Everyone in the room was shocked by the sensitive question that had just been asked, yet they did not hide their desire to know the truth of what had happened.
The man looked at them, then at the wooden table standing firmly between them. He sighed and said, "Yes. Everything that happened was because of my mistake."
Naiv clenched his fist, concern visible on his face.
"Can you explain to us what you mean by your mistake?"
Mir stepped forward, pity written across her features.
"Can't you show a little consideration? He is clearly still in shock from what happened to him and to his unit."
Ilsa slowly tilted her head, her eyes never leaving him. She did not know whether what she felt was sorrow or compassion, but she knew one thing: the person who had saved her from standing on the brink of becoming a victim of Transmutation now stood before her as one himself.
Zorim did not change his expression, his voice steady.
"In a world like the one we live in now, there is no time for guilt. We must analyze the reason for the failure and develop a counter-strategy as soon as possible."
Naiv exhaled sharply.
"And it is also part of his responsibility as the leader of this city."
The man ignored their words. He picked up a container of gasoline that was beside him and poured it over his face. Then he picked up one of the candles used to light the place. Those present immediately understood what he intended to do.
Ilsa ran toward him, trying to stop him, but it was too late. Flames erupted across his face amid everyone's shock.
After a minute, they poured the bucket over his face. The fire was extinguished, and hot steam rose, clinging to the air before dispersing. The smell remained—a heavy, suffocating stench, burnt flesh unmistakable to the senses.
His skin had turned dark and hardened. Some areas cracked and shrank until moist red layers appeared beneath them. Other patches adhered tightly to the bone, stiff and unnatural.
His features were barely recognizable. The nose had mostly melted, leaving only a charred ridge, but a small passage remained open. The lips were shriveled and torn, revealing the teeth beneath. The eyes were sunken, coated by a dull layer that reflected nothing.
Despite the devastation, he could still breathe. The remnants of his mouth and nose, twisted and distorted though they were, formed enough of a channel to draw in air. Only the trace of fire remained—still, silent, and terrifying enough to make even seasoned warriors pause.
Had they been ordinary people, they would have recoiled at a single glance. But in the world they lived in now, the forms of demons were far more horrifying, making this scene relatively normal and not particularly repulsive in their eyes.
Ilsa shouted,
"Are you planning to commit suicide or what?"
The man let out a long sigh.
"Thriven Orkis—erase this person. He no longer exists. I want you to erase everything related to him from your memories."
Ilsa looked at him in disbelief.
"What do you mean? You're standing right in front of us!"
Orkis turned his eyes toward them.
"No. He no longer exists. He died in the passage along with his companions. What I mean is that I am no longer the man you loved to lead you. I have abandoned my old self, and I will leave this city and place it in your care."
Everyone was stunned by his contradictory words, but they were certain of one thing: Orkis had fallen victim to Transmutation.
Transmutation is a dark phenomenon that begins subtly, appearing at first as a faint illusion, like delicate ripples that distort the Noima user's perception of reality. Over time, and with every moment of weakness or surrender to these hallucinations, their intensity gradually increases, enveloping the mind completely and rendering the victim incapable of distinguishing between truth and illusion. The more a person yields to it, the deeper the hallucinations grow, until they gradually transform into a demonic entity that imitates the characteristics of the Noima they possess, losing a part of their humanity with every step. In this form, Transmutation represents the harsh balance between power and madness—the true price paid by anyone who attempts to wield power greater than their ability to control.
Ashura finally broke his silence.
"So you're abandoning us just like that after giving us those false illusions?"
Orkis looked at them with quiet sadness, his voice low but steady.
"You call it abandonment because you see giving as a contract. I see it as a spark. A contract binds you, but a spark ignites and then lets the fire walk on its own. If I stayed, I would turn you into followers, not survivors. You would wait for my decision instead of making your own. You would measure your strength by my shadow, not by yourselves. That is true abandonment—to stay and steal your right to fall and rise.
"I did not give you hope so you would cling to me, but so you would be able to continue without me. My presence is no longer protection; it has become a hidden burden, a wall that prevents you from seeing yourselves. My departure is not a denial of what I built, but its culmination. What is built on one man dies when he falls; what is built on multiple wills lives on after his departure.
"You see a man walking away. I see an idea completed. You see emptiness. I see space for you to grow without guardianship. If you see abandonment, then I have abandoned the role of the protector everyone waits to save them. I chose to be a beginning, not an end; a push, not a restraint; a memory that drives you forward, not a hand that holds you in place."
