The Anomaly's Path

Unknown to the candidates still moving through the valley — hunting, fighting, surviving, clinging to the desperate hope that they would see the sun rise again — something had already changed.

The forest had grown darker over the past few days, the shadows longer and hungrier, and somewhere in the ruins buried beneath centuries of stone and silence, a purple glow had begun to spread like a disease through the veins of the earth.

No one noticed at first.

A candidate here, a candidate there — their eyes flickering purple for just a moment before returning to normal, their movements becoming just slightly off, too fast or too slow or too precise, like puppets learning to dance on strings they couldn’t see.

The changes were small, imperceptible, easy to miss in the chaos of the exam.

But then the screaming started, and by then, it was already too late.

A group of seven candidates moved through the eastern forest, weapons drawn, their eyes scanning the dense area. They had been together for three days. They had fought side by side, slept in shifts, shared food, water, and stories about their homes, their families, and their dreams. They trusted each other with their lives.

That trust was the very thing that killed them.

The first attack came from behind. A boy with brown hair and kind eyes drove his sword into the back of his best friend. The blade pierced through flesh and bone and emerged from the other side, dripping red. The boy smiled — a wide, empty smile that didn’t reach his purple-glowing eyes.

”Why?” the dying girl whispered, blood bubbling at her lips.

The boy tilted his head, his smile never wavering. ”He wants you to join him.”

The remaining five turned on each other seconds later. Swords swung in blind panic. Spells tore through the brush. Blood sprayed across the forest floor, turning black in the dim light as it pooled between ancient, twisting roots.

They fought with grotesque smiles plastered on their faces, even as hot tears streamed down their cheeks, their bodies moving entirely against their will. They screamed, begged, wept apologies while their hands kept swinging, kept slashing, destroying the very people they loved.

Within minutes, the clearing fell silent.

All seven lay scattered across the grass, twisted and broken. Their eyes remained wide open, staring blankly at the canopy while the faint purple light slowly retreated from their irises, slithering back into the shadows to wait for the next target.

_

Meanwhile, the world outside the Sealed Valley was in chaos.

The exam was being broadcast to every corner of the Human Domain. It played in the Imperial Capital, where nobles in silk and velvet stood frozen before the public screens.

It reached the dusty villages on the eastern plains, where farmers clutched their children and watched in total silence.

It streamed to the border outposts, where soldiers with clenched jaws and unblinking eyes stared at the carnage, their hands resting on sword hilts they were forbidden to draw.

People watched. People wept. People could not look away.

In the Imperial Capital, the main square had become a graveyard of living souls.

People pressed against the barriers, necks craned toward the massive holographic screens that floated above the crowd. The usual noise of the city — merchants calling out to customers, street vendors arguing over prices, children laughing as they ran between the stalls — had died.

All that remained was the wet crack of bones from the broadcast and the ragged breathing of a crowd that had forgotten how to inhale.

A woman in a torn apron fell to her knees.

Her hands clawed at the air as if she could reach through the light and pull her daughter out of the nightmare. ”That’s my baby! That’s my baby!” Her voice was raw, shredded, barely human. No one helped her up. No one could move.

A man in a merchant’s coat stood rigid, his face the color of old ash. He was not watching the fighting. He was watching a list of names, the casualty ticker at the bottom of the screen, and he was counting.

His lips moved soundlessly. Every few seconds, he stopped. Then he started again. His son was in that valley.

He did not know if his son was still alive. He would not know until the ticker showed a name he recognized, or until the broadcast ended and silence answered his prayers.

Nearby, an old woman clutched a faded photograph to her chest.

The edges were soft from decades of handling. She was not looking at the screen. She was looking at the ground, her lips pressed together so tightly they had vanished.

She had already lost two children to the last incursion. Her granddaughter was in the valley. She did not have the strength to watch another one die.

A young couple held each other so tightly that their knuckles went white. The girl was crying, her face buried in the boy’s chest. The boy was staring at the screen, his jaw locked, his eyes red. His younger brother was a candidate.

He had begged him not to go.

He had begged him to stay home, to work the farm, to live. His brother had laughed and said he wanted to be a hero. Now the boy watched candidates tear each other apart and wondered if his brother was already dead.

A child tugged at his mother’s sleeve. ”Mama, are they going to die?”

The mother did not answer. She could not answer. She pulled her son close, wrapped her arms around him, and pressed his face into her skirt so he would not see the screen.

