Chapter Thirteen: Embers Reborn

Agony surged through Raen's nerves in relentless waves.

It wasn't mere pain from physical wounds—it was something deeper, a searing burn that felt as if it scorched his very soul. Every nerve seemed submerged in molten lava; each heartbeat pumped the torment through his veins to every corner of his body. His right hand suffered the worst—charred skin cracked like desiccated bark, peeling away to expose muscles carbonized by intense heat. Torn tendons hung like rotting ropes, and the pale bones of his fingers still clutched the memory of gripping a blade.

He tried to move his fingers, only to be met with the sickening sound of bone grating against bone. Three fingers had already turned to charcoal—any pressure reduced them to black dust.

The pain pounded behind his temples, cold sweat beading on his forehead. As it slid down his cheek, it left dark streaks on the scorched earth.

"Kh… kha-khak!"

A violent coughing fit forced him to double over, pulling at the corroded wound on his chest. Dark red blood, mixed with a strange green pus, oozed from the corner of his mouth and hissed as it hit the blackened soil, sending up wisps of foul-smelling green smoke. Wiping his mouth with the back of his hand, he noticed fine black granules in his saliva—a sign that his internal organs were rotting.

When he finally mustered the strength to open his left eye, the first thing that emerged from the haze was a low-hanging blood moon.

It loomed massive in the sky, taking up nearly a third of the heavens. Veins of dark red pulsed across its surface like living vessels. The moonlight bathed the ruins in a viscous crimson hue, making every broken wall and shattered column seem to ooze blood. His right eye remained sealed shut with dried blood. Reaching to rub it with his left hand, he instead touched a gaping wound that ran from brow to cheekbone—beneath the curled flesh, faintly glowing green tendrils writhed.

The air was thick with suffocating stench—burned flesh, the rancid musk of swamps, and a sweeter, more sinister fragrance, like decayed nectar laced with iron.

Every breath scorched his lungs, as if he were inhaling searing grit. His ragged gasps carried a wet, rattling "gurgle"—the sound of blood bubbling in his windpipe.

As he tried to lift himself, a strange sensation in his left arm made him freeze. Beneath the skin, golden lines were spreading visibly, like living mercury pulsing through his veins. Where the holy marks passed, his skin shimmered with a pearlescent glow before revealing intricate golden runes. Strangely, when his gaze followed the symbols, they responded with a faint flicker, as if aware of his observation.

The broken spear lay embedded in the scorched earth beside him, its shaft eroded beyond recognition.

What had once been elegant silver-white engravings were now marred with dents and cracks. The emblem of the Holy Order wrapped around the hilt was reduced to a fragmented remnant. Yet, the flame at the tip still burned—a thumb-sized fire of pure gold, with occasional silver sparks bursting from its heart. It flickered like a living thing—graceful as a dancing maiden one moment, sharp as a drawn blade the next, sketching elegant light trails in the morning breeze.

Raen reached out with trembling fingers, halting an inch from the hilt. He saw that the newly formed holy mark on the back of his hand was glowing, resonating in harmony with the spear's flame.

When his fingertip finally touched the weapon—

"VMMM!"

A thunderous hum exploded within his mind, inaudible to the ear but deafening to the soul. The world shattered before his eyes, only to reassemble as a river of golden stars.

He saw Adrien standing atop a burning wall, every sweep of his flaming spear unleashing a tidal wave of fire. The knight commander's silver armor was splattered with putrid black ichor, yet the ice-blue eyes behind his visor burned hotter than the flames.

The vision shifted. A dying Adrien knelt in a pool of blood, the holy marks on his chest extinguishing one by one, like stars falling from the sky. As he cast the silver casket, Raen glimpsed what he had seen—a vine-choked elven spire rising from the ground, crowned by a massive crystalline construct hovering above it.

The structure rotated slowly, radiant strands of light fanning out from its center to weave a stellar map across the night sky. Raen realized in shock that the strands were actually chains formed from ancient elven runes—each glyph chanting a primordial purification spell.

The illusion faded, leaving Raen gasping for air, drenched in cold sweat that soaked through his tattered clothes.

