“There is no more time to wait. It is time for me to end your life now,” the pastor's voice rang out, piercing the darkness of the room. His hand gripped the gleaming spear tightly, pointing it with the certainty of an executioner. “You will know the meaning of ‘mercy’ when your soul is at the tip of this spear.”

  Fitran smirked cynically, even as his body trembled under the pressure. “Do you think you can intimidate me? Blood may flow down my cheek, but fear does not reside within me,” he replied, his voice quaking only at the edges. His eyes, like an unquenchable fire, fixed on the pastor. In an instant, his forehead beaded with sweat, his breath came in ragged gasps, yet his fierce gaze challenged his opponent with an unyielding spirit.

  “You are braver than I expected. But that courage is in vain,” the pastor moved closer, his eyes scanning Fitran's body with deep loathing. A smile etched upon his face concealed the most scornful mockery. “Oh, you still have time to play games? Are you certain this is not a perilous game?”

  “This is not a game,” Fitran asserted firmly, struggling to catch his breath. “The formula is ready. You do not understand what you are facing.” His hand trembled slightly, but he worked to conceal his fear. Each word that escaped his lips was accompanied by an aura of courage and a resolve to endure.

  The atmosphere around them turned tense, as if the air had thickened with dread. The spear in the pastor's hand suddenly trembled, as though it absorbed an unseen threat that filled the room. “You shall witness true power,” the pastor challenged, his voice resonating heavily. “This world is steeped in darkness, and only the strongest can endure.”

  “Perhaps you are right,” Fitran replied, turning to meet his gaze with fervent determination. “But I will not be one of those you destroy without a fight.” With that, he stuck out his tongue, mocking the death that lurked at the spear's tip. “Prove your words!”

  Whosh—!

  The spear shot forward like lightning, slicing through the air with arrogance and striking to the right, grazing Fitran's ear. A drop of blood flowed, yet he stood tall, feeling the vibrations of danger surrounding him. “That will not deter me,” he muttered, his voice quaking yet brimming with resolve.

  In an instant, the pastor caught sight of a strange figure—one shadow flinging itself at another. “We shall not yield!” he shouted, confronting the darkness with the courage he had left, as though they were fighting for a place in a world that was equally dim.

  A single velata surged into the spear, directing its attack towards Fitran, while the other pounced with its maw wide open. “Fitran, be careful!” the pastor shouted, but it was too late. Fitran felt the creature's breath hot against his neck.

  The tense moments felt suffocating. “I will protect what remains!” Fitran cried, gathering all the energy he possessed. With unwavering concentration, he channeled a wave of power from the depths of the earth. “Rise, true strength!” he shouted the incantation etched in his memory, his voice cutting through the oppressive silence.

  A low frequency, distant yet palpable, reached out a thousand kilometers, emerging from the mysterious atmosphere. “All living creatures, heed my call!” he bellowed, as this wave reverberated in Fitran's ears, processed by his tongue. “This is a summons for revival!”

  “You are truly insufferable,” the pastor growled, his voice trembling with rage. “Do you think I will allow you to ruin everything?” His face contorted, struggling to contain the torrent of anger within.

  “If you wish to survive, you must grow stronger,” he stated, casting a glance towards Fitran. Refusing to be outdone, the pastor swiftly drew something from his belt, pausing to hold his breath for a moment.

  He raised his sword with unwavering confidence and declared in a voice that echoed through the darkened chamber, “Sword of Lightning Light.” The light seemed to respond, vibrating as it answered its master's call.

  “Shine forth... Holy Exorcism!” he commanded, tension enveloping each word he uttered, as if the fate of the world hinged upon that power.

  The blinding light erupted like a thunderbolt, shattering the encroaching velata threat. An instant later, the white flash brushed against the shadows, prompting the pastor to shut his eyes in a fear he couldn’t contain. “Damn it!” he snarled, his chest trembling as he slowly opened his eyes, witnessing the chaos wrought by his magic. As the light gradually faded, Fitran vanished from sight, leaving behind silence, a space brimming with traces of magic, and a heavy breath caught on the edge of boiling rage. “He must pay for all this,” he whispered, his lips quivering with tension.