But she could not close her own eyes. She had to watch.

Someone had to remember.

Across the square, a man in a stained apron screamed at the screen. ”This is murder! They knew! They must have known!”

A woman beside him nodded, her face twisted with grief. ”My nephew is in there. He’s sixteen. Sixteen!”

Someone else muttered, ”But Arthur Vale is down there. The Goddess’s Chosen One. If he survives, maybe there is hope.”

The man in the apron spun on him, his face purple with rage. ”Hope? Our children are dying for their politics! Hope won’t bring them back!”

The argument began to spread. Voices rose and fists shook, threatening to turn into a full riot.

But before the anger could boil over, the broadcast flickered.

The screen cut to a different angle, showing a small group of candidates huddled behind a massive fallen tree. Their faces were pale, their eyes wide with terror, their lips moving in silent prayers that no god seemed to hear.

One of them was crying openly. Another rocked back and forth, muttering softly about his mother. A third simply stared into the dark trees with hollow eyes, waiting for the end.

The crowd instantly went quiet again. No one shrieked, no one argued. They just watched, because there was absolutely nothing else they could do.

_

On the Astra-net, the forums burned with fear and fury.

Threads multiplied like open wounds, and every single refresh brought new horrors, accusations, and desperate pleas for answers

@CommonerCrier: ”My cousin is in that valley. She’s fifteen. The Union knew about the monsters and did nothing. This is murder.”

@NobleWatcher_99: ”The exam was always dangerous. You knew the risks. Don’t blame the Union for your own weakness.”

@SwordsAndSarcasm: ”Ah yes, blame the children for dying. Wow.”

@RoyalTeaSpiller: ”I heard the teleport bracers aren’t working. No one can get out. The valley is sealed.”

@ConspiracyCores: ”What if the Union planned this? What if they want the candidates to die?”

@RealityCheck: ”What if you touch grass?”

@SlumdogMage: ”Not my problem. I don’t care.”

@PrayingMama: ”Please. Someone help them. Please.”

@TruthSeeker: ”Did anyone else see the purple glow in some of the candidates’ eyes before they attacked each other? That’s not normal. Something wrong?”

@SilentReader: ”I saw it too. And the broadcasts keep cutting out whenever the fighting gets too chaotic. They’re hiding something.”

@HopefulHeart: ”But Arthur Vale is down there. The Goddess’s Chosen One. If anyone can save them, it’s him.”

@CynicQueen: ”Arthur Vale is one person. There are thousands of candidates. He can’t save everyone.”

@BrokenFather: ”My son is in that valley. I don’t care about politics. I just want him to come home.”

The threads multiplied. The arguments grew louder. Families begged for information. Officials released carefully worded statements that said nothing. Conspiracy theories spread faster than truth ever could.

The world kept watching, and nothing changed.

Because the world had already decided that this was necessary.

_

Far from the valley, in a chamber hidden deep beneath the Astra Union’s headquarters, twelve seats surrounded a circular table.

The room was dark, lit only by the faint glow of mana-crystals embedded in the walls. The air was thick with power, ancient and heavy, pressing down on anyone who dared to enter.

Not all seats were filled. Some High Seats could not attend — they were away, or busy, or their duties kept them elsewhere.

But those who mattered were here. The ones whose voices carried weight.

Around the edges of the chamber, floating holographic screens displayed the faces of domain leaders who had been summoned to witness.

Emperor Aldric Valerion of the Human Domain sat on his throne, his face completely blank. Duke Noah von Celestial stood in his study, his hands gripping the edges of his desk so hard his knuckles were white.

Elf King Thandril Sol-Valis sat in his crystal hall, his ancient eyes narrowed into slits.

Vampire Matriarch Liliana von Noctis leaned back on her dark throne, her red eyes gleaming. Beastkin High Chieftain Varga Ironclaw stood in his grand hall, his silver fur bristling with anger. Dwarf King Borin Ironwell sat in his stone chamber, his heavy hammer resting across his knees.

High Priestess Celestia stood by her altar, her hands tightly clasped as she watched the feeds.

And right inside the room itself, the High Seats who had come in person stood together. Their faces could not be seen. Only their shapes hinted at their races.

High Elder Sylas Moonshadow sat at the head of the table.

He was an elf, ancient beyond measure, his voice like wind through dead leaves. He had seen empires rise and fall. He had watched the world burn before because of wars. He would watch it burn again if it meant survival.

