48. Dawn Of Another Chapter

The sky above Ceferin had turned the color of bruised flesh, swollen with something that didn't belong to this world. The wind carried a scent like burned parchment and spoiled milk, thick and clinging to the tongue. A faint hum buzzed through the hills, low and constant, like the dying breath of a collapsing machine.

Black tentacles coiled across the fields, wet and glistening, pulsing as if drawing breath. Wherever they reached, life unraveled. A squirrel darted through the underbrush—then froze mid-step, convulsed, and fell limp. One of the tendrils brushed against its fur. The creature withered as if drained from the inside, skin collapsing around brittle bone.

Andrew Fritz stepped over the remains of a fence, his boots crunching against dead grass. He paused near a ridge overlooking what used to be the southern edge of Prada Town. The ground below was ruptured like something had bloomed from underneath, unwanted and enormous.

"I thought I'd find you here," came a voice behind him.

He turned. Director of Ceferin Division, Salis Phantos approached, long coat flaring gently in the breeze. His face was pale, exhausted, and his gloves were smeared with dried ink and ash. He wasn't supposed to be here—not with the Council meetings still ongoing but here he was.

Andrew didn't greet him. Just gestured to the crawling mess below.

"It's not just absorbing life. It's taking thaum, too. Even from the dead ones."

Salis stopped beside him, staring down in silence. One of the larger tentacles twitched, and a slit opened along its length. Something spilled out a malformed creature, long-limbed, backward-jointed, twitching as it landed. It hissed and scrambled into the shadows.

"They're birthing things now," Andrew said, voice low. "They don't match any bestiary on record."

Salis rubbed his temple. "The anchors in South Ceferin are already down. We'll have to move fast lock the remaining towns in a ring. No travel, no radio, no light. Blackout protocol."

"That'll cause panic."

"There's already panic," Salis replied. "Now we just need to hide it behind silence."

The humming deepened. Andrew looked up.

Floating above the skeletal remains of the Church of Hazaya was the Diary—just hanging there, as if gravity had forgotten it. The black leather cover shifted subtly, like skin stretched over a heartbeat. Faint purple cracks ran along its surface, pulsing every few seconds like veins. Each pulse sent a ripple through the tentacles below.

Andrew stared. "We don't know what it's saying. We don't even know if it's speaking."

"It doesn't matter," Salis said, eyes never leaving the sky. "It's already being heard."

Another creature tore free from a split tendril, this one howling like a child caught in a storm.

Andrew took a breath. "If this spreads past Ceferin…"

"It won't," Salis cut in. "We won't let it."

"But what if it already has?"

A silence fell between them.

Far off, something large groaned beneath the ground. The tentacles kept spreading—slowly, endlessly—creeping toward towns that didn't even know they were marked yet.

And the Diary kept floating. Watching.

....

Certainly. Here's an expanded version of the scene, layered with emotion, atmosphere, and quiet meaning:

---

It was a land without definition.

No trees, sand, waves. Just stretches of dry, cracked ground bleeding into misted distance. The sky above was colorless, like ash soaked in cold water. Time didn't seem to move here. Light had no warmth. It was a place that existed outside the world, or maybe beneath it.

Allen stood there.

His boots were caked in dirt and dust, the tread worn from days of walking with no direction. The shovel in his hand was chipped near the handle, the metal faintly rusted. It had seen use—more than he cared to admit.

In front of him lay a small, freshly packed grave. The soil remained unsettled, uneven in the middle. No headstone, no marker. Just the quiet scar of memory in the ground.

Beneath that dirt was a feathered hat. One that once danced in the wind. Worn by someone who believed in things Allen could no longer name. Someone who smiled brighter than the world deserved.

He crouched and stared at the grave, his shoulders sinking just slightly under the weight of silence.

From his coat pocket, he pulled a rose. Its petals were bruised at the edges, the color a fading crimson, like something once alive trying to remain beautiful. He knelt and pressed it gently into the mound.

The wind passed. Not strong, not gentle. Just enough to rustle his hair and push his coat open like an unseen hand.

