The oppressive silence of the place began to twist, not breaking with a sound, but with a subtle change in the air, a deep hum Davies felt in his bones. The feeling of being watched grew stronger, not by eyes, but by something else entirely. Shadows stretched, getting darker, swirling together
as if to form a shape.
Slowly, a figure appeared before him. It was the blind old man. He stood still, his head tilted as if listening to a ghost's whisper. His eyes, though empty of sight, seemed to stare right through Davies, into his very soul. They weren't real eyes, not flesh and blood, but glowing orbs of energy that mimicked sight, searching, poking, trying to stir the fear the old man knew lived in every human heart.
But Davies, after all the terrible things he'd seen, felt a strange calm wash over him. He had faced his own darkness, fought his own inner demons. He had nothing left to prove to this creature, nothing left to hide. Fear was a cold knot in his stomach, yes, but it didn't rule him. It didn't show in his gaze.
The old man, sensing this fight, this unexpected strength, spoke. His voice was soft, almost gentle, yet it carried the weight of something ancient, something deeply hurt. "Davies," he said, his voice thick with a lifetime of pain, betrayal, and feeling let down. Just his name, spoken with such quiet scorn, sent a shiver down Davies's back. It was a name spoken not to welcome, but to push away. It was a name heavy with endless despair.
"Come," the old man said, pointing to a building nearby, one Davies now knew was an altar, a place of old rituals and sacrifice. The old man moved with an eerie grace, his blindness no barrier. He seemed to see in a way no human could understand.
Davies followed, pulled by a dark urge, a need to understand the evil that lived inside this man. He stepped into the altar, a place filled with strange symbols and unsettling objects. The air hung heavy with a strange, sweet smoke.
The old man turned to Davies, his sightless eyes fixed on him. "Humans," he began, his voice dripping with bitterness, "are bad. They destroy. They eat up, they spoil, they lie. They don't care about life, about the world's balance. They are a sickness on this earth."
The old man's words hung in the air, heavy with the pain of ages. He moved, not like a blind man fumbling, but with clear purpose, and began to show the story carved onto his very skin.
"So, you think you know pain, Davies?" the old man rasped, his voice like dry leaves skittering across stone. "You think you've seen darkness?"
Davies stared back, his face a mask. "I've seen enough to know it has many faces. Yours seems… familiar."
"Familiar?" The old man gave a hollow laugh. "Ah, yes. The darkness in men's hearts. It is always the same. A never-ending hunger." He gestured to the symbols around them. "These stories are not just carved on stone, Davies. They are carved into my very being."
"What stories?" Davies asked, his voice steady.
"Stories of betrayal. Of greed. Of how easily humans turn on what they claim to cherish." The old man's voice grew colder. "They talk of light, but they chase shadows."
"And you? Are you light or shadow?" Davies challenged.
The old man tilted his head again, a faint, unsettling smile playing on his lips. "I am the mirror, Davies. I show you what you refuse to see in yourselves." He took a slow step closer. "Tell me, do you see hope when you look at mankind?"
"Hope… is a choice," Davies replied, his gaze unwavering. "Even in the darkest places."
"A pretty thought," the old man scoffed. "But a lie. Hope is the first thing they sacrifice. They build monuments to their own foolishness, then tear them down in a fit of rage." He pointed to a faint scar on his arm. "This mark here? That is the mark of a promise broken. A world ruined for a handful of dirt."
"Not all are like that," Davies countered. "There are those who fight, who try to heal."
"A few scattered sparks in a vast darkness," the old man dismissed. "They flicker, then they fade. The hungry tide always rises, always consumes." He took another step, his sightless eyes seeming to bore deeper into Davies. "Do you fight for them, Davies? Do you believe they are worth saving?"
"I believe in trying," Davies said simply.
The old man's laughter echoed in the cavernous space, a dry, rattling sound. "Trying? Trying is for the weak, Davies. The strong accept what is. And what is, is decay. What is, is endless night." He paused, his voice dropping to a near whisper. "Do you feel it, the rot? The smell of it on the wind?"
