The man emerged from the cave like an embodied omen.
He wore a long white cloak, stained at the edges and covered in ancient kanji — void, repeated like a forgotten enchantment, pulsed in a dull gray across the fabric, as if reality itself wanted to erase his presence. His hood concealed part of his long hair, but his eyes… eyes completely black, with no iris or reflection, devoured the surrounding light. His face was young — no more than twenty-one — yet his aura reeked of something that didn't belong to this era... or this world.
Ezekiel.
He walked slowly, and the salty sea wind clashed against his presence as if trying to warn the world.
The forest that surrounded the island fell silent.
Branches didn't move.
No animal dared make a sound.
Standing ahead of him like a monolith was a massive man — two meters tall, skull shaved to the brows, ears studded with black rings. Ancient tattoos marked his arms, and his cloak — similar to Ezekiel's but with blood-red inscriptions — revealed his higher rank.
Griller. The Cult's Executor.
He crossed his arms with ritualistic slowness and spoke, as if time itself answered to him:
— "The Cult has awaited the completion of your mission for a long time, Ezekiel…"
Ezekiel offered a lazy half-smile, exuding the bored arrogance of a young demon.
— "You're all so impatient... I already burned three magic towers, summoned a false eclipse, left three vessels ready… and still you complain?"
He rolled his shoulders in disdain.
— "You don't know how to play."
Griller didn't smile. He simply stepped forward.
— "You burned three towers just to create a distraction… Unnecessary."
His eyes narrowed.
— "Your magic is effective… but perverse. Only you would be capable of containing a primordial core inside another mage for that long."
Ezekiel lifted his chin, not denying anything. His eyes shimmered faintly, as if shadows pulsed behind them.
— "And it worked. All eyes are on Diaz and Aron. Meanwhile, the true cycle begins where no one's looking."
Griller turned, beginning his slow march into the forest like an executioner clocking in for work:
— "You know Diaz and Aron are key pieces… so play it with mastery. Be wary of Asla Phoenix."
Ezekiel stood still for a moment, then murmured:
— "The stage is set... though her presence is troublesome, the mission will succeed."
Griller stopped, but didn't look back:
— "Let no unnecessary information leak. Or you'll cease to be a shadow… and become a burden. Like all those who failed before you."
The silence was sharp enough to cut.
Then Griller vanished between the trees — as if the forest had swallowed him whole.
Ezekiel closed his eyes.
"Being a subordinate is a drag…"
"…but I'm too lazy to climb the hierarchy."
Ezekiel walked to the edge of the cliff.
The city of Marlen shimmered in the distance like a doomed jewel.
Magic towers flickered with floating runes. Golden banners danced in the sea breeze. The distant sound of festive trumpets seemed to mock what was coming — a celebration in ignorance, like dancing on the edge of a grave.
— "So beautiful… so fragile…" — Ezekiel whispered, his black eyes fixed on the horizon as if already seeing beyond time.
Beneath his feet, the ground trembled.
A magical circle began to form — but not from light, fire, or crystal. It was dark. Liquid. Dense.
Like living oil flowing from invisible cracks in the ground.
The runes, forged from a substance that drained heat from the air, spun counterclockwise, grinding like ancient teeth being torn from the roots of reality.
The soil cracked. Leaves withered. The wind fled.
Ezekiel raised his hand, serene.
His presence was a mistake. A paragraph torn from the world's book.
"Rite of Hollow Rebirth"
Then they emerged.
From within the black circle, ten figures began to rise —
they weren't born, nor did they appear.
They were vomited.
Dead bodies, trembling, rotted, as if unearthed from the bottom of a cosmic sea. Deformed bones, translucent skin, fragments of ancient robes still clinging to their corpses. Mages — or what remained of them — devoured by the ages.
Ezekiel extended his arm.
The black liquid matter pulsed around the creatures… and injected itself into them.
FOOOOSH!
The corpses convulsed violently — every pore, every joint, every bone absorbed that forbidden substance.
Then, like marionettes twisted by an impossible force, they rose.
Three meters tall.
Four grotesque arms.
Faceless. Just a smooth, stretched mask of skin, like wax over bone.
They radiated monstrous power — the kind that should not exist.
Every step they took left behind cracks of darkness, as if the world itself rejected them.
They were alive… but not living.
They were echoes of absence.
Soldiers of the Nothing.
Ezekiel stared at them with boredom — like an artist already tired of his masterpiece.
— "Clear the path… Before the blood touches the relic, you'll know what to do."
The creatures did not answer with words.
They simply… breathed.
A wet, heavy sound, as if the Void had lungs.
Then Ezekiel snapped his fingers.
And vanished.
But this time...
Silence was not peace.
It was hunger.
And deep in the roots of the world,
the Void whispered names that hadn't been born yet.