Allen stood again.

No words were said. No tears fell. But the quiet between his breaths was heavy enough to be called mourning.

He turned, shovel still in hand, and walked into the nameless terrain.

The rose remained.

And the feathered hat beneath the soil would never move again.

"If love could dig, I'd have unearthed the stars to bring you home."

....

The carriage wheels groaned against the rocky dirt road as they crested the final hill. Rain had fallen earlier, leaving the path slick with mud. From the hilltop, the outskirts of the town came into view—rooftops half-sunken in creeping dark growth, black vines curling like veins through broken chimneys and splintered doors.

Jeff reined the horses in slowly, eyes narrowed.

Mary leaned forward beside him, her coat soaked at the shoulders. "It's worse than this morning," she said quietly.

Jeff nodded. "The tentacles weren't that further before."

In the distance, a crooked church bell tower stood like a twisted spine. Behind it, a mass of dark, pulsating tendrils—wet and glistening—was inching ever forward, spilling into the town like blood from a broken artery. At its base, shapes were moving. Not walking but crawling. Some on too many limbs. Others on none at all.

The horses began to shudder. Jeff jumped down and moved to soothe them, patting one's neck with trembling hands.

Mary stepped off the carriage, her boots sinking slightly into the mud. "We were just here. People were baking bread. Kids were playing near the well."

Jeff looked up at the sky, now a dim bruise. "Now it's quiet."

They walked a few paces forward, toward the edge of the field. A collapsed house stood nearby—its walls broken inward, vines threading through shattered windows. On the ground was a torn scarf. Mary picked it up. It was soaked, but she recognized the color.

"Ella's," she whispered. "She offered us tea... just yesterday."

Jeff didn't reply. Instead, he looked over to the town square, where a flickering light shimmered briefly—then blinked out. Something slithered along the rooftops. A chittering sound followed, bone-dry and fast.

Suddenly, Mary grabbed his arm. "Don't go further."

Jeff paused. He could feel her hand trembling.

"I know what you're thinking," she said. "But we can't save what's already gone."

"I know," he murmured. Then looked at her. "But I didn't expect it to hurt like this."

She met his eyes. "That's because you still care."

He let out a soft laugh, dry and bitter. "Is that a weakness now?"

"No," she said. "It's why I followed you here."

The wind picked up, and with it came a low, guttural growl. Somewhere, a creature was born from the writhing black—a skeletal, winged shape sliding from a tentacle womb. It stood on six inverted limbs and howled into the sky.

Jeff looked away. "We should warn the next town. If it spreads this fast…"

"We'll ride till sunset," Mary said. "Then burn every map that says this place ever existed."

He glanced sideways at her, a smile tugging at the edge of his lips despite the grief in his chest. "You always knew how to say something cruel just right."

"It's how I cope."

They turned back toward the carriage. As they climbed aboard, Mary hesitated—then reached out. He looked at her, surprised.

"I'm still here," she said. "Even if we lose everything, don't forget that."

He squeezed her fingers gently. "Then I won't fall apart yet."

And together, as the sky wept ash and strange stars blinked open in midday, the carriage moved forward, rolling into a future neither of them could see, but neither of them would face alone.

On the rooftop of a leaning clocktower, Nelson crouched in silence. His real form exposed beneath the tattered coat. Thin, alien veins shimmered faintly under his skin. Eyes too bright for a human face narrowed as he tore a piece of hard bread with his teeth.

Below, the carriage wheels turned. Jeff and Mary disappeared into the fogged road, unaware.

Crumbs fell from his mouth, caught by the wind.

"They're still fighting," he muttered, voice rough and strange. "Good. Hope, mine is happy in heaven."

He took another bite, chewing slowly. His gaze never left them.

....

The rooftop was silent, save for the occasional groan of warped wood beneath Henry's boots. He stood at the edge of the mansion, the wind pulling strands of ash and smoke past his face like ghosts whispering forgotten names. His coat flapped loosely, dirtied, torn at the sleeves. Below him, the world had fallen into a crawling, pulsing nightmare—tentacles like obsidian roots coiling through what once were gardens, alleys, homes.

