Chapter 2: A World That Cannot Hold Him of Ketzerah
His steps were light, almost soundless, yet each one reverberated like an echo through the fabric of the world.
Ketzerah walked with no direction, no destination—simply driven by the compulsion to move forward. The woman in the black cloak followed behind him silently. She said nothing, her pace neither rushed nor hesitant, always remaining a few paces behind, like a shadow chasing a forgotten memory.
The wind picked up. Rain began to fall.
And yet, not a single drop touched Ketzerah.
The air curved around him, afraid to brush his skin. The moonlight dimmed as it passed over him. No insect dared approach, and the forest creatures buried themselves deeper into the earth.
"Ketzerah…" the woman finally spoke, her voice soft like a sigh barely heard.
"…do you realize this world cannot hold your presence?"
The boy halted. He didn't turn around.
"I know," came the answer—not from his lips, but from something deeper, a presence behind the voice.
"You don't belong to this world," she said.
"I don't belong to any."
"Then why are you here again?"
"I did not choose this."
"Then who did?"
"…No one."
---
The reply was neither confused nor evasive. It was certain. Truthful.
Ketzerah had not been summoned.
He had not been created.
No power had resurrected him. No ritual, no divine hand, no mistake.
He simply existed.
And the world had no choice but to accommodate him again.
---
They walked in silence for what could have been hours or days—time bent around him, refusing to function normally. The trees shifted subtly when he passed, the sky seemed hesitant to cast shadows where he stood.
He never slowed.
He never grew tired.
He never asked questions.
The woman in black—who still had not revealed her name—followed with quiet acceptance. Her eyes bore not fear, but burden. A burden of remembrance.
---
On the third night, they reached the outskirts of a small village named Faltrine.
Distant lanterns flickered in the mist. The scent of firewood, stewed meat, and wet hay filled the air. The cozy sounds of civilization echoed faintly—laughing children, clanking pots, music from a flute.
"Don't go in," the woman warned.
Ketzerah stopped. "Why?"
"A place like this cannot withstand you."
"They are just humans, aren't they? And I appear to be a human child."
"Yes," she said quietly, gazing at the ground. "But you're not something that appears to be. You're something that shouldn't be."
She looked up.
"When ordinary beings come near you, they break. Slowly. Or instantly. With no reason. No logic."
"Like that old woman?"
Her lips trembled.
"…Yes."
---
Still, Ketzerah moved forward.
The woman did not stop him.
She simply lowered her gaze and followed, silently.
Faltrine was a humble village—about two hundred people, most of them farmers, blacksmiths, and herbalists. There were a few guards and low-tier mages from the Southern Guild assigned to watch the borders.
Ketzerah entered like a drifting mist.
No one noticed him at first.
He stood in the center of the town square, where children played and merchants called out their goods. Women scrubbed laundry, and an old man poured wine from a jug.
Then, one by one, they looked at him.
And the world froze.
Not in fear.
Not in awe.
But in a sensation none of them could name.
Their chests tightened.
Their vision blurred.
A baby began to scream—an unending, bloodcurdling wail.
A chicken flapped wildly, then dropped dead with no visible cause.
A dog growled, its body trembling, before turning tail and fleeing toward the woods.
A little girl vomited blood and collapsed, though no wound marked her body.
Within seconds—
"MONSTER!!!" a voice cried.
---
Chaos erupted.
Villagers fled indoors, doors slammed, windows shut.
Some panicked and hurled whatever they could find at Ketzerah—sticks, stones, a dagger.
None of it reached him.
Everything froze in midair, then crumbled into ash and blew away on wind that hadn't been there a moment before.
And Ketzerah stood still, watching it all.
Not angry.
Not sad.
Just… distant.
---
From the eastern gate, a squad of village guards appeared. Armed with spears, short swords, and spell scrolls, they were led by a grizzled captain with a scarred face and iron-grey beard.
"Who is this child?!" the captain barked. "Are you a cursed beast from the northern ruins?!"
Before Ketzerah could respond, the woman in black emerged from the shadows.
"Don't touch him."
The guards turned. "And who the hell are you?"
"I'm the one who destroyed him once," she said flatly. "And he's returned. Still quiet… but unchanged."
The guards flinched.
Several mages behind them began chanting. Magic circles lit up the air. Runes floated like snowflakes of fire and light.
And then—
The village began to tear.
Not the buildings.
Not the earth.
But reality itself.
The sky flickered like rippling water.
The shapes of homes stretched and warped like melting wax.
Trees pulsed with unnatural colors.
From above, black liquid light began to drizzle from the heavens—drops of condensed absence, as if the concept of night itself was bleeding.
One of the mages screamed.
"This isn't arcane magic! This is… existential distortion!"
It was too late.
---
The woman moved swiftly. She leapt toward Ketzerah, chanting under her breath, and wrapped a veil of null-field magic around them both.
In an instant, they were gone—vanished from the village square—and reappeared in the forest just beyond the hills.
Ketzerah turned to her, confused.
"I didn't want to hurt them."
"I know," she whispered.
"But you can't not hurt them, Ketzerah."
"Because your mere existence is a wound to this world."
---
They sat by an ancient lake that night.
The stars refused to reflect on the water's surface. The moon above shimmered, distorting as if embarrassed by his gaze.
Ketzerah stared into the lake. He saw himself—or what should have been himself. But the reflection shifted with each passing second.
Sometimes a boy.
Sometimes a man.
Sometimes nothing.
"Why am I here?" he asked quietly.
The woman said nothing.
Instead, she finally sat beside him.
"…I don't know if you're destruction, or salvation."
---
Far away, atop the tallest tower of the Kingdom of Thalverin, a gathering of seers sat in silence.
"The entity that cannot be erased has returned," one said.
"No binding will work. No curse. No seal."
"Then what hope is there?"
"…Pray."
---
And somewhere beyond the stars—
beyond even the gods' dominions—
something older than time began to open its eyes.
---