  The priest gazed at his sword, his heart heavy with bitterness as he sheathed it once more. “By the heavens, I must wield this blade as well,” he murmured, frustration lacing every word that escaped his lips. He shifted the sword at his belt, grasping the hilt with trembling hands. “This sword is my last hope, the only path to halt this chaos,” he added, his gaze fixed on the weapon that was meant to aid in restoring justice. “These people believe themselves invincible. But I shall prove them wrong.”

  The Lightning Light, an instrument renowned throughout the realm as a weapon to vanquish supernatural beings, gleamed magnificently. “You know what this sword is capable of, do you not?” he uttered, almost to himself as a reminder, as he recalled the tales woven into legend. “An exorcist capable of obliterating errant spirits and purifying souls tainted by evil. I am not merely a priest; I am a destined protector.”

  “FITRAN!” he bellowed, his voice echoing through the empty corridor, challenging the strange resonance that cloaked their world. “DO NOT HIDE! ARE YOU SO SMALL, HAH?! YOU COWARD WHO CAN ONLY COWER IN THE SHADOWS?!” His courageous attempt intertwined with the tumult of fear raging within his chest. Sweat beaded at his temples as he awaited a response from his foe, the tension a haunting presence.

  Tap... tap... tap...

  Heavy footsteps intruded upon the silence, shaking the walls as if to convey a message of discontent. “Go on, speak, pastor,” whispered a voice from the shadows, evoking both pity and suspicion. Fitran emerged, his face smeared with blood, yet his gaze remained sharp. “You do not comprehend how deeply I am ensnared in this,” he said, his voice trembling yet unyielding. “This power, pastor, is more than mere tool—it is a curse.”

  The pastor retorted, “Do you wish to destroy everything with that power? This is not the path of courage!” As Fitran took a step forward, the corner of his mouth twisted into a cynical grin, “Courage and folly often walk hand in hand, do they not?” His eyes gleamed, revealing a flame of strength that refused to be extinguished despite his injuries. “I did not choose this, pastor. It is the consequence of a greater decree.”

  “Do you know who I am, Pastor?” Fitran stared intensely, his tone firm, though sorrow cloaked his eyes. “I am not merely a shadow. I am the fruit of all that you have wrought.”

  The Pastor returned the gaze, chin held high and brows furrowed. “Oh? Do you believe that through all you have endured, you can sway my reason to veer off course? You are but a harbinger of curse!”

  With a sharpened resolve, Fitran nodded. “Every step you have taken has led me here. I cannot simply continue my life as if nothing has occurred.” His voice was raspy, yet the strength in his tone made the air around them feel tense.

  Hearing this, the Pastor sensed the tension spreading between them. “So, what is your aim? Do you wish to destroy all that I have built? Do you not remember how I honored you in the past?”

  “And now I return to confront that past,” Fitran replied softly, the fingers of his right hand clenched as if to restrain all the pain ever left behind. “Here I stand, no longer as the boy you mocked, but as the embodiment of all that you fear.”

  “Open your eyes, Fitran!” the Pastor cried out, his emotions surging forth. “What you are doing will only lead to ruin!”

  “Ruin may yet find me. However, I am prepared to pay the price,” Fitran answered firmly, a faint bitter smile revealing a dark optimism.

  The Pastor felt a surge of power within him, dark energy creeping, demanding to be unleashed. “End this now, or I shall force it to an end swiftly,” he threatened, his eyes igniting like glowing embers. “Face me as a man, not as a creature lurking in the shadows!”

  Fitran did not flinch. “That is indeed my intent, Pastor. I have concealed this pain for far too long. The pain you have inflicted. Now is the time to fight back, even if I must brace myself”—his heart pounding fiercely in the tension—“against the darkness.”

  As the Pastor fell silent, memories of the past pierced his mind like daggers. He recalled the small child whom he had once subdued, now standing with a pride that soared high. “You should not be here!” the Pastor shouted, his voice echoing in the uncertainty.

  “And you should not underestimate me!” replied Fitran, bearer of past suffering. His voice rolled like thunder approaching. “Do you wish to eradicate me—your former foe, Pastor? Or shall we relive this history?”

  Pastor stared at Fitran with a piercing gaze, as if trying to penetrate the depths of his heart. “Of course,” he replied, his voice cold and resolute, “for the sake of revenge long awaited, for all the joy you have shattered without remorse.” He drew his weapon from beneath his cloak, his movement graceful yet lethal, akin to the marella dance before the storm.

