Vale stared at the book for a long moment. Its cover was a stark, unbroken white, the kind of blankness that seemed almost unnatural, with only a single line of black text emblazoned across it: the title. No author, no publisher, no hint of origin. Not that this library, or whatever place he had stumbled into, paid much attention to such trivialities. Still, something about the emptiness of the cover unsettled him. It felt deliberate, like it had been left specifically for him.
Slowly, he opened the book. Dust whispered from its spine, particles dancing in the muted light, and a faint, almost metallic tang filled his nose. He had discovered the cave days ago, the one etched with the blood of the fallen, the cave whose walls screamed a single phrase over and over: "Kill the false angels." Vale's voice echoed faintly as he repeated the words aloud. Kill the false angels.
And now, this book, lying untouched here, seemed to be a continuation of that warning. Was it a guide? A prophecy? Or something far more sinister? He did not know. What he did know was that the truth would only reveal itself as he read.
Before turning the page, his mind lingered on the other, the one etched into the cave in thick, dark crimson. The Father of Flaws. Vale's eyes narrowed at the memory. Could there be a book about that being as well, he wondered? The old gods, the text offered, remained an enigma, their intentions concealed behind layers of silence. Yet even in that absence, Vale felt their presence, as if they were listening.
With a slow exhale, he settled his thoughts and turned the first page. The book was small, barely a hundred pages. He began to read, the words whispering in the silent room, forming themselves in his mind like a chant:
"False angels may never be trusted. They appear human at first, yet beneath their guise lie monsters. They masquerade as saviors sent by the gods, but they are anything but. They feed on the souls of those they deem sacrifices. Once they gain trust, they lure you in with charisma, with promises, and once ensnared, you serve as the path to their masters."
Vale's brow furrowed. The words were precise, methodical, terrifying. He read on.
"Though they may begin weak, like the lowliest spawn of creation, they grow at an unprecedented pace. Their bodies, their forms, mutate slowly as they evolve. Only in their true forms do they reveal themselves as false angels, servants of Them, destroyers of mankind. Never trust a false angel. To do so is to invite doom upon yourself, and to become a stepping stone for the liberation of their masters."
Vale stopped, trembling slightly. Their masters? The words seemed to throb in his mind. False angels were monstrous enough, yet the idea that they were part of a greater hierarchy sent a cold shiver down his spine.
His thoughts twisted back to the angel he had seen. Artoria had faced it once, she had died, and he had witnessed it in her memory. The being she fought had seemed angelic at first, but its true nature was something else entirely. After the fight, it had grown. Not in size alone, but in presence, in menace. Vale's fingers grazed his chin as questions multiplied in his mind.
'Was that a false angel?'
He recalled the angel's eerie, almost mocking smile. Its wings, darkened with blood. Its crown, a symbol of power. Perhaps it had mutated, finally revealing its true form, as described in the book. And yet, there were other memories, the strange boy, the one the angel had tried to corrupt. But the corruption had backfired. The angel's essence had been absorbed, transformed into a boy of Vale's age.
Vale's gaze hardened. 'Who are you?' The question burned in his mind, directed at the boy, at the angel, at the nature of the being itself. Was the boy a vessel? Or the angel, reborn? Or had the angel's essence fractured into something unrecognizable?
He set the book back on the shelf and sank onto the cold stone floor. His gaze fell to the ground, unfocused, as he considered what he had learned. The angel he had seen had cleared nearly every mark in its path. Vale had initially assumed it was just a spawn, a strange form of one atleast. But false angels, as the book described, were similar at first, only the most observant could tell the difference. This being had reached a higher level of power, but was the difference merely one of appearance, or something deeper?
Questions swarmed him: How rare were false angels? How many existed? Who were their masters? The book had given no names, no faces, only warnings and fragments of knowledge. Yet the threat it described was real, palpable, and growing.
Vale looked up, eyes narrowing into twin slits of resolve. His voice broke the silence, unnatural, harsh against the stillness.
"What were you?"
The words hung in the air, trembling between fear and fury, a question not just for the past, but for the unknown future that waited, patient and unyielding.
Slowly, Vale let out a low, heavy sigh, his gaze dropping to the cold, unyielding stone floor once more. The questions swirled in his mind, relentless, gnawing at him. He knew he could seek answers from the High Priestess, but deep down, he also knew it would do no good. The truth, whatever it was, had to be discovered on his own.
His thoughts drifted back to the false angels, their haunting forms etched into memory, and to the elusive concept of their masters. The pieces refused to settle, like a puzzle whose edges had been deliberately scrambled. Then, unexpectedly, an idea began to form in his mind.
The old gods. He knew nothing of them, beyond fragmented tales and myths whispered in hushed tones. Their book revealed nothing concrete, yet there was a persistent echo, something connecting them to the false angels. The book had never mentioned the masters explicitly, only that these angels served some greater power. The old gods, however, were ever-present in the margins of his thoughts, waiting, watching.
Vale's eyes narrowed as he traced the lines of this tenuous connection. "Maybe…" he muttered, the word fragile and uncertain, yet heavy with possibility. The false gods, it seemed, were trapped. The text implied as much: the false angels were growing in strength not for themselves, but to free their masters.
A shiver ran down his spine. Were the false angels tools, created by these imprisoned gods to achieve their liberation? But if the old gods were imprisoned, how could they exert the power needed to manipulate creation, to forge such tools? What kind of confinement was strong enough to hold beings of such might, and yet leave them capable of influencing the world?
Vale's fingers brushed his chin as he pieced fragments together, the puzzle slowly taking form. He could almost see the outline: the false angels served the old gods, the gods waited, patient, biding their time until the moment they could rise again. But why had they been imprisoned in the first place? What offense had warranted such a fate?
Then, the thought that chilled him most of all came unbidden: 'Mistake?'
Vale's lips parted slightly as he whispered the word to himself, his eyes narrowing in confusion. "What… what did they mean by that?" The question lingered, heavy and suffocating, pressing against the edges of his mind.
Before he could dwell further, a voice sliced through the stillness above him. Calm, measured, and faintly amused.
"Bravo," the voice said. "I didn't think you would be able to piece it together so soon."
Vale's head shot up. His heart slammed against his chest. He scrambled to his feet, adrenaline surging through his veins. His hand closed tightly around the hilt of his blade, the metal cold and reassuring in his grip. He crouched into a combat stance, eyes darting upward, trying to pinpoint the source of the voice.
And then he saw him.
Perched atop the giant bookshelf, silhouetted against the faint glow of the library's overhead lights, sat a tanned man. Vale froze, his mouth slightly agape, shock and disbelief flooding his senses. The man's presence was calm, almost casual, yet impossibly commanding.
"…Ali?" Vale whispered, the name trembling on his lips.
The man's smile widened, a mixture of amusement and recognition, and he leaned forward slightly, resting his arms on his knees. "It appears we meet again, young Vale,"