Chapter 8 – Between Light and Ruin
Eidalein – Time Unknown
Elian woke to the sensation of weightlessness.
Just a bed beneath him.
No wind. No forest.
Just the still hum of golden air.
His eyes fluttered open.
A vast sky stretched above him — warm, golden twilight. Stars shimmered in gentle constellations, never fading.
Below, alabaster stone cradled his body like a memory — smooth, luminous, and pulsing faintly with life.
He sat up slowly.
Pain was gone. The cold in his chest was gone.
Even the fear… had dulled.
But the mark remained.
He turned his left hand over.
The sigil, faintly glowing, still burned on the back of his hand — a spiral of wings and light etched in divine fire.
"Where… am I?"
His voice didn't echo.
A soft breeze stirred, and with it came a faint scent — lilies, and something older. Something sacred.
Before him, a white bridge stretched into an impossible horizon, flanked by falling waterfalls that poured into nothingness.
A great gate loomed ahead — twelve pillars forming a circle, each inscribed with a different symbol.
And standing at the gate, waiting in silence — Minato Kai.
No words were spoken. Minato merely offered his hand.
Elian took it, rising to his feet like someone learning to walk again.
As they crossed the threshold into Eidalein, the Sanctuary of the Twelve Lights, a quiet chime sounded through the world.
Far above them, the Throne of Virtue shimmered.
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Meanwhile…
The Obsidian Cradle – The Unmaking Depths
Lightning did not strike here.
It screamed.
The Cradle groaned beneath itself — a throne carved from fossilized ruin, suspended in an inverted storm. The ground was sky. The sky was wound.
Centurion, Lord of Ruin, sat with his head bowed, hands steepled, motionless.
The Wailing Hordes had failed.
Light had intervened.
His golden eye — the only color in his abyssal face — flared.
The throne cracked beneath him.
"Three," he whispered. "I sent three."
A pause.
"And still… the Seraphblade awakens."
A hiss of shadow slithered across the steps.
Then—
a giggle.
High. Childlike. Mocking.
From the gloom, a figure emerged — walking upside down on nothing, feet kissing air.
Malqir – The False Painter, Dark Apostle of Delusion.
His hair was silver ink, skin blank parchment, eyes scribbled with living runes.
He twirled a quill between his fingers.
"Poor, mighty Centurion," Malqir cooed.
"Three Wailing Hordes couldn't stop a barista from waking up. Should we send a fourth?"
"Maybe… a fifth? Or just start over? Pretend none of it happened."
Centurion rose.
No words. Just silence.
Malqir's smirk wavered.
The Lord of Ruin descended from the throne like a living shadow — taller than space should allow, heavier than existence permitted.
"Send no more hounds," Centurion growled.
"The game has begun."
He turned toward the altar — where a black mirror shimmered, reflecting only light.
"I will unravel them from within."
Malqir giggled again — but this time softer. Less certain.
As Centurion reached for the mirror, a pulse of heat rippled through the Cradle.
The first crack in the Light had formed.
And twelve Apostles… would not be enough.