  “Atlantis Bow of Athena,” he said, slowly yet firmly, as if its name melded with the vibrations of the air around him. Each word reverberated through the heavens, like an ancient incantation spoken by gods before battle.

  “The Atlantis Bow of Athena,” he continued, a smile faint yet menacing gracing his lips, “is the mightiest weapon ever forged in the history of the Zircon nation. With the power to pierce continents, it brings death even to the Gamma skies, transforming each victory into a blood-soaked myth that blazes. Countless nations have fallen beneath the precision and brutality of this bow; thousands of souls were snuffed out as they lay in silence. They vanished, swallowed by the arrogance of a weapon that never misses.”

  Four types of arrows filled the bow, each representing something far greater. “The red arrow,” he said, raising his finger as if pointing to an unseen target, “is a symbol of wisdom. The blue arrow embodies speed. The yellow arrow, luck, and lastly, the black arrow. Ah, this arrow contains the purest power.” He gazed intently at Fitran; all those wonders now rested in one hand, as if the world lay at their fingertips.

  “You do not understand, Fitran,” he said, his tone dropping, filled with challenge. “You know how alluring the power of this weapon is. Yet, look at yourself. You seem so calm, as though you do not care about what will come next.”

  Fitran touched the corner of his mouth, his smile akin to a shadow on the calm surface of water. “I am but a small rat in the darkness of this city,” he replied, his voice trembling with unexpected vulnerability. “Trapped in chaos, I do not even know where my next step will lead.” He lowered his gaze, feeling the weight of his words, as if he were truly embracing the bitter reality he faced.

  The pastor nodded slowly, as if savoring the bitterness that had spilled from Fitran's lips. “You know, Fitran,” he said, gathering his breath, “Every step we take in this world often leads us deeper into darkness. What you perceive as darkness is, in truth, the light that tears through the veil of emptiness.”

  With careful precision, he nocked an arrow, bending the bowstring to its absolute limit, his face a mask of focus, as if the entire world held its breath. “When I release this,” he continued, “I must be prepared to face the consequences. Whether it leads to life or death.”

  “First release, Accuracy,” he declared, his voice sharp and clear, marking the moment when death took flight. His body was rigid, trembling for just a moment as he aimed the arrow toward its target.

  “Wind up,” responded Fitran, his voice merging with the magic that shook the air. He sensed something greater than this single act, a resonance of energy flowing between them, forging a bridge between life and death. “You surely know what we face should we fail, yes?”

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  “I am ready, whatever may come,” the pastor replied with an undeniable firmness. Whoosh...! An arrow soared, piercing through the air, faster than a flash of lightning, shattering the boundaries of the world, racing toward an unavoidable fate.

  All around Fitran, clouds of crimson gas coalesced, spreading a terrifying stench of blood. He could sense it, the blood, a sort of warning. “This... this is not good,” he murmured, his gaze shifting to the pastor. “Are we truly prepared to face this?”

  “The arrow flies,” the pastor whispered soothingly, though sweat dripped from his temples. Yet, his movement was stymied, halted by a swelling mass of crimson fluid—blood enveloping Fitran’s body like an ancient shield. “You are not alone, Fitran. We shall face this together.”

  “Liquidation,” the pastor whispered, forcing the words into the stillness, his voice penetrating the thick air. His eyes sparkled, filled with hope and curiosity, as though he were predicting an event that was soon to unfold before them.

  The red gas swelled wide, transforming itself into a viscous liquid. "Even arrows cannot pierce it," the pastor growled, his eyes closing for a brief moment, reflecting the restless spirit striving to comprehend the force before him. The arrow that had surged forward halted merely a millimeter from Fitran's head, ensnared in the grip of blood. Tension enveloped them; every second seemed to slow, freezing the world and holding their breath in a suffocating grasp.

  The pastor gazed at Fitran with a raised brow. "What else do you have prepared this time?" he inquired, his voice trembling between awe and astonishment. He appeared captivated by the elegance of the combat before him, even as the acknowledgment weighed heavily between them.

  “This is what kills them,” Fitran replied, his voice calm yet radiating determination. His eyes shone with unwavering certainty, like embers igniting in the dead of night. “They will not return after this.”

  “Liquidation and wind-up magic,” the pastor repeated, his tone delving deeper into the meanings of those two words. He recognized the stratagem, an unusual respect surfacing amid his speech. “As if you are carving their fate with your own hand, Fitran.”

