Chapter Eleven: The Hunter in the Hall of Silence

The moon hung high and heavy, its light crawling over the spires of the Academy like fingers looking for a secret.

Angel's breath came slow and shallow as he sat in the vaulted silence of the Hall of Echoes—a place where thoughts whispered louder than voices, where every memory echoed twice if you dared to remember.

He had barely slept.

Not since the vault.

Not since the truth.

They had erased his past.

Buried the Dreamborn.

And now… they were hunting the ones digging it back up.

❖ ❖ ❖

Silas leaned against the opposite column, flipping through his grimoire without reading.

"They know," he said flatly.

Angel looked up. "How?"

Silas held up a page. It was blank. Until it bled black.

A mark of pursuit.

Not a warning. A signature. A taunt.

A crescent eye with a tear. A hunter's mark.

Angel stiffened. "That symbol…"

Silas's mouth twitched into something that wasn't quite a smile. "The Brotherhood calls him the Nullborn. A bounty killer. Operates in shadows. Erases traitors, spies, rogue mages. Leaves no aura trace."

Angel narrowed his eyes. "He's real?"

Silas nodded. "And he's coming."

❖ ❖ ❖

The attack came the next night.

No alarms. No magical spikes. Not even footsteps.

Just sudden, cold silence.

Angel was walking through the moonlit eastern quad—quiet, processing memories he hadn't asked for—when the world around him blinked.

Like a candle being pinched.

Suddenly, he was in a dead zone.

No wind. No magic. No sound.

His breath misted before him. Time itself slowed.

Then came the whisper—right behind him.

"You should have stayed forgotten."

Angel spun—too late.

A blow struck his temple—like ice and lightning combined. He flew backward, skidding across stone, ribs screaming.

He rolled up just in time to dodge a blade.

It wasn't made of metal.

It was void—a fracture in space, a sword that cut reality rather than flesh.

The figure holding it stepped forward, tall and featureless, cloaked in ink-black robes. His mask was blank except for the crescent eye, bleeding down like a crack.

No aura. No warmth. Just pressure—raw and unnatural.

Angel's mind screamed: Nullborn.

He raised his hands, imagining two spellshields into existence. The air shimmered blue—

But the Nullborn walked through them.

Not shattered. Not resisted. Just ignored. Like magic didn't apply.

Angel leapt back, summoning a dream-weapon—his starlight blade—but the moment he held it, it trembled violently in his grip.

His magic wasn't breaking.

It was being undone.

The Nullborn slashed sideways, sending a rippling scar through space. Trees bent inward and shattered without touch.

Angel ducked beneath it, adrenaline and terror flooding his system.

He needed to think—not react.

My power is born from thought. He's trying to make me doubt it. Strip it away.

He slid into a roll, imagined a copy of himself running the opposite direction, then teleported behind the killer with a crack of fractured space.

He swung his blade—

But the Nullborn caught it mid-air.

The dream-weapon turned to dust.

Angel's eyes widened. No one's ever—

"Your imagination is a spark," the Nullborn said, voice cold and layered, like a thousand whispers beneath ice. "But I've walked through gods made of fire. You are not the first Dreamborn. You are not the strongest. You are just… next."

He raised his voidblade.

Angel screamed—

And the sky answered.

BOOM.

A flare of red-black shadows exploded behind the assassin.

Silas.

He emerged from a jagged portal of ink, hurling a torrent of corrupted memory threads like whips. They struck the Nullborn—not to damage, but to distract.

"Run!" Silas barked.

But Angel didn't move.

He clenched his jaw and forced belief into form.

A new weapon took shape—his katana.

Not summoned. Not imagined.

Drawn from somewhere deeper. Somewhere ancient.

Its presence shattered the silence around them.

When Angel drew the blade an inch—

The Nullborn staggered.

For the first time.

Silas's eyes widened. "That blade… it's real."

Angel stepped forward.

The trees bowed.

The clouds swirled.

And the Nullborn tilted his head slowly.

"So… it wakes."

He stepped back. For the first time—he retreated.

Slipped through a tear in space.

Gone.

❖ ❖ ❖

Later that night, the Brotherhood's inner circle met in the sealed crypts. Candlelight flickered against centuries-old walls.

Only five stood in attendance.

Angel. Silas. And three others—cloaked, faces hidden.

The one in the center spoke.

"The Nullborn has never pulled back from a kill. Until now."

Another nodded. "Which means what Angel carries… is older than he is."

The third added, "It's not just power. It's a memory."

Angel gripped the katana, still sheathed in silver and starlight.

He didn't feel fear anymore.

He felt purpose.

And in that moment, standing among outlaws and rebels, hunted and marked—

He felt more alive than ever.