Evodil didn't blink.
He looked at Noah.
Then James.
The smirk on his face was wrong—too sharp. Too still. It wasn't playful.
Wasn't mocking. There was no chaos behind it.
Only intent.
Cold.
Final.
An idea that wasn't born from mischief or madness, but something older.
Deeper. Hatred—toward life, toward hope, toward anything that breathed
beneath him.
Noah stepped forward, fixing his glasses with one hand. His voice was
steady, but not calm.
"What happened to you?" he asked. "You're—"
A pause.
Human blood.
Black essence.
"You're covered in it."
Evodil didn't answer.
He waved it off like smoke. Laughed.
Then spoke.
"Erase it all."
The words dropped like stone.
"No more second chances. No more fair games. It was never fair to
begin with." He tilted his head, the smile still carved onto his face. "They
cheated. They always cheat. And we let them."
He looked at James first.
"You? You'd take the sun."
Then at Noah.
"You'd take life. All of it. With her help. You've been near her long
enough. Her Oath leaks into you."
Noah's jaw clenched.
Evodil's voice dropped.
"I'll erase the stars. Burn the sky black. You bury the forests. James
snuffs the light."
He stepped forward, boots echoing through the Citadel's hollow floor.
"No one else gets to build. No one else gets to breathe. Not outside
Menystria. We turn this place into a haven."
"A prison," Noah snapped.
"A sanctuary," Evodil corrected, still smiling.
"From who?"
"From them. The ones that lied. The ones that took and begged and bled
and never gave anything back."
He scoffed.
"The humans in your little district? They're already halfway to dirt. Let
them finish."
Noah stared at him, breath shallow, like he'd just watched someone
carve a name into a tombstone they hadn't dug yet.
Jasper turned.
He didn't look at Evodil's eyes.
Didn't dare.
And James?
He was silent.
Still.
Thinking.
For longer than he should have.
James sighed.
Slow. Deep.
He reached up and took off his sunglasses, folding them with
mechanical precision and sliding them into his pocket.
Then he walked.
Past Jasper. Past Noah.
Straight to Evodil.
And stopped beside him.
He didn't speak right away. Just looked at Noah.
Then nodded.
"I agree."
Noah froze.
James's voice stayed even. "Humans hurt you. They hurt Jasper. And
me. Every time we tried to offer something—guidance, shelter, law—they
turned it into war."
He didn't look at Jasper when he said it.
"They ruined their world. They'll ruin ours."
Jasper stepped forward.
"Dad—"
James didn't respond.
"Dad, don't do this."
Still nothing.
"Dad, please—"
James turned his head slightly. Not enough to make eye contact. Just
enough to let Jasper know he heard him.
And then dismissed him.
Jasper flinched.
Noah closed his eyes, fingers curling into fists.
This wasn't a discussion.
It never was.
Evodil never expected a vote. He didn't need approval.
He just needed momentum.
And now he had it.
Two against one.
Noah took a breath. Then another.
But it didn't help.
He saw it clearly now.
James had hated humans for years. Centuries.
And Evodil?
He just needed a reason.
This wasn't strategy. It was inevitable.
They would do it with or without him.
If he refused—
They'd make him.
Noah opened his mouth.
No argument came out.
No resistance.
Only—
"…Fine."
He didn't look at them.
Didn't look at Jasper.
He just said it.
Like surrender.
Evodil's smirk widened into something else.
A grin.
He laughed again—low and guttural—as he stepped closer to Noah,
placing one bloodied hand on the front of his disheveled suit.
The crimson soaked into the fabric like ink.
"Thank you," he said softly. "For not being difficult."
The moment the words left his mouth, the ground trembled.
James stepped forward, completing the triangle.
His boots echoed once—then stopped.
He raised his arms.
No incantation. No divine chant. Just motion.
Above them, the sun—small and nearly invisible behind Menystria's
eternal veil—began to shrink.
Slowly.
Painfully.
The last warmth of light curling into a pinprick.
Then gone.
The wind stopped.
Birdsong died.
The entire world held its breath.
Like it knew.
Like it understood what was coming.
Evodil's hand left Noah's chest.
