Chapter 50: When the cicadas stopped crying

The Silence After Death

For the first time since they arrived, silence reigned.

The cicadas had stopped crying. Their maddening wails, which had torn through reality, which had bent the very air around them, were now nothing but a memory—an absence that felt heavier than any sound.

Sylas exhaled slowly, his breath visible in the strange, cold air of this world. He glanced at Livia, who stood beside him, her golden eyes scanning their surroundings with careful precision. The world had not crumbled, nor had it changed in any discernible way. The sky remained dark, the land untouched. No great calamity. No monstrous horror emerging from the depths of the unknown.

Just silence.

Livia broke it first.

"So," she said, crossing her arms, "either we passed whatever test this was, or something is waiting for us to let our guard down."

Sylas let out a dry chuckle. "Feels like both."

She hummed in response, taking a seat on the fountain's edge, the stone cold against her skin. Sylas followed suit, resting his arms on his knees, gazing at the rippling water.

They sat there for a while, not speaking, simply existing in the eerie stillness.

It was peaceful, in a way.

"You know," Livia finally said, breaking the silence again, "this place reminds me of an old legend. The Tale of the Sleepless Knight."

Sylas arched a brow. "Never heard of it."

Livia smirked slightly. "You wouldn't have. It's something only nobles are taught, an old myth passed down from the ancient kingdoms. They say there was once a warrior who wielded a blade so powerful that the gods themselves feared it. He never slept, never rested, because the moment he closed his eyes, his blade would vanish—and he would die."

Sylas tilted his head. "Sounds like a terrible way to live."

"It was," Livia said, her voice quieter now. "But he never stopped fighting, never stopped moving, because he had something he wanted to protect. A dream, a person, a kingdom—no one really knows. But in the end, he did close his eyes. And when he did…"

"The blade disappeared," Sylas finished.

Livia nodded. "And so did he."

For a moment, neither of them spoke. The story lingered between them, its meaning uncertain, its truth even more so.

Sylas glanced down at the sword in his hand. The one he had pulled from the fountain. It was lighter than it looked, yet he could feel its weight—not just physically, but historically. This weapon had a past. It had meaning.

He closed his eyes, letting the quiet hum of the water fill his ears.

And when he opened them again—

The sword was gone.

For a second, he stared at his empty hands, his mind struggling to process what had just happened. The weight, the presence of the weapon—gone, as if it had never been there at all.

Then—

A sharp, piercing pain.

Sylas blinked.

His vision blurred for a fraction of a second, and then—Livia.

Standing in front of him.

The sword—**the same sword that had just vanished from his hands—**was now clutched in hers.

And it was buried in his chest.

He staggered back, breath hitching, his hands instinctively moving to the blade that was now inside him.

His mind was blank.

His body was failing.

The pain was unlike anything he had ever felt—cold, sharp, absolute. It wasn't just a wound. It was a severance. His strength, his very existence, was leaving him.

"Livia…?" he choked out, his voice barely above a whisper.

Her golden eyes held no emotion. No regret. No hesitation.

Just certainty.

His vision blurred further. The edges of the world darkened. The pain in his chest spread—consuming, unraveling, pulling.

And then—

A rush of memories.

His entire life flashed before his eyes.

His old world. The memories of a past life, where he had once belonged. The people he had known, the places he had walked.

His new world. The kingdom, the academy, the battles, the fleeting moments of peace.

Livia.

Everything was slipping away, fading into an empty, endless void—

Until suddenly—

Something pulled him back.

The world collapsed around him, the pain, the darkness, the fading—all vanished.

And in the next moment—

Sylas opened his eyes.

He was no longer in that world.

No longer standing before Livia, no longer bleeding out.

He was somewhere else.

Somewhere beyond.

A place of silver mist and shifting stars. A place where time itself felt meaningless, where reality felt fluid and uncertain.

The Veil of Reverie.

He had been saved.

But by who?

And more importantly—

Why?

The Veil of Reverie

The first thing Sylas noticed when he opened his eyes was the absence of pain.

There was no burning, no cold steel lodged in his chest, no sensation of blood dripping down his skin. He instinctively reached for the spot where he had been stabbed, expecting to feel torn flesh or at least a lingering ache. Nothing. It was as if the wound had never existed.

The second thing he noticed was the fog.

It was everywhere, thick and endless, stretching across an infinite horizon. It was not the murky, suffocating kind but something more ethereal, almost weightless. It shimmered faintly, moving like liquid silk, as if reality itself had taken a deep breath and chosen to rest.

Sylas took a slow, measured step forward.

A chuckle echoed behind him.

Rich. Amused. Knowing.

He turned.

And there he was.

Sitting in a luxurious chair—no, a throne that did not belong in any earthly realm—was Lucius Mavros.

The man was impeccable.

Red eyes, like pools of molten rubies, lazily observed him with the weight of a being that had seen too much and still found amusement in the folly of lesser creatures. His red hair, sharp and effortlessly styled, framed a face that was arrogantly perfect. Not a strand out of place. Not a wrinkle on his finely tailored black suit. He exuded absolute control, like an artist who had already painted every stroke of the future and was simply waiting for the world to catch up.

Lucius Mavros. Mister Omniscient and Omnipresent!

(A/N: Yayy, mister god is back after 27 chapter!!)

—

The being who saw everything.

And he was smiling.

"I told you to allow yourself to be surprised, human."

(A/N; Heh, you guys should have taken he's warning.)

Sylas stared at him, his mind still catching up.

Lucius sighed, tilting his head as if mildly disappointed. "And yet, here you are. Dead, but not quite. Saved, but not entirely. Would it kill you to listen for once?"

Sylas scowled, crossing his arms. "Excuse me for not expecting to be stabbed by her of all people."

Lucius smirked, resting his chin on one hand. "Yes, I suppose betrayal has a way of making even the most prepared men feel… vulnerable. But tell me, did you really not see it coming?"

Sylas clenched his jaw. He had seen signs, fleeting moments, the kind that felt insignificant at first but made perfect sense in hindsight. But even now, even after feeling the blade pierce him, he couldn't wrap his head around why.

Lucius studied him for a moment, as if peering into his very thoughts, before chuckling again. "You're wondering why she did it."

Sylas tensed. "…You know?"

Lucius spread his hands, leaning back into his throne. "I know everything."

Sylas exhaled sharply. Of course.

"And you're not going to tell me, are you?"

Lucius smiled. A slow, deliberate curve of the lips that held too many secrets.

"Now, where would the fun be in that?"

Sylas felt a headache coming.

Lucius Mavros was always like this. Always speaking in riddles, always dropping hints that meant everything and nothing at the same time. He was a god—or something close enough to one. And gods never gave answers. They gave games.

"So," Sylas said, rubbing his temples, "what now? Am I actually dead?"

Lucius hummed, tapping his fingers against the armrest of his chair. "Hmm. Yes. And no."

Sylas gave him a flat look.

Lucius chuckled. "You're here, aren't you?"

Here.

The Veil of Reverie.

A realm between death and existence. A place that only those who teetered on the edge could ever glimpse.

A place where souls were rewritten.

Sylas inhaled sharply. "…Am I supposed to move on, then?"

Lucius simply smiled, his red eyes glinting.

"No, Sylas," he said softly, almost fondly. "You, my dear human, are not quite finished yet."

And with a flick of his wrist—

The world shattered.