To his right sat The Silver Spear, the second elf seat.

He was a warrior of legend, a living myth, a spear that had never missed its mark. His silhouette was tall and straight, his shoulders broad, his posture that of a soldier who had never lost a battle. He did not speak often, but when he did, even the High Elder listened.

Across the table, The Stoneward represented the dwarves.

His silhouette was broad and stocky, his arms thick with muscle earned from centuries at the forge. He was the head of the Dwarf military, the keeper of the great forges, the man who had reforged the northern defenses after the last incursion.

He did not believe in half measures. If a threat existed, you crushed it. You did not negotiate.

Beside him, The Night Stalker represented the beastkin.

His silhouette was hunched and still, wrapped in shadows that seemed to move on their own. No one knew his name. No one knew his face. He was the Union’s assassin, the blade that struck in the dark.

His presence was enough.

Near him, the vampire High Seat stood in silence. His name was Lord Caspian von Noctis, Archduke of the Crimson Court, younger brother of the Vampire Matriarch Liliana von Noctis. His silhouette was sharp and elegant, his posture relaxed, his fingers steepled before him.

Unlike his sister, who ruled from the shadowed throne, Caspian was a soldier.

He had led vampire legions in the last incursion. He had watched his kin die. He had watched his kin kill. He did not flinch from hard choices because he had already made peace with the cost of survival.

Lord Ashford was also there, the legendary Sovereign who had founded the Number One Guild in the Human Domain. His silhouette was broad, powerful, the body of a man who had fought his way to the top and never looked back.

He had no patience for politics or excuses. He wanted results.

The Arcanum Sage — Head Archmage Valerius — sat in his seat, representing the Magic Tower City. His silhouette was thin, almost frail, but the power radiating from him was unmistakable.

...And then there was Cardinal Titus Corvin.

He stood apart from the others, his silhouette tall and broad-shouldered, his grey-streaked black hair cut short and practical. He wore simple cardinal robes over a set of fitted white and gold armor — not ceremonial, but real armor that had stopped blades.

A longsword hung at his hip, the hilt wrapped in worn leather. His eyes were sharp and grey, like a winter sky before a storm. His face was weathered, lined by years of training and battle.

He was the Cardinal of Sanctyra, the Head of the Holy Knights, the man who commanded the military arm of the Church. He answered only to High Priestess Celestia, and even she consulted him before making decisions that involved bloodshed.

He was not cruel, but he was hard.

He had seen too many young soldiers die to be soft. He mourned them in private, but in public, he was stone.

And Damon Draven — the youngest High Seat, only twenty-four, his silhouette still carrying the restless energy of youth, stood near the edge of the table.

He was Helene Draven’s younger brother. His rank was Transcendent Low, achieved at twenty-two — the youngest in recorded history. His affinity was Vibration and Resonance. He did not speak often, but when he did, people listened.

The High Elder raised his hand. ”...Now that everyone is here. Lets start the meeting.”

The Elf King, Thandril Sol-Valis, leaned forward on his throne. His voice was cold, sharp as broken ice. ”You called this meeting to show us children dying. You told us it was necessary. Now tell us what is really happening. Why are there Grade 5 monsters in that valley? Why are the candidates being slaughtered?”

The Emperor nodded slowly. ”The people are afraid. The nobles are demanding answers. I cannot hold them back forever.”

High Priestess Celestia’s voice was soft but firm. ”I have received letters from families. They are begging for their children to be brought home. What should I tell them?”

The High Elder was silent for a moment. Then he spoke.

”...One month ago, the Oracle had a vision. She has been resting ever since — the vision took too much from her. She was unconscious for two months before that. She only woke up a few weeks ago. And even now, she is not well.”

He paused.

”We did not tell you because we did not want to cause panic. But the vision was clear. War is coming. Sooner than we hoped and faster than we feared.”

He gestured to an empty seat. The Oracle’s seat.

”She left a recording. A warning. She insisted that it be played at this meeting.”

He pressed a button. The room went dark. The air grew cold.

A hologram flickered to life — a woman’s silhouette, her face hidden behind a veil of light, her body wrapped in shadows that seemed to breathe. Her voice was distant, echoing, as if she was speaking from the bottom of a deep well.

...Or from the other side of a door that should not be opened.

”There is a wound in the sky that does not heal. It breathes. It watches. And every time it pulses, something old and hungry stirs beneath the earth.”