Davies said nothing, his eyes scanning the ancient symbols, the air heavy with unspoken history.
"You seek answers, Davies?" the old man finally said. "But what if the answer is simply… nothing? A grand, empty void where all your hopes crumble to dust?" His hand brushed against a jagged, dark stone on the altar. "They come here, seeking power, seeking salvation. They find only what they bring with them: their own terrible truth."
What do you think is the "terrible truth" the old man refers to?
The old blind man pulled back the rough fabric of his tunic, showing jagged scars that crisscrossed his body, a terrible map of human cruelty. "These," he said, his voice shaking a little, "are the marks they left. Burns… from their fires." He pointed to rough, uneven scars. "Cuts… from their blades." The scars were old, but the pain they held felt fresh and sharp.
He then lifted his head, his empty eye sockets turned toward Davies. "And these" he whispered, barely a sound. "These are what they did to my eyes. They took my sight, Davies. They stole the light from my world." His voice broke, and a single tear traced a path down his weathered cheek.
The old man's story grew stronger, each word hitting Davies like a hammer blow. "I was just a child, Davies. Twelve years old. They came in the night… like devils. They killed my parents, my brothers, my sisters… everyone. All gone." His voice completely failed him, a sob tearing from his throat. "And I I was left alone. In the dark."
He turned away, his body shaking with the weight of his sorrow. "The light, it refused to give me hope," he choked out, his voice thick with tears. "It left me. It showed me only cruelty, only pain, only despair."
He turned back to Davies, his sightless eyes somehow seeing more than Davies could ever grasp. "But the darkness…" he whispered, his voice gaining strength, a chilling resolve hardening his face. "The darkness, it hugged me close. It gave me comfort. It gave me power."
And then, tears began to flow freely, not the soft weeping of sadness, but the raw, guttural cries of a man broken, a man betrayed, a man who had lost everything. It was a cry that came from the deepest part of him, a cry that echoed centuries of suffering, a cry that spoke of a pain so deep it could never truly heal. It was a cry that sent a chill down Davies's spine, a cry that showed the true root of the old man's hate, the spring of his bitterness, the reason he had turned his back on people and welcomed the darkness. It was the cry of a lost child, a child left alone, a child who had found peace only in the shadows.
The old man's heartbreaking cries filled the altar chamber, the raw feelings hanging heavy in the air. As the sobs died down, a chilling quiet settled over the space. He turned toward Davies, his sightless eyes, though still holding the lingering pain of his past, now showed a new resolve, a frightening sense of purpose.
"You understand now, Davies," he said, his voice no longer shaking, but steady, almost peaceful. "You understand why I do what I do."
Davies, his heart pounding, his mind spinning from the old man's sad story, could only nod. He understood the pain, the betrayal, the deep-seated hate that drove the old man's actions. But understanding didn't mean agreeing.
"These… killings," Davies stammered, the pictures of the torn bodies flashing in his mind. "You're behind them, aren't you?"
The old man didn't flinch, didn't say no. He simply met Davies's gaze, his empty eye sockets somehow showing a chilling awareness. "I am the tool," he said, his voice calm, almost distant. "I am the hand that carries out the will of the spirits. They… they demand fairness. They demand payback."
"Fairness?" Davies scoffed, the word tasting like ash in his mouth. "Is that what you call this… this killing? These innocent people… they did nothing to you."
"Innocent?" the old man repeated, his voice bitter. "They are all guilty, Davies. Guilty of the same wrongs as those who hurt me. They are all part of the same rotten group, the same cruel kind that took everything from me."
"You're punishing them for what others did," Davies argued, his voice rising in anger. "You're taking innocent lives to get even for wrongs done to you ages ago."
"Ages?" the old man chuckled, a dry, raspy sound. "Time it means nothing to me, Davies. The pain, the hate… it's all still there, as fresh as the day it happened. And these these killings they are not just acts of revenge. They are a cleaning. A making pure. A way to get rid of the evil that fills the world."
"You've become what you hate," Davies said, his voice filled with sadness. "You've become a monster, just like the ones who hurt you."