He didn't speak.
Didn't pose.
He simply looked up.
And the crater answered.
Tendrils—thousands, maybe millions—erupted from the abyss.
They pierced the clouds, stretching beyond visibility, writhing like veins,
like vines, like roots reclaiming a corpse.
Above, the faint celestial Marks that once glimmered in the artificial
sky—
Vanished.
Swallowed one by one.
Unmade.
Erased.
Noah didn't cry out.
He sighed.
A sound like acceptance.
Then pain bloomed inside his skull—sharp, immediate, real. He
staggered, grabbing his temple as the headache pulsed like thunder
through bone.
Neither James nor Evodil flinched.
Only he felt it.
He knelt, pressing a hand to the ground.
And the earth—
Responded.
Outside the Citadel, several floating islands collapsed.
They didn't fall gently.
They shattered.
Fauna. Beasts. Wildlife.
Crushed.
The strange purple and dark-blue trees flickered like dying screens, their
glow fading, their roots curling inward.
All color bled out.
As if the planet itself was rejecting its own body.
Noah collapsed.
His knees gave out without warning, and if it hadn't been for Jasper, he
would've hit the ground head-first.
The younger boy barely caught him, dragging him upright, breath tight
from the sudden weight.
Noah was heavier than he looked—like he carried more than just
himself.
Evodil turned as he walked, glancing at the scene.
Then he clapped.
Slow.
Smirking at James with the kind of satisfaction that should've been illegal
to wear.
"Nice show," he said.
James exhaled through his nose, rolling his shoulders. "I'll need a
month," he muttered. "Burned through too much Vestige."
Evodil laughed again.
"See? You and the nerd might be smarter. Stronger. Better fighters. But
when it comes to their little divine hocus-pocus?"
He gestured vaguely to the sky—now stripped of stars, marks, or color.
"I'm still the best."
He turned without waiting for a response and headed toward the far end
of the Citadel—toward the bridge, toward the Manor.
Gone.
Jasper gently lowered Noah into a nearby chair, panting slightly as he
set him down. His hands were trembling. He hadn't realized how cold
Noah felt.
Then he turned.
Walked straight to James.
Eyes wide.
Mouth shaking.
"You really just did that," Jasper said.
James didn't answer.
"You really—just decided for everyone that humanity doesn't get to try
again?"
Still nothing.
"We don't even know what's going on out there. We can't reach them,
we haven't even looked, and you—"
His voice cracked.
"You pulled the genocide switch."
James's jaw tightened.
No words. Just that familiar flicker in his temple—the one that showed
restraint being stretched.
Jasper kept going.
"What if Caroline saw this?" he snapped. "What if she saw you like
this—finally saw what kind of god you are underneath all that law and
order and pressed suits?"
James's expression didn't change.
But his left hand clenched.
And the room got a little warmer.
Jasper didn't stop.
He couldn't.
He pushed forward, voice cracking from something deeper than rage.
"You raised me. You taught me restraint. You held my hands when I
couldn't stop shaking after the first time I—"
His throat closed for a second.
"You helped me, and now you're just… wiping them out? All of them?
And for what?"
James said nothing.
"Do you even know why you hate them? Or is it just because it's easier
than admitting you're not in control anymore?"
The silence hung like a guillotine.
James's fingers twitched.
And finally—
He spoke.
His voice wasn't loud. But it didn't have to be.
"Enough."
Jasper flinched.
"You'll quiet down. Go to your room. And you'll never speak of this
again."
Jasper's stare didn't waver.
"No."
James turned.
His jaw was tight now—too tight. That slow-burn edge of authority
bleeding into something colder.
Jasper didn't step back.
"I can fix this," he said, voice low. "Evodil's not beyond help. He's not.
He's just—grieving. You both are. And this isn't justice, Dad. It's a
tantrum. It's a massacre."
James's patience shattered.
He seized Jasper's arm with one hand, strength overwhelming.
"I warned you."
His voice was ice now. No trace of fatherhood. Only judgment.
"And now you'll deal with the consequence."
He dragged Jasper through the Citadel, past the empty hall, past
Noah—who barely stirred—and toward the front gate.