”The seals are cracking. Not because someone shattered them, but because they were never meant to endure. Everything fades. Even cages.”

”When the last seal falls, there will be no battle. No grand war. No hero standing against the dark. There will only be the silence after a scream, the cold after a fire, and the slow, endless forgetting of everything that ever mattered.”

”They will not fall fighting. They will die sleeping. The abyss does not need swords; it only needs them to close their eyes.”

”One by one, the lights will vanish. First the candles. Then the stars. Then the eyes of the children watching from the windows.”

”The world will end not with thunder, but with a whisper. And no one will hear it coming.”

”Do not pray. The gods are not listening — they are running. They have been fleeing for a long time now.”

”The abyss does not hate you. It does not love you. It does not even know you. It simply hungers, and you are nothing but food.”

”When the rivers turn black and the crops wither in the fields, do not look for answers. There are none. There was never a reason.”

”The king who sleeps does not dream of thrones. He dreams of teeth. Of swallowing the sun. Of a realm where nothing grows, nothing remembers, and nothing wakes.”

”The threads are shifting, twisting and tangling in ways I have never seen. The fate I once knew is gone — cracked like an old mirror, splintered into pieces no prophet can read. There is no map for what comes next. No scripture. Only uncertainty, spreading through the dark like blood in water.”

”I see a fracture in time itself. A wound that was never meant to heal. Someone slipped through — or something — and now the future bends toward a shape no god ever intended.”

”Maybe they will save us. Maybe they will damn us. Maybe they will stand at the crossroads and refuse to choose. I cannot see. No one can. The path ahead is fog, and the air is only getting thicker.”

”You wanted a warning. Here it is. Run. Hide. Dig a hole and bury yourself. It will not save you. Nothing will. But at least you will not have to watch.”

The hologram flickered and died.

The room was silent.

The Elf King’s face had gone pale. His ancient eyes, usually sharp and calculating, were wide with something that looked like fear. He had seen wars. He had seen plagues.

But the Seer’s words had cut through his centuries of composure like a blade through silk. His hands, resting on the arms of his crystal throne, were trembling.

The Emperor’s jaw was tight. His fingers drummed against the armrest of his throne — a nervous habit he had not displayed in decades.

He was thinking about his daughter, Cordelia, somewhere in that valley. He was thinking about what he would say to the families when this was over.

High Priestess Celestia had closed her eyes. Her lips moved silently in prayer. Not for herself. For the children. For the families. For the world that was cracking apart.

Duke Noah’s face was unreadable. His hands gripped his desk, but his expression gave nothing away.

The High Elder spoke. His voice was calm, measured, ancient. ”...The Fallen are rising. The cult that orchestrated the Great Gate Incursion has been dormant for twelve years. They are no longer dormant. The Seer’s vision confirms it.”

He looked around the table, the silhouettes, the holographic screens, and the faces of the domain leaders who had come to demand answers.

”This exam is not cruelty. It is preparation. The candidates who survive will be the ones who can fight the war that is coming. The ones who die... would have died anyway.”

The Emperor leaned forward. His voice was low, dangerous. ”You speak of preparation. You speak of necessity. But my people are rioting in the streets. Nobles are demanding answers. Commoners are throwing stones at Union banners. How do I explain this to them? How do I calm them? Tell me, High Elder. What words do I use?”

The High Elder turned to the Guildmaster. Lord Ashford nodded. His silhouette shifted as he leaned forward, his broad shoulders casting a long shadow across the table.

”....We give them hope,” the Guildmaster said. His voice was rough.

”We show them heroes. Arthur Vale — the Goddess’s Chosen One — is in that valley. He is fighting. He is surviving. The people already love him. We will give them more of him. His face will be on every screen. His name will be on every tongue. We will make him into a symbol.”

High Priestess Celestia opened her eyes. Her voice was soft but firm. ”We edit the broadcasts. We show the candidates winning. We show them saving each other. We show the moments of courage, not the moments of despair. We tell the world that this was a test, a crucible designed to forge the protectors of tomorrow.”

”And the purple glow?” the Elf King asked, his voice sharp. ”The candidates killing each other? The mind control? How do we explain that?”

The Arcanum Sage spoke. His voice was thin, reedy, but it carried weight. ”We tell them it was a side effect of the sky crack. The mana density in the valley increased beyond our projections. It affected the monsters. It affected the candidates. It was a natural disaster, not a design flaw.”

