Chapter 355

The sage stood at the edge of the cliff, looking out at the horizon. The sky was streaked with an unnatural red, bleeding into blackness. Below, the village nestled at the foot of the mountain—barely visible now.

The sage's eyes, once clear and full of wisdom, were clouded with sorrow. His hands trembled slightly as he pressed them together, his knuckles aching from the effort. Time was running out.

He had tried, time and again, to warn them. The signs were everywhere—hidden in the wind, in the tremors of the earth, in the cries of animals.

The village had always been an isolated one, but the folk here had lived well enough, until now. Now, the cracks in the world were too wide to ignore. But they did. They ignored him. They laughed when he spoke of the danger. And worse, they mocked him when he begged them to prepare.

"You've been to those caves too many times, sage," they'd said. "Your mind is clouded with madness."

"You're just an old fool," they'd called him.

And when the earthquakes began, when the animals started to flee the forests and the sky darkened in ways that shouldn't have been possible, they still dismissed him. They couldn't see it. Not truly. They couldn't see the ancient evil that stirred beneath their feet, waiting, restless.

Now, it was too late. The sage's heart tightened. His breath grew shallow. He had failed them. He had failed the world.

He turned back toward the village and began the long, slow walk down the path, his robes trailing behind him, tattered and torn. The world was quiet, but there was a sickening stillness to it. A kind of silence that wasn't natural. He could almost taste it in the air—something acrid, like the scent of decay.

As he neared the village, he could see the smoke rising from the chimneys. The people were still going about their business, unaware. They always were, weren't they? Too wrapped up in their own petty lives to notice the world unraveling around them.

His footsteps echoed in the empty street. No one was out. No one except a few children playing near the fountain, their laughter cutting through the stillness like a blade. He approached them, but they didn't see him. They never saw him.

The sage had spent most of his life in these mountains, trying to learn the ways of the earth, to unlock its secrets. He had always been different, even as a boy. The other children had mocked him for his strange ways, for his deep thoughts and unyielding silence.

He had accepted it, even welcomed it, as it gave him the time he needed to study, to understand. He had found things no one else had. He had uncovered truths—ancient, forgotten truths—that no one had believed.

He walked past the children, ignoring their laughter. The wind picked up, carrying with it a strange, cold chill. He shivered. He had never felt this kind of cold before. It wasn't the kind that came with the changing seasons, or with the passing of a storm. No, this cold was different. It came from within the earth itself.

He reached the town square, where the people were beginning to gather. Some were standing by the well, chatting idly, others leaned against the stone walls of their homes, basking in the warmth of the dying sun. And there, in the middle, was the elder of the village.

The sage approached him slowly. His footsteps seemed louder now, too loud, as if the earth was rejecting him. He cleared his throat.

"Elder," he said, his voice rough, raw. "It's here."

The elder glanced up from his conversation. His expression hardened, but not in concern—more like annoyance. "Ah, the sage," he muttered. "You again. What is it now? Another prophecy? Another warning?"

The sage's hands shook. His mouth felt dry. He knew it was no use. He could see it in the elder's eyes. The skepticism. The disbelief. They wouldn't listen.

"The earth," the sage said, his voice strained, "it's waking. You feel it, don't you? The tremors? The animals? The dark sky?"

The elder waved him off. "Enough of this nonsense. We've been through earthquakes before. The sky has darkened many times. This is nothing."

The sage's heart sank. He wanted to scream, to shake the man until he understood. But instead, he merely stood there, silent. A fool. A broken fool.

"Please," the sage said softly, "I beg you. We have to prepare. The evil—"

"Enough," the elder snapped. "Go home, sage. The villagers have no use for your doomsday ramblings."

The sage stood frozen, watching the elder turn his back. His heart felt as though it was being crushed in his chest. No one was listening. No one ever would.

The wind picked up again, this time with more force. The sage staggered back, his legs weak. He could feel the ground tremble beneath his feet, and his breath quickened. Something was happening. He could feel it, deep within his bones.

He looked around, trying to catch the eyes of the villagers, but they were too busy, too absorbed in their own lives to notice. They were still laughing, still chatting, still blind to the end that was coming.

A scream shattered the quiet.

The sage's head snapped toward the source of the sound. His blood ran cold. The children. The ones he had passed earlier, by the fountain.

They were gone now. Just... gone. No traces, no bodies. Only the echo of their laughter hanging in the air, like the faintest trace of a dream.

And then, the ground began to crack. The earth split open, wide and jagged, as if the world itself was trying to swallow them whole.

The villagers screamed. Chaos erupted. But still, the sage stood there, staring at the chasm before him. He knew what it was. He had seen it before, in the old scrolls, in the stories passed down through generations. It had been forgotten, buried under centuries of dust. But now, it had returned.

The earth split open wider. The sky above twisted and writhed, as if something was pushing through, breaking through from another world. The screams of the villagers were drowned out by the deafening roar of the land, as it began to tear itself apart.

The sage's body was trembling, not from fear, but from the overwhelming sense of despair. He had failed. It had always been his responsibility to warn them. But he hadn't been able to convince them. And now, the world was paying the price.

He turned to leave, but his legs gave way beneath him. His hands scraped against the stone as he tried to catch himself. His vision blurred. Blood trickled down his face, and his breathing became labored.

He had failed. They would all die, and it would be his fault.

The ground trembled violently now, and he knew there was no escape. No one would survive this. It was too late.

The sage closed his eyes. He could hear the roar of the chasm, the screams of the villagers, the sound of the world dying around him. But there was something else too—something far worse.

The earth itself was alive, and it was angry. It was no longer just the shaking, the tremors. It was the sound of something ancient, something terrible, awakening after a long, forgotten sleep.

And the sage, in his last moments, knew that there would be no coming back from this. No rebuilding. No survival.

There was only the end.