chapter 19.2

As Alcard stood before Oldman's desk, he carefully placed the green prism on the wooden surface, its eerie glow casting wavering reflections across the dimly lit room. The object pulsed faintly, as though it possessed a life of its own, sending ripples of tension through the already heavy air. It was as if the entire space held its breath, acknowledging the weight of what had been brought within its walls.

Oldman regarded the fragment with wary scrutiny, his hands hovering just above its smooth, crystalline surface. His expression was unreadable, but Alcard could sense the depth of his thoughts—years of experience, countless battles, and endless burdens had taught him how to recognize true danger when it presented itself.

For a long moment, the old man said nothing, simply studying the artifact as though hoping to decipher something that could not be seen with mortal eyes. Finally, he exhaled, his voice carrying the weight of unspoken knowledge.

"I'll make sure this is hidden where no one—no outcast, no lord, and certainly no agent of The Veil—will ever be able to reach it," he declared, his tone firm, leaving no room for argument. He picked up the prism with deliberate care, his fingers brushing against its surface for only a brief second before he quickly pulled away.

Alcard noted the reaction, the slight tremor in Oldman's fingers. "Did you feel it too?" he asked, though his tone was more statement than question.

Oldman did not immediately reply. Instead, he walked to the far side of the room, retrieving a reinforced iron box adorned with ancient sigils. Without hesitation, he placed the prism inside, locking it shut with multiple mechanisms, ensuring that no ordinary person could hope to break into it. Then, without another word, he turned and left, heading toward the underground vault hidden deep beneath the central headquarter—an area known only to him and a select few.

Alcard watched him go, his own thoughts clouded with questions that had no easy answers. He wanted to believe that locking the fragment away would end the matter, but deep down, he knew better. Something had shifted in the air since they had retrieved the artifact. It was as though an unseen force had been awakened, stirring from its long slumber.

For days after their return, Alcard threw himself into routine duties, as though immersing himself in labor could silence the nagging unease that clung to him. He trained the new recruits, helped reinforce the western defenses, and led patrols along The Wall. Outwardly, he appeared unchanged—just another outcast, fulfilling his duty. But inside, his mind kept drifting back to that moment in the ruins, the instant when his fingers had first grazed the fragment's surface.

Seated atop the battlements one evening, he found himself staring out at the vast horizon stretching beyond The Wall. The southern forests loomed in the distance, dark and impenetrable. He flexed his fingers unconsciously, recalling the odd sensation that had coursed through him when he held the fragment. It had been like a whisper—silent, yet heavy with meaning, something beyond mere physical touch.

"Was it just my imagination?" he muttered under his breath, watching as the wind stirred the distant treetops. The rational part of him insisted that it was nothing, a figment of exhaustion, a fleeting sensation caused by the artifact's residual energy. And yet, he couldn't shake the feeling that the fragment had… responded to him.

He remembered it vividly—the momentary rush of cold, like stepping into a shadowed corridor after standing under the sun for too long. It wasn't painful, nor was it entirely unpleasant. But it was undeniable. It had happened.

Shaking his head, he dismissed the thoughts. "I'm just tired," he murmured to himself. "Nothing more than that."

And yet, no matter how many times he repeated the words, they never quite rang true. The memory lingered, like an unanswered question waiting to be acknowledged.

As the days passed, he kept his observations to himself. There was no point in bringing it up to Oldman—not when they had already decided to lock the artifact away. The last thing they needed was unnecessary paranoia. If The Veil was indeed hunting for these fragments, then the less people who knew about its existence, the better.

But even as he tried to move on, he could feel the weight of the secret pressing against him, following him like a shadow that refused to fade.

One evening, during a patrol along the western watchtower, he found himself distracted once again. His companions chatted idly about supply shortages, the increasing monster sightings beyond The Wall, and the growing political unrest among the human lords. But Alcard barely listened, his fingers instinctively tightening around the hilt of his sword as his thoughts drifted.

"That thing… It wasn't normal," he thought to himself, his grip on his weapon firm. "But was it truly a fragment? And if it was… what happens if it falls into the wrong hands?"

He exhaled sharply, forcing himself to refocus. There was no use in dwelling on things he could not control. For now, all that mattered was that the fragment was hidden away.

And yet, despite all the precautions, he could not silence the nagging voice at the back of his mind that whispered of an inevitable truth:

This was not over.

What they had found in the ruins would not stay forgotten. Not forever.

He could feel it in his bones, in the restless energy that seemed to hum just beneath his skin. Something had changed. Something had begun.

And no matter how much he tried to return to his old routine, he knew, deep down, that his life as an outcast would never be the same again.

As the sun dipped below the horizon, bathing The Wall in hues of crimson and gold, Alcard cast one last glance toward the sky. A storm was gathering in the distance, the clouds thick and heavy with unspoken omens.

This was not the end.

It was merely the beginning.