After some time, Amukelo pushed himself to his feet. His limbs felt lighter than they should have, his muscles no longer weighed down by the agony that had nearly consumed him before he lost consciousness. He expected his ribs to burn with every breath, for his arm to hang lifelessly at his side, for the poison to still be eating away at his flesh, but none of that happened.
He looked down at his hands once more, turning them over slowly. He clenched his fist and felt no sharp sting, no warning from his body that he was on the brink of death. It was as if someone had taken him apart and put him back together again, as if he had never suffered at all.
Amukelo's gaze lifted to the statues standing before the massive doors. He swallowed hard, his voice barely more than a breath as he asked, "Did you do this?"
The silence of the chamber answered him.
He took a slow step forward, staring up at the towering figure before him. At the base of the statue, ancient writings curled along the stone, deep and weathered with age. He crouched slightly, running his fingers along the carvings, but they meant nothing to him. The symbols were unfamiliar, their meaning lost to time. Maybe if he had the energy, the desire, he would try to understand them, to search for an answer. But he didn't care. Not really.
His mind was still trapped in the dream. The image of his mother—her darkened face, her voice filled with hate and accusation—refused to leave him. Every word echoed in his head like a curse. "Why did you leave me?" "Why didn't you protect me?" "I'm ashamed to have a son like you."
He shuddered, closing his eyes, as if the darkness might silence her voice. But it didn't. Instead, the silence fed something deeper.
"You are worthless." The voice slithered in from nowhere. It wasn't his mother's. It was darker. "You should've died with her. You're just a burden. Everything you touch rots."
He froze. His breathing slowed.
"You think she loved you? She pitied you. She died ashamed of you."
His hand trembled against the stone. The air around him felt heavier—thick and suffocating. He staggered back from the statue, heart pounding
"End it," the voice hissed again. "There's no way out. No purpose left. You've failed. Again. Nothing changed. This world doesn't need you. Just end your miserable existence right here."
His gaze fell to the blade at his side. He drew it.
His hand gripped the hilt tightly, knuckles white, fingers trembling. The point hovered before his chest, the edge catching the faint light from the statue's base.
He stared at it—at his own reflection in the steel. Hollow eyes. A face weighed down by everything he'd lost. He raised the sword, one slow breath at a time, the tip inching toward his heart.
"It would be easy," the voice whispered sweetly. "One motion. One breath. And the pain ends. No more hunger. No more shame. No more failure."
And for a moment… he believed it.
He clenched his jaw, forcing his eyes shut. The blade was cold against his skin. He could already feel the warmth that would follow. One push. One release. Just one.
But then—Soft. Gentle. Unshakable. A memory.
Her hands on his cheeks. Her smile, soft and tired, but warm. Her voice, like a song whispered before sleep: "Amukelo, always remember… a true warrior kneels before he stands."
His breath caught. The sword slipped.
His knees buckled, and he collapsed forward, the blade clattering from his hands and skidding across the stone floor. He gasped, a choked sound between sob and breath, and dropped to all fours. The tears came next—hot, bitter, uncontrolled.
His face pressed against the cold stone as the voice screamed in rage—but it was fading now.
"Ahh… Mother…" he whispered. He stayed like that, motionless, until the trembling passed.
Then, slowly, he reached for the blade—not to raise it again, but to sheath it. His fingers were steady now.
"I was healed… I don't know why. Maybe God healed me himself, but I will not lose that second chance!" he said with determination.
He stood up and exhaled. "Watch me, Mom. I will not fall like that again. I will make you proud of me."
With that, he turned toward the path he had entered from, leaving the chamber behind.
As he stepped back into the tunnel, he scanned the walls for any sign of another path, but there was nothing. His only hope was the collapsed entrance, though in his mind, he had already resigned himself to the idea that it was impassable. He still had to try.
But when he reached the place where the rocks had once buried the passage, he froze. His breath hitched, his eyes widening slightly. It wasn't collapsed.
The path that had been blocked by a mountain of stone was clear. There was no sign of the destruction he had seen before, no rubble, no dust, no evidence that it had ever been blocked at all. He blinked, stepping forward, his mind struggling to process what he was seeing.
Slowly, he crouched, running his fingers over the ground where the rubble should have been. The stone was smooth, undisturbed. It was as if the collapse had never happened. He whispered under his breath, "Did something… clean the entrance?"
There was no sign of movement. He hesitated for another moment, then slowly stepped forward. But as he walked through the tunnel, nothing happened. No enemies, no strange creatures, no threats.
When he finally reached the exit, he squinted as the daylight hit his eyes. He stepped out into the open and took in the valley before him, expecting to see destruction.
The valley stretched before him, untouched. No shattered stones, no craters, no signs that anything had ever happened.
His gaze drifted upward, toward the cliff he had fallen from. And as he looked at it, he realized something else—it wasn't as high as he had thought. The distance was survivable. It wasn't the death sentence it had seemed to be. His hands curled into fists as a new thought pressed into his mind. "What had happened?"
The Titans. The collapse. His wounds. His body. The dream. Everything. None of it made sense.
His breath slowed, his heart steady as he tilted his head toward the sky. Was this truly a miracle? Had something—someone—saved him?
He swallowed hard, his voice soft but unwavering as he whispered, "Did you save me, God?"
He exhaled, then said with sincerity, "Thank you… And forgive me for doubting you."