The town of Eclen was always bright in the morning, even though the mist from the nearby forest rarely let sunlight through.
Pale fog clung to rooftops and alleyways like a half-remembered dream, curling around chimneys and drifting lazily over the cobblestone streets. Merchants shouted prices hoarse from years of habit, their voices overlapping into a familiar chaos.
Blacksmiths sang to the rhythm of hammer and anvil, each strike echoing like a heartbeat through the town square. Children chased one another through the thin fog, their laughter sharp and fleeting, vanishing as quickly as it appeared.
Amid all the liveliness, one man stood out—not because he was strange, but because he smiled too much for a world this broken.
Eudaeron.
He walked the streets as if they belonged to him, not with ownership, but with ease. He carried no weapon, no armor—only a long cloak stitched with symbols older than time, faded runes woven into the fabric like scars that had learned to rest. They caught the light at certain angles, faintly shimmering, then vanishing again as if embarrassed to be noticed.
His laughter could be heard even when the bells of the church rang to mark dusk. It wasn't loud, nor mocking—it was warm, unguarded, the kind of laughter that made people forget, even briefly, that monsters still lurked beyond the walls. He repaired roofs cracked by age and storm, his hands steady and patient. He hunted beasts that attacked farms, returning with bloodied boots and a grin, joking that they had "picked the wrong dinner." He healed wounds with gentle golden light from his palm, the glow soft and steady, never blinding, never demanding worship.
People trusted him instinctively, though none could say why.
When villagers asked where he came from, he always gave a different story.
"I was born from a lightning bolt," he'd say one day, shrugging as if it explained everything.
"From a falling star," another time, tapping the side of his head like it was an obvious answer.
No one ever pressed further. They only smiled and thanked him, as though afraid that knowing more might ruin something pure. As though the mystery itself was part of the blessing.
He stayed for weeks this time—longer than usual. He taught an old widow how to reinforce her door against night-creatures. He carried water for the infirm when wells froze. He sat with the dying when no one else could bear to, humming tuneless melodies until breathing slowed and pain loosened its grip.
Sometimes, when he thought no one was looking, his smile would flicker.
One day, as he sat near the old stone fountain at the edge of the square, a small boy approached him—a child no older than ten, with dirt ground deep beneath his fingernails and hopelessness sitting far too comfortably in his eyes. The boy hesitated, shifting his weight from foot to foot, as if deciding whether to run.
"Sir… what's the meaning of life?"
Eudaeron blinked, genuinely surprised, then chuckled softly. "That's quite the question for someone who still hides from bathwater."
The boy didn't laugh. His hands clenched into fists. "I mean it. Everyone's dying… mom says the world's ending. If it's all gonna go away, why live at all?"
For once, Eudaeron didn't smile immediately.
The breeze carried the scent of rust and rain from the distant plains. He looked up at the cloudy sky, watching the mist drift like tired thoughts, then down at his reflection in the fountain. The water rippled, distorting his face—older, wearier, more fractured than the man the town saw.
"Life…" he began, his voice slow, almost distant. "Life isn't about finding meaning. It's about creating it. Even if the world ends tomorrow, a single act of kindness can echo longer than suns. You see, boy, existence is cruel, but in cruelty there's a rhythm—a chance to laugh, to love, to make something absurdly beautiful out of nothing."
The boy listened, unmoving.
Eudaeron stood up, dusting off his cloak, and ruffled the boy's hair. His touch was warm. Grounded. Real.
"So, keep living. If the world burns, laugh with it. If it freezes, sing until the ice cracks. That's the only answer worth having."
The boy—Gia—looked up at him, eyes wide, as if trying to memorize every word.
"Will I see you again?"
Eudaeron smiled that too-wide, too-bright grin—the one that always seemed to hide something sharp underneath.
"If fate still finds me funny, then yes."
And with that, he left the town as the morning bells rang—just another wanderer disappearing into the mist, his footsteps swallowed by fog and distance.
That night, beneath a dead moon, Eudaeron sat alone by a small fire on a cliff overlooking the dark plains. The land below stretched endlessly, broken only by the faint glow of distant settlements clinging stubbornly to existence. His laughter was gone now.
The flame reflected in his eyes like fading stars, flickering, unstable.
"That kid really does remind me of my old self… don't you think?" he whispered to the empty night.
The wind answered first, then something else.
A shadow moved behind him—humanoid, tall, wrapped in a black veil that bent the air around it. The fire dimmed slightly, as if reluctant to exist in its presence.
"Maybe it isn't so bad living in this twisted world," Eudaeron continued softly, not turning yet. "But nostalgia doesn't last forever." He finally rose, eyes glowing faintly with gold as he faced the figure. "You came to take it, didn't you?"
The shadow nodded once. "You know why I'm here."
Eudaeron chuckled again, though the sound was hollow, brittle. "You could've at least let me finish my drink."
The figure stepped into the dim firelight. Three artifacts hovered around it—silent, oppressive, each pulsing with the same divine essence that once lived in Eudaeron's hand. The Unyielding Law of Continuity trembled faintly on his chest, reacting to its lost counterparts like a wounded heart recognizing missing limbs.
"Rye and Mona…" Eudaeron murmured, his voice barely holding together. "You took them too, didn't you?"
The figure said nothing.
Then came the clash.
It was not a battle of sword or flame but of existence itself. The plains howled as if the land remembered being alive. Time fractured, moments overlapping and collapsing in on themselves. Rivers of starlight poured from the ground as their unique items resonated, screaming their incompatible truths into the world.
Every strike rewrote the laws of decay and rebirth. Mountains softened, then melted into glass. The night sky screamed—not with sound, but with meaning being torn apart.
Eudaeron fought like a storm trapped in flesh. His cloak burned away in places, runes unraveling into ash. He laughed even as blood—black and gold—streamed down his face, splattering onto the broken earth.
"You know…" he coughed, forcing breath into ruined lungs, "if you kill me… you'll just make me part of the next cycle… and then we'll be drinking together again, eh?"
The shadow didn't answer.
It struck.
Authority crushed down like a verdict already decided. Eudaeron fell to one knee, his light dimming, his laughter finally breaking. The Unyielding Law of Continuity flared desperately, resisting collapse through sheer stubbornness.
As he fell further, the world seemed to slow. His hand touched the earth—and grass sprouted where his blood fell, green and fragile, trembling in defiance of the end.
"After all…" he whispered, smiling faintly through shattered teeth, "I couldn't amount to anything."
He looked up at the night sky, now fracturing into endless light and shadow, stars folding in on themselves like dying thoughts.
"Rye… Mona… I'm sorry."
A faint laugh escaped his lips, softer than the wind, barely there at all.
"Still… it wasn't so bad, was it?"
Then, silence.
Only the faint hum of the Unyielding Law of Continuity remained, pulsing weakly in the dirt beside his body—like a heartbeat refusing to stop.