Cardinal Titus Corvin spoke, his voice hard. ”And the families of the dead? The mothers who watched their children die on live broadcast? The fathers who saw their sons tear their friends apart? What do we tell them?”

The Stoneward grunted. ”A natural disaster that we did nothing to stop.”

The High Elder was silent for a moment. Then he spoke, his voice calm, measured, without a trace of guilt.

”Because there was nothing to stop. The exam was designed to push candidates to their limits. The monsters were placed there intentionally. The deaths were not accidents. They were not failures. They were the cost of doing business.”

Titus’s jaw tightened. ”You would tell them that? That their children died because you wanted to test the others?”

”No,” the High Elder said. ”I would tell them that their children died so that others might live. That their sacrifice will be remembered. That their names will be carved into stone and spoken at every memorial for generations to come.”

He paused. ”I would tell them the truth. Not all of it. But enough. Enough to make them understand that this was necessary. That there was no other way.”

”And if they do not accept it?”

”Then we compensate them. Gold. Land. Titles. Enough to buy their silence. And we move on. Because the world does not stop for grief. It never has.”

The Elf King leaned back in his throne. His voice was cold. ”And what if hope is not enough? What if the people see through the lies? What if they demand justice?”

The High Elder turned to him. ”Then we remind them of what happens to those who ask too many questions. We remind them of the power we hold. Fear is a leash, Lord King. And we are the ones holding it.”

The room fell silent.

Damon Draven crossed his arms. His silhouette shifted, the restless energy of youth barely contained. ”And the Weeping Knight? The Grade 5 monster in the ruins?”

The High Elder nodded. ”It was destroyed by Leo von Celestial.”

Damon’s eyebrows rose. ”The failure?”

The High Elder turned his head slightly toward Duke Noah’s holographic screen. ”Not anymore,” he said.

The Emperor sighed. ”And the gates? The Seer mentioned gates opening faster. What does that mean for us?”

The Arcanum Sage spoke. ”The mana density is rising. More gates will open. We are preparing the defenses, but we need time.”

”You have neither,” the Dwarf King rumbled. ”The forges are already at capacity.”

”Then we make capacity,” the Stoneward said. ”We work harder. We work longer. There is no other choice.”

The Vampire Matriarch Liliana spoke through her screen. ”My people will fight. But we will not send our children to die while your leaders hide behind walls.”

”Your children are already in the valley,” Lord Caspian said, his voice cold. ”My niece is there. Your granddaughter. We are all sacrificing.”

High Chieftain Varga Ironclaw of the Silverfang Tribe leaned forward. His voice was low, rumbling like distant thunder. ”The beastkin have shed enough blood in wars that were not ours. You speak of sacrifice. You speak of necessity. But when has the Union ever asked? When have we ever been given a choice?”

The room turned to look at his screen.

Varga’s silver fur bristled along his shoulders. His eyes were hard, cold. ”My people are in that valley. My daughter is in that valley. And no one thought to tell me what was really happening until now.” He paused.

”I feel like I am not needed here. Like my voice does not matter. Like the beastkin are only called when you need soldiers to die.”

The High Elder was silent for a moment. Then: ”You are here now. Speak your piece.”

Varga’s jaw tightened. ”My piece is this. Do not ask for our loyalty if you will not give us the truth. Do not demand our blood if you will not share your plans. We are not your hounds. We are not your weapons. We are a people.”

Varga stared at the High Elder for a long moment. Then he leaned back, his expression closing off like a door slamming shut.

”We will remember,” he said again. And his screen went dark.

The room fell silent.

The High Elder raised his hand. ”...Enough. We have work to do. The exam will continue. The survivors will be honored. The fallen will be remembered. And when the war comes, we will be ready.”

He looked at the domain leaders.

”You have your answers. Now go. Comfort your people. And pray that the Seer’s vision is wrong.”

One by one, the holographic screens faded. The Emperor, his face unreadable. The Elf King, his ancient eyes narrowed. The Vampire Matriarch, her crimson gaze cold. The Dwarf King, his hammer still across his knees. The High Priestess, her hands still clasped in prayer.

All gone.

Only Duke Noah remained.

He did not leave.

The High Elder looked at him. ”You have something else to ask.”

Noah’s voice was barely a whisper. ”Did my father know? Did he know about the Grade 5 monster? About the exam?”

The High Elder was silent for a moment. Then: ”Yes.”

Noah’s hands curled into fists. His knuckles cracked. ”And he agreed?”

