Once I realized the shape of my dream… I adored it.
I yearned for it.
To complete it.
To be like him.
To be a Blasphemous.
Sil had decided his fate. A dream that, in this world, was a crime.
Yet he embraced it anyway.
He chose to walk the same cursed path… the same fate as him.
To be the Blasphemous.
Not for power, not for revenge… but for his dream.
For him.
For his life.
"Because dreams are something you live for…"
So I must run and live.
Ihad escaped the island, and the next thing I remembered…
I was lying on the other side. It was the land beneath the Mountain of Nori.
He gasped, his lungs desperate for air.
Every breath burned.
My body trembled.
The cold wrapped around him like chains, but even then, he stood.
On shaking legs, his vision blurred and heavy…
Still, he moved forward.
"I want to be like him…"
He kept moving.
Even when the world wanted him dead, he kept moving.
At the King's castle, Atom stood face-to-face with himself.
The same eyes. The same breath. The same fury.
"If Grandfather was right… then I have to be careful," he whispered under his breath.
"But I don't have time to waste."
His mind raced.
Every thought returning to one place.
To her.
His sister.
I must reach the Mountain of Nori… before it's too late.
Outside, the storm raged. The castle shook with each clash of thunder.
The Mountain of Nori was surrounded by walls. The same divine walls that guarded the King's castle.
Why?
What is the King hiding? Atom's voice trembled because of realization.
"There must be something… something the world isn't allowed to see."
He raised his hand, palm open to the heavens, and the mantra left his lips.
"Lord Almighty-
The air split.
Time itself seemed to stop.
He prayed, and the sword in his grip shimmered with invisible fractures.
He dashed forward.
"Ouro."
The other him. The reflection of his existence — began to crumble.
Like grains of spice caught in the wind… he was gone.
Atom sprinted down the long, cracked corridor — the air thick with dust and echoing footsteps. Behind him, the shattered remains of his other self began to reform, grains of sand swirling back into shape.
But Atom didn't look back. He didn't have the luxury to.
"I don't have time to fight him," he muttered, gripping his sword tighter. His heart raced, not from fear — but from the ticking clock in his mind. She's waiting for me… I can't stop now.
The sand-formed double stood at the corridor's end, his body slowly knitting itself back together.
He watched Atom running away — his expression unreadable, almost calm.
Neither spoke.
Neither moved to strike again.
For a strange moment, it was as if both understood — there was no need to fight. Not now.
And so, he let him go.
At the island's edge, panic had become a slow, heavy thing.
Villagers who had vowed to flee the king's cruelty stood frozen, every foot planted as if the earth itself had trapped them. Their boats bobbed uselessly, ropes snapping under the strain of the typhoon.
"Don't move," the old man whispered, though the wind tried to steal his words. The child's keening cut through the storm—a thin, unbearable sound.
The grandson clenched his fists. He could not stand still any longer. The child's cries tore at him like knives.
"I have to move," he said, voice tight.
"Don't even think about it," the grandfather snapped, but not unkindly. His face was a map of old battles and older grief.
"But-"
"Just don't!" the grandfather cut him off, quieter now, desperate. "Not until I say. If you move now, how will you save that child? You will only throw your life away."
The grandson's jaw quivered. He wanted to argue—wanted to charge into the storm and snatch the child from fate—but the old man's eyes held him back. They spoke of sacrifice and timing, of the small chance that patience might be a weapon.
"I want to move," the grandson whispered.
"I know," the grandfather said. His voice softened as thunder rolled, "I want to move, too. But sometimes strength is held in waiting. We let this go now so we may save more later."
They stood together beneath the screaming sky, two generations bound by fear and stubborn hope, while the child's wails grew fainter with each heartbeat — or perhaps, they simply learned to listen less, to survive more.
The surge between their words — the desperation to save that crying child and the fear of what would happen if they moved was unbearable.
They wanted to help, every fiber of their hearts screamed to, but reason chained them down.
They couldn't move. They couldn't risk it.
"Why am I so weak... why is this even happening…" the grandson whispered, voice trembling with helplessness.
Then—
BOOM!
A blinding explosion ripped through the silence. The shockwave rolled across the island like a living thing, shaking the ground beneath their feet.
"What was that?!" someone shouted.
The earth buckled and cracked. The villagers were thrown to the ground, tumbling like leaves in the storm's fury.
"Now!"
The grandson didn't hesitate. His instincts took over — he leapt forward, diving toward the child.
He caught him just before they hit the ground, shielding the boy with his own body. His head slammed against a jagged rock, pain bursting behind his eyes.
Still, he didn't move. His arms stayed locked around the crying child, refusing to let go.
The others weren't as lucky.
Some villagers, desperate for life, tried crawling — inching toward their boats like caterpillars. But the moment they moved
BANG!
Their bodies erupted, exploding mid-motion. Blood rained over the ground, splattering across the faces of those who remained frozen in horror.
The air filled with screams — raw, echoing, hopeless.
The sky seemed to roar back at them.
Those still alive shut their eyes tight, barely breathing, praying their stillness would save them from the wrath that ruled this cursed land.
"What the hell is happening?" the grandson asked, voice cracking. His grandfather had no answer this time. There were no old tales or clever lines left to explain this—no map for whatever judgment had fallen on them.
The King's wrath was worse than anything he'd imagined. Since childhood he'd promised himself he would one day overthrow that cruel ruler—hadn't everyone seen the atrocities? That fire burned in him for years.
But now, watching the sky tear and people die in a moment, the grandson felt something colder: fear. He was shivering inside, not from the wind but from knowing what the king was capable of. He pressed his lips together and hid the panic. He must not die—not here, not now.
Or maybe, he thought in a smaller voice, he was simply too afraid to die.