A map drawn in holy flame began flowing across the scorched ground. Each trail of fire looked like molten gold, etching a path through ruin. Raen's pupils quivered as they followed the glowing lines. A light in the southeast grew larger in his vision, eventually branding a pulsing sigil onto his retina. Even after blinking, the afterimage remained, stubbornly anchored in his sight like a beacon in the darkness.

Suddenly, sharp pain lanced through the holy mark on his left arm. The golden lines had completed their formation, glinting like metal in the dawn. Strangest of all, they seemed alive—when he held his breath, they dimmed; when his heart raced, they blazed brighter. His veins stood out beneath the skin, no longer carrying blood, but a golden liquid energy.

"Wu… waahh…"

A baby's cry echoed from a corner of the ruins.

Raen jolted, head snapping around. The sound was faint, nearly drowned by the wind, but he knew he hadn't imagined it—a baby's cry. "Impossible…"

Dragging his broken body forward, his charred fingernails gouged deep furrows in the soil. Every inch of movement forced infected pus and blood from his chest wound, leaving a trail of mingled gold and green behind him.

Trembling, he brushed aside the last layer of ash.

The infant lay curled beneath, fully intact. A translucent membrane covered its tiny body, rising and falling with each breath like a cicada's wing. The skin beneath was eerily pale, but a glowing point pulsed in its chest, illuminating the branching vessels within.

The tablet in the child's hand emitted a soft click—its broken edges were healing themselves, the new stone writhing and extending like living matter. Runes lit up one by one, each glyph resonating with a different pitch to form an ancient melody.

Raen leaned closer, discovering the symbols weren't carved on the surface at all—they floated inside the tablet in a three-dimensional lattice.

When his shadow fell across the baby's face, its eyes snapped open. Stars spun in the depths of its pupils, forming a swirling miniature galaxy. Most chilling of all, Raen saw his own reflection inside them—endlessly duplicated, forming a tunnel that led into an abyss.

"A...dr...ian…"

The baby's voice echoed with layered tones—an infant's fragile lilt, an old man's rasp, and beneath them all, Adrien's unmistakable calm resonance.

With every syllable, golden sparks danced on its tongue. The sounds solidified into glowing runes in midair, suspended briefly before fading away.

In the distance, a raven landed on the broken spear. Its feathers weren't black, but shimmered with iridescent metallic hues. Tiny crystal shards adorned its beak. When it tilted its head to examine Raen, its left eye suddenly shifted—an icy blue identical to Adrien's.

The raven pecked a burning fragment of holy flame, swallowing it. Wisps of golden smoke drifted from its beak.

Raen drew a deep breath, wrapping the infant in his ruined cloak and strapping the broken spear to his back.

He took one final look at the ruined remnants—

Hans' shattered sword still pierced the scorched earth, the smith's silver dagger lay half-buried in ash, and the old hunter's pipe was tangled in vines...

Sunlight finally pierced the clouds. The first golden ray hit Raen's holy mark, causing the runes to boil and shift, flowing across his skin and converging on the back of his neck, forming a miniature emblem of the knightly order. At that same moment, the wound on his right hand began to heal in eerie fashion—new flesh grew translucent and golden, and symbols matching the tablet's runes appeared on the surface of his bones.

The holy flame hovered three meters ahead—not a flickering ember now, but the glowing projection of a full-length spear made of pure light. Each motion left behind shimmering trails, which together formed a complete starmap leading to the elven spire.

Raen cast one last glance at the burning ruins. Through the rising heat, he saw seven blurred figures salute him with a knight's gesture. The silver-haired man in front raised a phantom spear, signaling him to advance. As Raen strained to see them more clearly, a gust of wind swept in, scattering them like dust.

Tightening his grip on the child, he took staggering but resolute steps forward, following the path lit by bioluminescent mushrooms. Behind him, the ruins began to sink, slowly devoured by the swamp. Only the holy flame remained, flaring one last time before extinguishing in the shape of a massive fire iris—the funeral bloom of the Holy Order, symbolizing the living inheriting the will of the dead.

As the final ember fell into the mire, the sound of armored boots echoed in unison across the ruins—like an invisible army standing in formation to bid him farewell.