  Fitran nodded slowly, as if allowing the words to seep in, strengthening his resolve. “Each drop of blood is a part of the sacrifice that must be made. This reserve of power can alter time and space,” he said, his gaze never wavering from the pastor's eyes. “I do not merely endure; I launch my assault.”

  “Indeed,” Fitran affirmed, satisfaction caressing his features. He felt like a hero after acknowledging his adversary, as if every word was a medal reinforcing his courage. “By harnessing the viscosity of this blood,” he continued, his voice resolute, “I can create a barrier against this hail of arrows, reducing the pressure until it nearly ceases altogether.” He regarded the pastor with a challenge, as if daring him to prove otherwise.

  “Fitran, you are truly remarkable,” the pastor praised, his smile genuine, though his eyes revealed a mixture of admiration and deep caution. He saw Fitran as more than just a rival; there was an unexpected bond between them, akin to brothers separated by a dark fate.

  “Yet here lies the end of this battle,” Fitran proclaimed, his voice rasping as he prepared a new arrow that gleamed in the darkness, pitch-black in color. “You know, all this will conclude with a single, certain strike.” He gripped the arrow tightly, magical energy pulsing at its tip, signaling the key to their destinies.

  “Second release, Macht!” the priest cried, his eyes narrowing as he aimed the arrow directly at Fitran's heart, his own beating with tension. “I shall not allow you to fight any longer!” The pressure in the air rendered both their breaths labored; each passing second felt as though it froze time itself.

  Whosh! The arrow was released from the string, soaring like a venomous serpent, piercing the silence. The sound of its flight filled the void between them with palpable tension.

  Thud!

  The black arrow pierced Fitran's chest, embedding itself with the reverberation of thunder on a calm night. The priest stood transfixed, his gaze sharp and wide, caught between relief and a seductive victory akin to a siren's call. He dashed towards Julie, his steadfast companion, who always awaited with buried hope and a worry that seemed to meld the two emotions.

  As Fitran lay powerless, his blood streaming forth created a tragic memory waiting to be told, like a dark painting narrating a long journey. Julie, who had strived to remain strong until now, could no longer hold back her tears. “No… it cannot be!” she whispered, her voice trembling as she embraced the priest tightly, perhaps the only person who could fathom this pain. “The victory should have been ours,” she said, desire and hope intertwining in her tone.

  “At last,” Julie whispered, a broad smile blooming on her face, though fear crept into the depths of her heart. “We have what we desired,” she repeated softly, as if to fortify herself, unwilling to succumb to the tempting despair. She understood that this peace was fleeting, but for now, to be at the pastor's side was everything to her.

  “Yes, at last,” the pastor replied, his voice trembling, unaware of the darkness beginning to lurk behind him. He turned, diverting his gaze from Julie, feeling that something was amiss. “We must...,” he continued, but his sentence faltered as Fitran, half-shadow, emerged from the gloom, advancing silently.

  Julie instantly sensed a threat. “Pastor, be careful...” her voice quivered, yet she had no time for further warning. In an instant, Fitran appeared, roused from the shadows, bearing an inescapable air of death. “You should not be here, Fitran!” Julie screamed, but her voice seemed powerless.

  “Thud...!”

  Excalibur pierced the pastor's chest, the clangor shattering the stillness of the quiet night. The pastor turned, his eyes widening in shock, nearly in disbelief. “No... this cannot be!” He fell, his lips trembling as he beheld Fitran standing tall. “How could you—”

  “More alive than ever,” Fitran interrupted with a cold smile, blood flowing freely, staining Julie’s astonished face. “Did you think you could discard me so easily?”

  Julie screamed, her voice swallowed by the deep darkness surrounding her. “No, please! Stop!” She could not recognize her own friend, now a monster lurking within her shadows. The pastor struggled to force his tongue to move, trying to comprehend Fitran’s final words quivering in the air.

  “W…o…r…l…d…f…r…a…c…t…i…o…n…” The pastor uttered the word like a forbidden incantation. Each syllable struck like a thorn to the heart, awakening painful memories of a shattered world.

  The pastor’s body collapsed, the world seeming to crumble alongside him. “No!” Julie cried out, falling to her knees beside him. All her hopes shattered, alongside your final heartbeat. “What have you done?” Her weeping broke free, tears flowing like rain upon the barren fields, drenching a world that had long awaited a miracle that never arrived.

