us! We crave your presence! Have mercy, O Goddess! Have mercy!"
A gaunt man, bare-chested and wearing a hood like a desert dweller, wept as he pleaded with the idol of the Goddess of Fire. The statue—a visage of fierce wrath—stared ahead, eclipsing the sun that burned like a hell on earth. They were all much the same. They implored, hands clutching their heads or flaring wide at their temples, chanting the hymns of the 'Vivid Return' with exhausted breath.
But as the procession of pleas toward the hundred goddesses continued, there came the sound of footsteps—a man of towering stature, his long hair trailing in the sand. He wore trousers that resembled a half-skirt, his appearance far from that of a devout practitioner. Yet, when the faithful saw him, and the gale of an approaching sandstorm began to howl, they raised their voices in praise, though they knew but a single name… Socratas. The doctor, a follower and guide seeking the airship, could only watch everything from behind the tall man's shadow.
"Oh… Thou, the Adherent. Please… what is it that you desire?"
The raspy voice of another man, skin clinging to bone, face so sunken his cheeks had vanished. A faint smile accompanied words that sounded soulless—yet, little did one know, those words were forged of nothing but faith.
"I ask only to see your faith. Faith toward the Lord. Faith toward the Goddess. And then you… shall find… peace."
He spoke, stepping past the throng of pilgrims. He stood a short distance from the maw of the sandstorm. But the fury of the gale—powerful enough to shatter what was already broken—crumbled the statues as it swallowed them. The faithful, the pilgrims, remained untouched, as if shielded by a divine grace. And when the man who received the supplication spoke…
"If it be Thy will that I journey on, to fight and to hunt those who betray Thee, I pray Thee open the path. O, Thou who standest above, please receive this prayer."
When he finished, the colossal sandstorm, capable of laying waste to an entire kingdom, vanished as though it were a mere mirage. The pilgrims erupted in songs of hope. They were still brimming with faith. The scene was so surreal that even the doctor—who hardly believed, or chose not to believe in such things—clutched his own hands and raised them above his head.
"Though I have never believed in such faith… I have seen it now. My Lord, I may not yet understand, but… I have seen it."