An idea.
Not hope.
Not a dream.
Not even a will.
A raw, naked idea pierced Anor'ven like a shard of ice.
"What if one could build a place where the cycle stops?"
A place where man no longer needed to kill out of fear,
nor hate out of weakness,
nor betray out of nature.
Not to save the world.
Not to love it.
Only to silence the unbearable noise of doomed births and wasted deaths.
Only to finally have —
a shelter.
A shelter for him.
And maybe, by accident, for them too.
**
The earth had become a scar.
Under a pale sky, Anor'ven walked on, his shadow long and twisted across the dust.
Each step rang like a slap against a world too afraid to speak to him.
He had not counted the days since the last time.
The last flight.
The last corpse.
He had not fled because he feared.
He had fled because there was nothing else left to do.
The wind carried his name across the dead plains.
Not as a song.
Not as a prayer.
As a curse.
The immortal demon.
The endless specter.
The thief of life.
Anor'ven did not listen.
Or rather — he listened without hearing.
**
The village appeared beyond a crumbling ridge.
A tangle of crude shelters.
Fences woven from brittle branches.
Thin fires casting trembling red flashes across tense faces.
He felt them before he saw them:
The fear.
The hatred.
The expectation.
They had heard of him coming.
Not because of the noise.
Not because of tracks.
Because a myth always arrives before the one who refuses to die.
They knew.
Or they thought they did.
Anor'ven descended the hill.
Slowly.
Visibly.
Without weapons.
Without challenge.
The first cries rose:
— "It's him!"
— "The immortal killer!"
— "Drive him off before he steals our children!"
Men rushed out from between the huts.
Women grabbed stones.
Even the children, driven by their parents' terror, raised sticks.
Anor'ven stopped at the village's edge.
His gaze swept over the shapes, the shadows, the hearts.
He felt nothing.
No anger.
No bitterness.
Only that cold weariness,
that silent weight
that had never left him.
"Again."
He stepped forward.
The reaction was immediate.
Three men charged with crooked spears.
The first screamed something incoherent and swung his weapon.
Anor'ven shifted aside.
With a dry, almost careless twist, he snapped the spear,
then struck.
The wood shattered against the man's throat.
He collapsed, gasping.
The second came, circling.
Anor'ven did not move.
The man stabbed low — aiming for the legs.
Anor'ven took half a step back,
caught him by the shoulder,
and hurled him into the dust like a broken branch.
The third hesitated.
Too long.
Fear flickered in his eyes.
He understood.
Anor'ven advanced on him.
Calm.
Inevitable.
The third dropped his weapon.
And knelt.
Not from submission.
From raw survival instinct.
The others watched.
They saw.
They understood.
The demon did not kill for pleasure.
He did not slaughter without cause.
He simply crushed what dared stand.
**
Anor'ven surveyed the villagers.
Women in rags.
Elders gasping for breath.
Children with hollow eyes.
And among them, a few young ones —
still strong,
still proud,
still trembling.
He took one step forward.
No one dared move.
In that suspended silence, a clear thought bloomed within him.
Cold.
Implacable.
"They cannot survive alone."
Chaos would be born again.
Fear would devour again.
The story would repeat, again, and again.
Unless something different was forged.
Not a kingdom.
Not an army.
A refuge.
A silent bastion against the void.
A place without illusions.
A place where he could simply exist —
without worship,
without fear,
without betrayal.
Not a utopia.
A lie more durable than the others.
**
He extended his hand.
Not in prayer.
Not in command.
Simply toward the strongest among them —
a young man, hard-faced, fists clenched.
"Come," Anor'ven rasped.
His voice was a broken stone's whisper.
The young man hesitated.
For a breath.
Then stepped forward.
The others watched.
And understood.
Those who followed would be spared.
Those who refused…
Anor'ven would not move to convince them.
He would not need to strike again.
The world would finish the work for him.
**
The sun fell,
dragging long shadows across the torn earth.
Anor'ven turned his back to the smoking huts.
Around him, a handful of silent souls began to follow.
Not out of faith.
Not out of love.
Out of absence of choice.
They marched.
Toward nothing.
Toward something.
Toward the shadow of a utopia already broken before it could be born.
Anor'ven did not smile.
Anor'ven did not cry.
He moved forward.
Not to build a paradise.
Not to save anyone.
But to push back — once more —
the inevitable collapse.
The last light faded behind the hills.
Behind him, a trail of broken smoke and abandoned stares.
Before him, only dust, only distance.
He did not lead them.
They followed because they had nowhere else to go.
Anor'ven did not look back.
And he never would again.