  The pain pierced deeper than any blade. She cradled the pastor’s now lifeless form, while emptiness hung heavy in her chest, as if anticipating the filling of the void she felt. “Pastor, rise! We can still fix this!”

  Tap... tap... tap… The sound of Fitran’s footsteps echoed like the chime of a clock counting down. Julie strained her ears, attempting to discern his steps amidst the surrounding air. Memories of the past danced in her mind, akin to a nightmare that had been forcibly resurrected. “You….” She gasped, striving to summon the Fitran of old. “Return, this is not you!”

  A muffled sob echoed in the corner of the town, a sound of sorrow that sliced through the silence of the night. A young girl stood there, her clothes tattered and her body marked with wounds that reflected the brutality of a merciless world.

  "Are... are you alright?" Her gentle voice trembled, struggling to ignore the pain in her heart. The apples from her trade lay shattered on the ground, a silent witness to the brutality of this life.

  A group of native men approached, their faces marred with scars, their limping forms telling tales left unspoken. “Look! He is but a child!” one of them shouted, their tone harsh, yet underlined with a thread of fear.

  "We... we mean no harm," another added, leaping into the darkened space with a quavering voice, as if seeking justification. However, a strong child’s figure emerged behind them. The thugs fled swiftly, leaving a tense atmosphere lingering in their wake.

  The little girl grasped the apple, wiping it with a cloth that was far cleaner than her own garments. “This is mine,” she said, patting it, her eyes sparkling despite a trace of uncertainty.

  “You need not.” The voice came suddenly from behind her, soft yet firm. “That cloth is too fine for a dirty apple.” She extended her cloth with a friendly smile, “Take it; allow me to assist you.”

  “It is filthy; better to use this,” she said gently, offering the cloth to the child, her smile bright even amid such dark surroundings.

  “Thank you,” the child replied, accepting the cloth earnestly, as if it were an unexpected gift. He bowed his head, his cheeks a deep crimson.

  “Do look, your dress... you are unwell, are you not?” The girl began to speak again, her voice imbued with empathy. “Why are you alone on a night such as this?”

  “I....” The child trembled, his heart weighed down heavily. “I wish to leave this place.”

  “Indeed, this world is filled with pain,” the girl said, her eyes wide as she shared her own experiences. “But we are not alone. We can resist.”

  The girl’s cheeks flushed, her smile bashful yet sincere. A small spark of hope ignited in the grim atmosphere of the night—something that could offer solace.

  “How much does it cost?” the child suddenly asked, his eyes gleaming with curiosity, as if this world were one of wonder and enchantment.

  “Two bronze coins,” the girl whispered in response, her voice nearly swallowed by the oppressive silence of the night. “But... most importantly, it is only friendship that matters.” She smiled softly, brimming with hope, even as shadows of uncertainty swirled around her.

  The boy rummaged through his neatly folded pocket, revealing a gleaming gold coin. “Behold this,” he proclaimed, his hands trembling with pride. “Where did you acquire such a treasure?” the girl inquired in astonishment, her eyes wide as if struggling to fathom. “My father is a merchant. He brought this home from a distant journey,” the boy replied, winking, his eyes radiating fervent spirit.

  “Oh, I... I have no change!” the girl lamented, her anxious voice nearly vanishing into the night’s stillness, her heart racing. “Yet, I do not wish to disappoint you,” she added, her right hand clenching tightly, fighting to suppress the anxiety that consumed her heart.

  The boy flashed a broad smile, full of conviction. “It matters not, simply take it.” His gesture seemed to signify courage, turning to depart, slightly stumbling, as though stepping toward a fate shrouded in uncertainty. However, before he could stray too far, the girl called out, “Wait! What if we meet again?!”

  “What is thy name?” the girl inquired softly, her voice trembling as her mind swirled with hazy visions of the future. She halted the boy's steps, who was nearly vanishing into the distance. “Fitran Fate,” the boy replied with a tone of confidence, a small smile gracing his face. “And thou?”

  Hesitantly, the girl uttered her name, “I... I am but an ordinary girl.”

  “Fate-san,” the girl murmured, gazing at him in wonder. “That name sounds grand— as if thou wert born to accomplish something great.”

  “Simply call me Fitran,” he said, a broad smile spreading across his lips, infusing a touch of warmth into the coldness of the night air. “Our names do not dictate who we are, do they?”