The light was already burning.
The great arch of recognition that Noah had designed, programmed to
erase anything that didn't belong.
And right now?
Jasper didn't.
James didn't hesitate.
He threw his son across the threshold.
Jasper hit the ground hard—outside the gate, coughing, stunned.
When he looked up, James was already lifting the Warhammer.
The stone head glowed with molten veins, trembling in his grip.
"Come back inside," James said flatly, "and I'll treat it as treason."
Jasper stared at him.
Eyes wide.
Breath ragged.
He didn't speak.
Didn't dare.
The gate hummed between them like a warning heart.
Jasper looked back.
His katana still sat where he left it—inside the Citadel, leaned perfectly
upright against the stone.
If he wanted it back, he'd have to fight for it.
He wasn't stupid.
Not today.
He stared at the blade for a second longer, then turned without a word,
the dull ache in his chest growing sharper.
James watched him from behind the light gate.
Didn't speak.
Didn't lift the hammer again.
Only when Jasper's figure disappeared down the bridge—toward the
shade-lit streets, toward the half-built pub—did James move.
The Warhammer vanished in a faint hiss of heat.
He leaned back against the wall of the Citadel and slipped his
sunglasses on again, fingers quick and practiced like they always were.
Back to neutral.
Back to control.
Back to the image.
Behind him, Noah stirred.
Still in the chair.
Still silent.
But awake.
He'd seen it all.
He chuckled into his hand—dry and bitter—as the other hand gripped
the side of his head, fingers curling in against the pain.
A migraine blooming behind his eyes like one of his own arrows had
turned traitor and lodged itself through his skull.
He let the laugh fade.
Then spoke, soft and hoarse.
"You know," he said, "for a guy who once burned down a boutique
because a woman named Jessica wouldn't give him her number... you
sure play god like it's a chess game."
James didn't turn.
Didn't need to.
Noah straightened slowly in the chair.
"Evodil's always been broken," he said. "But you? You chose this. You let
him do this. And now you've got to explain it to Ariela."
That got James's attention.
Just slightly.
His jaw twitched.
Noah kept going.
"She is still the goddess of life, you know. And last I checked, the right to
end it doesn't belong to you. Or Evodil. Or me."
James didn't answer.
Didn't have to.
Noah sighed again, standing up fully now, his knees cracking under the
weight of magic still buzzing in his bones.
He rubbed his temple.
And for the first time in hours, he looked toward the sky.
There was no moon.
Just a shadow where it used to be.
Noah walked past James without another glance.
Didn't break stride.
Didn't even slow.
"Good luck explaining this to the ones left," he muttered. "The children.
The survivors. The people whose stars just disappeared without
warning."
James didn't reply.
Noah didn't expect him to.
He kept going, heading straight through the Citadel's inner
threshold—past its sterile walls, through the golden-white veil of the light
gate, and onto the bridge.
Step after step.
No stops.
The world outside was quiet.
Too quiet.
The cities of shade loomed ahead, their glassless windows watching like
empty sockets. Lamps flickered along the posts. Some didn't turn on at
all.
Still, he crossed them.
Bridge to island. Island to town.
No one said a word to him.
He boarded the cable cart with the usual hiss of metal and settling
weight.
No buttons. No controls.
It moved on its own.
Always had.
For others, the descent was slow. Unnerving. Full of silence that made
you feel watched.
But for Noah?
It was thinking time.
The car rumbled softly as it began to lower—taking him deeper, away
from the last threads of artificial starlight.
The shadows stretched longer here.
Blanketing the terrain like bruises.
And he thought.
Evodil hadn't always been like this.
Unstable? Yes. Violent? Often.
But even inside that white palace—even when his eyes had broken
people's minds just by being seen—he hadn't been this far gone.
And James?
James had raised Jasper. Saved him when no one else would. Molded
him into something better.
Now he'd thrown that same boy out like defective code.
None of this made sense.
None of it fit.
Bad math. Bad patterning.
The kind of logic that couldn't be patched.
If Noah didn't find the source of it—
Didn't fix it—
Everything would collapse.
Again