Chapter-19

I let the Keeper's words hang in the heavy, humid air, their weight pressing against me like the remnants of the Crimson Mire's despair.

"What will I do with it?"

The question is expected. Predictable. Amusing.

I roll the Tear of the Moon between my fingers, feeling the smooth, cool surface pulse faintly with energy. The amulet against my chest responds in kind, the two artifacts resonating with an unspoken understanding. The Keeper speaks of power as if it is a burden, as if it is something to be feared. But power is not a thing that simply corrupts. Power is a tool, an extension of will. And in the right hands—my hands—it is the means by which the broken world will be reshaped.

I take a step forward, my movements slow, deliberate. The Keeper does not retreat, nor does it advance. It watches, silent and expectant, waiting for the weight of its words to settle into my mind.

"Corruption?" I repeat, voice smooth, amused. "An inevitability, you say?" I exhale, shaking my head slightly. "How quaint. You assume I fear being changed by the power I wield. You assume I am naive enough to believe in something as arbitrary as purity or restraint."

I lift the Tear of the Moon slightly, letting its glow cast long shadows across the mire. "Power is not something that happens to me, Keeper. Power is something I control."

The Keeper's crimson eyes flicker, unreadable. Then, after a long pause, it chuckles again, that dry rasping sound, like dead leaves caught in the gears of a dying clock. "A dangerous mindset," it murmurs. "But perhaps… a necessary one."

The glyph it traced in the air lingers for a moment longer before fading, its strange, shimmering light dissipating into the mire. The Keeper lowers its clawed hand, its presence shifting—not in retreat, not in submission, but in acknowledgment.

"Very well," it says. "The choice is yours, Defaulger Trice. But mark my words—power is not simply wielded. It demands."

I smirk, tilting my head slightly. "Then it will demand from someone worthy."

The mire, the labyrinth, the very fabric of Wonderland itself—it all waits, holds its breath, sensing the shifting tide. The game board has changed. The pieces realigned.

The three Tears of the Moon rest in my possession.

The question is not whether I will use them.

The question is how.

And the world is about to find out.