The air shifted—not in temperature, nor scent, but in something far more fundamental. It was as though the world itself had inhaled sharply, held that breath deep within its lungs, and then simply forgot to release it. A stillness followed, heavy and unnatural, wrapping itself around the realms like the hush before a cataclysm.
Far above the Lower World, past the dominions of mortals and magic, beyond veils that not even the most enlightened cultivators could pierce, something ancient stirred atop the Ninth Throne. In that unreachable place, where even the gods dared not look for too long, a shadow opened its eyes—and with that single motion, a forgotten name was whispered through the marrow of the cosmos.
Kamazaki.
Beneath the scattered constellations, the boy lay resting, though his body remained tense. His sleep was light, almost unwilling, as if his spirit refused to surrender fully to unconsciousness. The Trial of Chains still echoed through his bones. Though his breathing was steady, calm even, the soul beneath his skin simmered. The fire inside had not gone out; it had only learned to burn quietly. For now.
The silent guardian kept watch beside him, utterly motionless, his presence hidden from the world by ancient oaths and even older shadows. No being in the surrounding forest—not spirit, beast, nor celestial—was aware of his existence. But he was aware of everything.
And then it came.
A pressure that didn't belong to this world swept across the glade. It wasn't the divine presence of a heavenly envoy, nor the suffocating essence of a demonic noble. It was older—primordial in its weight, heavier than sin, colder than time. The shadow immediately dropped to one knee, bowing low as he whispered a chant that hadn't been spoken aloud since the first age of devouring. A single black feather drifted from the void and landed silently in front of him.
The wind, which had stirred gently moments before, ceased completely.
At the forest's edge, footsteps emerged—measured and deliberate, yet making no sound despite the fallen twigs and dry leaves. A figure stepped into view, clad in flowing black robes. A veil of midnight silk obscured her face, and as she passed, the grass beneath her shriveled and died with quiet finality.
The guardian straightened, blade already drawn and held low. His voice was even, but the tension beneath it was unmistakable.
"You are not of Heaven."
The veiled woman's lips curved faintly beneath the silk. "Nor Hell. Nor Earth," she said, her tone impossibly soft. "I serve one who sits above all thrones, yet refuses to wear a crown."
The moment she spoke, the forest trembled—not with sound, but with a pressure that resonated deep within the skull, cracking the mind rather than the earth. The language she used was abyssal, forbidden since the first collapse of the celestial order, and her voice carried that weight as if it had always belonged to her.
The shadow did not lower his blade. "The Abyssal tongue," he muttered, eyes narrowing. "That speech has been sealed for an age."
She halted a few paces away, allowing the silence to settle between them like dust in an untouched tomb. "I come not to fight you, Guardian. My purpose is to speak."
"You carry the voice of death," he replied darkly, his stance firm, every muscle ready to strike.
Her soft laugh broke the silence again, but it was devoid of mockery—just a quiet acknowledgment of irony. "Death is merciful," she said. "What I bring is not."
Before he could respond, the boy stirred. His body jerked upward as if ripped from slumber by unseen hands, chest heaving as his senses struggled to orient themselves. Sweat poured from his skin, but this was no nightmare—it was presence. Ancient, suffocating, and sharp enough to slice through the veil of sleep.
He sat upright, heart pounding, eyes darting to the figure standing near the campfire.
She stood completely still, regal and quiet, wrapped in black like a silhouette pulled from some long-forgotten prophecy. Though she did not move, the atmosphere bent around her—like reality itself was holding its breath in her presence.
The boy rose to his feet, fire already stirring at his fingertips, summoned not by choice but by instinct.
"Who are you?" he asked, voice tight, though he kept it steady.
The woman tilted her head slightly. Her veil swayed despite the dead wind, as if moved by a breath from some other realm. "I am not a name. I am a vessel. A breath. A witness to the path you stand upon."
The guardian moved to intercept, placing himself protectively between them, his blade gleaming faintly with void-light. Her hand rose, not in threat, but in acknowledgment.
"Peace, Guardian. I have not come to strike. Only to deliver a truth."
The shadow did not lower his weapon. "You speak with the weight of judgment," he said quietly.
She offered no denial. "Judgment is soft," she said. "This is worse."
Her gaze shifted back to the boy. "My master has ruled in silence longer than your oldest gods. He watches the flow of time, sees the echoes between lives, and he has taken interest in you."
"And what does he want?" the boy asked.
"To see what was born from sin and flame."
"I passed your Trial."
She nodded. "Yes. But not by enduring it—you broke it. That is why he watches."
His fists tightened. "So what?"
"So you are dangerous."
"Then kill me."
She stepped forward, slow and sure. "He does not want you dead. He wants you to understand."
"Understand what?"
"The cost of what you are."
From the folds of her robe, she drew a scroll. It was not gold, nor silk-bound. It was stitched from human skin and sealed in dried black blood. The moment she unrolled it, the forest howled. Trees recoiled as if struck. Animals fled in blind panic. Even the guardian stepped back, grimacing.
On the scroll was a single image.
It was him.
Older. Changed.
Eyes black as void. Skin cloaked in fire and shadow. Wings of broken chains stretched from his back, and around him, the world burned.
"This is you," she said. "A possible future."
"It's not real," the boy whispered.
"It is not prophecy," she replied calmly. "It is potential."
His voice hardened. "I won't become him."
"You already carry the seed."
"I carry his heart, too."
At that, she paused. The response caught her off-guard, and her silence stretched longer than expected.
"You love him," she said, more to herself than to him. "The Devourer."
"He's my father."
"Then see for yourself why even gods feared his love."
The scroll twisted, not into a spell or a portal, but into something older. A doorway. A memory carved into the marrow of time.
She gestured toward it. "Step through."
The guardian growled low in his throat. "It's bait. She lies with truths."
But the boy… he had to know. And so, with his fire flickering low, he stepped into the memory.