His home.

Gone, like it had never been real. He saw it burn. Saw the walls collapse inward with a groan. The rooms he grew up in, filled with laughter and light, reduced to cinders. His fingertips trembled slightly, yet he felt no urge to move. It was as if his body understood what his heart couldn't, what could he do now?

He whispered a name. Then another.

"Roze... Mimi…"

Their names didn't spread. The wind swallowed them too quickly. Roze's wide, sharp grin voice of her, full of reckless hope. Mimi's gentle purring, her fur matted with blood in her final moments. He had held her in his arms, watching the light fade from her eyes. He didn't even know if there was anything left to bury.

They were gone. And he had watched. Just watched.

That word hung in his mind like a curse. Watch. Like an observer. A bystander. Not a hero. Not a Miracle Invoker.

The only thing he could do was just to " Watch "

What even was that title anymore?

He gritted his teeth, eyes narrowing at the horizon. Red-black clouds hung over Ceferin like a corpse's veil. The sky itself looked sick. The tentacles hadn't stopped growing. The monsters hadn't stopped spawning. And the other Miracle Invokers? Where were they?

Where were the saints? The pillars of faith and hope? The ones who called themselves guardians of mankind?

Why was he the one standing here?

He wasn't strong. He knew that now. He could hold a blade, chant a verse, but when it mattered most when death reached out its hand he had been nothing more than a frozen soul, paralyzed in grief and fear. How many had he failed? How many more would die while he stared at the wreckage of the past?

Was he even choosing any of this?

The thought had gnawed at him for days. Was he being led? Played like a marionette on strings too ancient to see? Was there a god pulling his limbs, writing his story long before he ever cried out his first breath?

Predetermined fate… or cruel illusion of choice?

He couldn't tell anymore.

His fists curled tightly. His shadow stretched long behind him, painted by the dying sun. A figure lost between purpose and collapse.

What was the meaning behind this suffering?

What was his meaning?

He let out a short, dry laugh. It scraped his throat on the way out bitter, joyless. Not laughter at the world, not at the gods above or the horrors below.

At himself.

"What a joke…" he muttered, his voice like rusted metal.

Maybe it wasn't the world that had betrayed him.

Maybe it was him, for believing it could be anything else.

For believing that being good… meant something. That trying to protect others in this twisted, blood-soaked canvas would ever change what was already written beneath. He stared at his hands, the same ones that had trembled when he held Mimi, the same ones that failed to reach Roze in time. Hands that once prayed, that once held hope like a fragile ember.

Now they only carried weight. Regret. And blood.

"Maybe it's my fault," he whispered. "For thinking kindness was strength, in a world which is just a canvas for us to spread our true nature."

A canvas that's all it was. A sprawling, ancient stage of entertainment, and every soul was a stroke of paint meant to reveal the raw truth of who they really were. Strip away the rules, the titles, the ideals… and what are we left with?

Savagery. Desperation. Grief.

He had tried to be gentle. Tried to protect, to believe in the beauty of people—even in their brokenness. But maybe all he had done was wear a mask, delaying the truth.

Because deep down, he was no different.

He wanted to save, yes. But he also wanted control. To feel like his actions meant something. That he mattered in a world where names vanished like smoke.

Now the only thing left was this.

The emptiness of a rooftop. The memories of the dead. And a man staring into the storm, laughing at the reflection of the fool he had always been.

And somewhere beneath all that… he still didn't have an answer.

He looked at the sky, the dazzling sun high above the blue slowly fading in the clouds. His face was sharp, unreadable; A drop of tear fell from sight which none cared about. He sang a song that didn't matter, He danced a dance that none saw, He imagined a world that was the kingdom of his own sanity, full of dead bodies.... with that he smiled, a broken smile and said,

" The world.... why are you so kind to me?"

.

.

.

End of Volume 1,

THE WATCHER