”He did not agree. But he understood the necessity. He chose not to interfere.”

Noah turned away. His screen went dark.

The chamber was empty.

_

Elsewhere, in a place that had no name on any map, a man hunted.

The sky above was the color of bruised flesh — purple and black and grey, churning like a wound that would not close. The ground beneath was cracked and barren, littered with bones and broken weapons and the rusted remains of armor that had once belonged to people who thought they were strong enough to survive here.

They were not.

The air was thick with the literal weight of death. It wasn’t just the scent of copper and rot, but the cold knowledge that this wasteland had been swallowing the living for centuries, and would continue to do so long after everyone else had turned to dust.

This was a deep Forbidden Zone — the kind that even Transcendent-rank fighters avoided at all costs.

...Yet, Zephyr von Celestial was here entirely by choice.

He moved through the waste like a ghost. His steps made no sound, his breathing remaining steady and unhurried. In his grip was a massive black steel greatsword, simple and unadorned. It was the kind of blade that required no decoration; its edge spoke for itself.

Suddenly, a Grade 6 Commander-rank monster burst from the earth directly ahead. It was twelve feet of armored chitin and raw fury, its jaws wide enough to swallow a horse and its claws sharp enough to slice through solid steel like parchment.

Zephyr didn’t even break his stride.

The greatsword flashed once. The monster’s head parted from its shoulders, spinning end over end before landing in the dirt with a wet thud. The massive torso stood frozen for a single, confused heartbeat before collapsing into the dust.

Zephyr walked right past the carcass without looking back.

Two more creatures emerged from the long shadows. Also Grade 6. They functioned as a pack, circling him with low bodies and crimson eyes, preparing to pounce simultaneously.

Zephyr stopped and simply waited.

The moment they lunged, the greatsword cut through the air twice. Two strikes. Two more severed heads hitting the ground.

He kept walking.

The terrain began to shift. The earth grew darker, the air turned freezing, and the carpet of bones grew thicker and fresher. Someone powerful had died here recently. Their armor was still intact, their weapon still gripped in a dead hand.

Zephyr stepped right over the corpse without sparing it a glance.

Then, a catastrophic roar split the air. This wasn’t the scream of a Grade 6 hunter.

The ground violently shook, rattling the loose skeleton of the wasteland. The shadows themselves seemed to recoil as a massive silhouette loomed out of the darkness ahead.

A Grade 7 Lord-rank entity.

The titan stood thirty feet tall, its body a grotesque mass of muscle, thick scales, and asymmetrical mouths that opened and closed at random intervals. Each maw was lined with teeth dripping an acidic saliva that hissed and smoked the moment it touched the soil.

Its burning, ember-like eyes locked directly onto the intruder.

Zephyr smiled.

It wasn’t a warm expression. It was the grin of a man who had finally found something worthy of his time.

The Lord-rank monster lunged with terrifying speed. Zephyr moved faster.

The greatsword sang in the dead air.

The entire clash lasted less than a minute. The titan’s heads fell one by one — four massive skulls hitting the earth, each letting out its own dying shriek. Its colossal claws raked empty space where Zephyr had been a heartbeat prior, its tail violently sweeping through nothingness.

With a final, massive thud, the colossal body crashed down, making the earth tremble one last time before falling completely still.

Zephyr drove his black blade straight through the creature’s primary skull, pinning it to the dirt. Dark, smoking blood pooled around the steel, hissing against the ground.

He stood over the kill for a quiet moment, breathing evenly. His dark shirt was splattered with the creature’s blood, his face looking as though it were carved from stone — sharp cheekbones, a severe jawline, and brilliant ocean-blue eyes that held no warmth or mercy.

He bore a striking resemblance to Noah. A younger, pristine version of him. They shared the same dark hair, the same eyes, the same striking features.

But where Noah’s gaze held nothing but deep weariness, Zephyr’s eyes crackled with raw lightning.

He pulled his greatsword free with a wet slide, wiping the blade clean against the creature’s thick hide. Then, he raised his chin, looking past the horizon toward the direction of the Human Domain. Toward home.

”...Well,” he murmured, his voice smooth and carrying a hint of amusement. ”I suppose it’s about time I return.”

He sheared his blade and began to walk.

”Let’s see what you do, my grandson. Let’s see what you become.”

The oppressive dark of the Forbidden Zone swallowed his receding footsteps, and the remaining monsters in the shadows did not dare to follow.