Chapter 49: When the cicadas cry

The Land of Cicadas

As Sylas and Livia stepped forward, the fabric of reality around them warped—a sudden pull, as if the cosmos itself had exhaled and sent them tumbling into a new world. Their feet landed upon solid earth, yet there was something strangely artificial about it. The ground was green—not with grass, but with a smooth, polished stone, like jade fractured and mended countless times over the millennia.

A sky loomed above them, vast and endless, but it was not blue. Instead, it was cast in hues of deep amber, streaked with golden wisps that shifted like molten threads being woven into the heavens. There was no sun, no moon—only a soft, perpetual glow, as if the light itself emanated from the air around them.

The world was silent. Not a single breeze stirred, not a single bird chirped. Even their own breaths felt muted, swallowed by the eerie tranquility. And then, at the heart of this strange and quiet realm, they saw it—

A fountain.

It stood alone in the emptiness, a massive structure carved from obsidian and gold. Water flowed endlessly from the mouths of four sculpted beasts—a lion, a dragon, a serpent, and a phoenix—all of them faceless, their features worn away by time or something more insidious. The liquid within the fountain shimmered unnaturally, shifting between deep blue, silver, and crimson, as though reflecting something beyond human perception.

And there—at the very center of the fountain's waters—a sword.

It stood upright, submerged up to its hilt, its blade gleaming despite the lack of direct light. The water around it did not ripple, did not shift—it was still, eerily so, as if time itself had been frozen in that single moment.

As Sylas and Livia approached, their steps echoed unnaturally against the stone beneath them. The closer they got, the more an overwhelming pressure settled upon their shoulders—a presence unseen yet undeniably there, watching, waiting.

Then, Sylas's gaze dropped to the engraving at the fountain's base.

"When the cicadas cry."

The words were etched into the cement, each letter worn but precise, as though they had been carved by something divine.

Sylas furrowed his brows. The phrase was vague, almost cryptic, but it stirred something in the depths of his mind—a familiarity he couldn't place. A warning? A prophecy? Or simply an observation of what was to come?

Livia stood beside him, arms crossed, her golden eyes narrowed in thought. "It's too quiet," she murmured. "I don't like it."

Sylas exhaled through his nose. Neither did he. But the sword—it called to him.

He stepped forward.

The moment his fingers brushed the hilt—

The silence shattered.

A deafening, unnatural chorus of sound erupted from all around them. It was not music, nor the howl of wind, nor the sound of any living creature. It was a cacophony of cicadas—thousands, perhaps millions of them, screaming, wailing, an ear-piercing shriek that threatened to split the very fabric of reality.

The sky darkened. The amber glow was swallowed whole, replaced by a suffocating void, as if the world itself had blinked—and in that brief instant, something fundamental had changed.

Sylas barely had time to pull the sword free before the air around them exploded.

Cicadas.

Thousands of them.

They erupted from the void, from the cracks in the earth, from the very fountain itself. Their bodies were grotesque—not mere insects, but things twisted beyond nature, their wings shimmering like fractured glass, their eyes hollow and deep, like black holes given form. Some were the size of mere birds, others larger than wolves, their distorted chittering forming a sound so overwhelming it rattled through the bones.

Livia was already moving, her weapon drawn, cutting through the swarm with a practiced precision. Blades flashed, bodies were severed—but for every one that fell, ten more took its place.

Sylas gritted his teeth, his grip tightening around the sword. The blade pulsed in his hands, its metal humming—not with magic, but with something older.

A memory.

He could feel it—whispers of a time before this world, of a war long forgotten, of a price paid in blood and suffering.

This sword was no ordinary weapon.

It was a relic.

And now—it had been awakened.

His eyes flashed, his mind sharpening. No time to hesitate. If the engraving was to be believed, there was only one way out of this madness.

They had to wait for the cicadas to stop crying.

But how long would that take?

And more importantly—what would remain of them by then?

When the Cicadas Cry

The deafening wails of the cicadas filled the air, an unrelenting, chaotic symphony that tore at reality itself. The shrill, overlapping cries were not merely sounds—they were something far worse. Each note reverberated with an unnatural frequency, something deeper, something that reached into the marrow of existence itself. It was not just noise; it was a curse. A song that had no beginning, no end—only an eternal, maddening crescendo.

Sylas could feel it. A pull. The weight of something ancient pressing against his skin, clawing at the edges of his mind.

Livia, beside him, had her sword drawn, her golden eyes flickering with restrained tension. "This isn't normal," she muttered, voice barely audible over the wailing.

"No shit," Sylas replied. His grip tightened on the sword he had pulled from the fountain, its blade still humming, still pulsing with something unfamiliar. He could feel it now—a presence within. This weapon was more than mere steel. It held history. It held will. And something—**someone—**had left a part of themselves within it.

The sky above them churned, folding in on itself. The amber glow had fully vanished, replaced by a darkness that did not belong. No stars, no light—only a void so absolute that even the concept of night felt too generous a description. The cicadas swarmed in greater numbers, their bodies distorting mid-flight, merging, shifting, twisting—

And then, the ground began to change.

Cracks spread across the jade-like stone beneath their feet, deep fractures forming intricate patterns that glowed with a cold, blue light. The moment Sylas took a step back, he realized—

It was a sigil.

A massive, elaborate rune had been carved into the very foundation of this world. And now—it was activating.

The cicadas' cries intensified. The wailing turned rhythmic, calculated—as if something, someone, was conducting this dreadful symphony. The air around them thickened, the weight of the curse pressing down harder, stronger—

Sylas staggered. His mind felt like it was being pulled in two directions at once—forward and backward, past and future, existing and ceasing.

Livia's voice cut through the chaos, sharp and unwavering. "Sylas, focus!"

He barely managed to ground himself. His breathing was sharp, uneven, but he forced himself to concentrate. There was a pattern, a logic, something beneath the overwhelming madness. If the engraving was right—**"When the cicadas cry"—**then that meant something would happen.

But what?

A test? A summoning? A warning?

Sylas closed his eyes. The cries, the chaos, the shifting weight of the world—he let it all pass through him, without resistance, without struggle. He focused not on the noise, but on the silences between the wails. The brief pauses, the near-imperceptible gaps between each screeching note—

And then—

He felt it.

A second presence.

No—many.

Not the cicadas. Not the sword.

Something else.

The moment Sylas opened his eyes, he saw them.

Shadows.

Figures standing beyond the reach of light, beyond the veil of existence. They were not humanoid, not fully formed—mere outlines, flickering between being and not being. Some had no heads. Others had too many. Their limbs bent at unnatural angles, yet they stood perfectly still, as if waiting.

Watching.

Livia saw them too. Her grip tightened on her weapon, her breath slow, measured. "What are they?" she asked, her voice calm despite the unknown.

Sylas didn't answer. Because he wasn't sure.

The cicadas continued their song, but now, with every scream, the shadows took a step closer.

They weren't attacking.

They were waiting.

Waiting for the wails to stop.

And Sylas knew, in his bones, in his very soul—the moment the cicadas stopped crying, something would come.

Something neither he nor Livia were ready for.