  “Very well, Fitran-san,” the girl replied, her smile growing more radiant. “But remember, not all souls beyond this realm can be trusted. Especially when the stars begin to fade.”

  “Thou remindest me of my dreams,” Fitran responded, his gaze now serious. “One day, I shall be more than just a street urchin.” The girl nodded, the dampness in her eyes transforming into a flicker of hope— as if her life could shift alongside this fateful encounter.

  For the girl, that day was the most beautiful— the starting point of her first love. "I believe this is the beginning of something grand," she murmured, her face shining with hope. "Love, magic, and heroes like you, Fitran, inspire me to dream high." She lifted her face, gazing into Fitran's eyes with deep longing.

  Back in the present, Fitran stood motionless, his fingers reaching towards the hand that once offered a glimmer of happiness. "You remember that moment, do you not?" Fitran asked, his voice low and laden with sorrow. "We planned for the future, and now... look at what remains." With a heavy heart, he extended his hand, trying to bridge the chasm between past and present.

  Julie hesitated to accept the invitation, torn between desire and fear. "Am I worthy of this?" she murmured. Yet, the fear could not hold her back; she crawled toward the pastor, grasping his hand with fervent longing. "I...," her voice choked, tears streaming profusely, "This heart... is shattered." Her heart was broken, not from a past love, but by the emptiness of her self-worth as a woman. "My tears are not for you, pastor, but for myself," she spoke, her voice heavy with despair.

  Tap... tap... tap!! The sound of her footsteps echoed in the silent chamber, quickening Fitran's heartbeat. "Julie, stop!" he shouted, stepping closer, determined to halt this agonizing process before it became too late. "Do not do this! We can still fix everything!"

  “I... I am a tainted woman, Fitran," she whispered, her head bowed, her voice almost inaudible. "My body has been surrendered to someone I do not love." She bit her lip, struggling to suppress her sobs. "Let me remain in my shame,” her eyes radiated the deepest wounds, unspoken.

  “I am sorry,” Fitran said softly, his voice hoarse from the surge of his emotions. His hand reached out, touching the gleaming hilt of Excalibur under the dim light, then directing it toward Julie, who appeared wounded. “This is the end of our tale, Julie. I must do this.”

  With a trembling voice, Julie whispered, “How can you, Fitran? Is this truly the only way to end it all?”

  As if answering her question, a sharp sound shattered the tension. “Splaat…!”

  Blood sprayed forth, Fitran’s face splattered with glaring red stains, marked with the imprint of eternal regret. He felt the weight of every choice made bearing down upon him.

  As silence enveloped the room, the figure of Mammon emerged from behind a glowing portal, his steps quiet yet assured. The aura of another dimension that trailed behind him was like a menacing shadow, conveying a sense that his presence was unwelcome. “Truly intriguing, isn’t it?” he remarked with a sneer.

  “What is it that you desire, Mammon?” Fitran replied, striving to suppress his fear. Every word uttered by Mammon held the potential to jeopardize everything.

  “Though you have erased his memories, his love still belongs to that man,” Mammon continued, his smile wide and steeped in irony. “With or without memory, love endures, as if transcending time and space.”

  Fitran felt his heart constrict at those words. “Love is something I have always found difficult to comprehend,” he murmured weakly, his voice trembling. He was reminded of the joyous moments that now left only sorrow in their wake.

  Mammon studied Fitran for a moment, his eyes filled with contemplation. “My arrival is not to debate love. I am here to deliver news. All my contracts have been revoked, save for yours.”

  “News?” Fitran swallowed hard, his lips feeling parched. “What do you mean?”

  “You must take responsibility for what you have wrought,” Mammon replied. “And that includes bearing the memories you have left behind.”

  Fitran inhaled deeply, accepting his fate with an open heart despite the tremor within. “Very well. As per our agreement, I shall relinquish my memories and seal this power. During that time, you and the seven other demons shall not be able to access me...”

  For a moment, silence enveloped them, before Fitran continued, “Beelzebub,” his name emerged slowly, weighted and filled with significance.

  “Mammon,” he uttered without expression, the words floating in the stillness between them.

  “Perhaps I shall not see you again for a long while...” Fitran whispered, his voice weak amidst the remnants of love and sorrow, as well as the ending of a spiral that truly had no conclusion. He knew all this was an unavoidable sacrifice before the dark fate that awaited.