They ignored his words. Everyone in the room, without exception, realized there was no longer any reason for him to stay. After falling to Transmutation, he had become like a bomb. If this man were to turn into a demon beside them, he would erase all traces of life in the blink of an eye. Yet they were all convinced that the only way for them to survive was to use him. They did not all understand it in the same way—making the man a tool for their survival—but that was merely the effect of their inner hypocrisy.
When Orkis saw their expressions, he understood what they were thinking. He nodded his head, not objecting. He nodded again and said,
"I advise you to go to Oracle,"
as the last piece of advice he could give them, then set off on his own journey.
…
After the man left, the basement remained still. No one moved. Only the weak light of the lamp danced on the cold walls. Fifteen minutes passed like an eternity, then Ashura sighed.
"Ashura—even our strongest has fallen. If he has broken, how will we endure? We do not have the strength to face even the weakest demons, and here we are forcing ourselves to share provisions that won't last us another week."
Naiv spoke calmly, as if he had already decided.
"I have a plan. It isn't pretty, but it's the only one that gives us a real chance to survive."
Ilsa said cautiously but firmly,
"Say it. Don't plant fear and then fall silent."
Naiv said,
"Listen to me carefully. What I'm about to say won't please anyone, and it might blow this place apart. We are no longer living in fairy tales where justice prevails and love saves everyone. We are in a world torn by rifts, and the choices that keep you alive are rare and bloody."
Silence fell. Their faces did not move, but their eyes did—eyes that knew what it meant to stay alive at the cost of another human being.
Naiv continued,
"We have to get rid of them—the civilians. Everyone who contributes nothing but crying or complaining is nothing more than a burden dragging us toward the abyss. If we eliminate them now, the food will last us at least two months. After that, we move toward Oracle's base, as Orkis said."
Oracle is not just a base, but a fragment of survival torn from the mouth of catastrophe and settled between the boundaries of madness and calm. It lies atop a chain of black stone highlands hurled up from ancient rifts, surrounded by deep valleys woven from the ash of time. It can only be reached through a single passage, fraught with explosive rocks and suffocating gray fog.
It stands on a high plateau, giving it a defensive position that is difficult to climb or assault. The path leading to it is not merely a road, but a test. Anyone who attempts to cross must be ready to face volatile weather conditions and episodes of unreality that sometimes appear along the edges of the valleys—ancient traces of post-catastrophe distortions.
Water there is scarce but present, seeping from mineral-saturated rock layers and collected through primitive yet effective systems. As for the land, despite its roughness, parts of it have been refined for limited cultivation, supported by a special type of echo closer to temporary biological stimulation.
Oracle's importance lies not only in its resilience, but in its ability to remain independent despite its hostile surroundings. It is the only place near this crumbling city that some resistance caravans can still reach—rarely and dangerously, but possibly.
Because it lies at an elevated point between three secondary-type rifts, it is the closest safe location for monitoring monster movements and avoiding waves of chaos before they occur. In other words, whoever reaches Oracle does not merely survive, but gains time to think about the next survival. Therefore, in my view, the risk of reaching it is better and more valuable than the risk of searching for other supplies or killing some weak demons whose flesh often evaporates after they are slain.
After Naiv finished his explanation, no one commented. But the silence was not a sign of approval—it was anxiety. Their eyes met, then turned away, as if an unspoken confession had slipped between them. They no longer had the luxury of refusal.
Ashura did not raise his head. He merely whispered,
"If we don't move now, we'll die here—or worse, turn into something else."
Mir, who had remained silent the whole time, turned his face toward Naiv and said,
"And what if the road is blocked?"
Naiv answered after a moment,
"Then we die trying, not hiding behind pity."
Standing by a cracked table, Naiv pulled out an old, faded map and spoke as if explaining a surgical operation rather than a survival plan.
"The problem is that we lack sufficient information, and time doesn't allow us to wait for miracles. So we will carry out something resembling indirect liquidation—through necessity, not violence."
Psychological groundwork: the idea of an imminent threat. We will first spread news about suspicious activity in the southern regions—unfamiliar echoes, a herd of mutants, or even shadows of a potential rift. We'll call them points of tension. These rumors will leak through random conversations, through observers, or even through a dream said to have repeated itself among several people. Fear works as fuel, but it must not become panic—only controlled anxiety.
Creating necessity: a supplementary mapping expedition. We then announce that resources cannot be moved without an updated map of all surrounding terrain. We ask a specific group—strong youths, especially those showing opposition or negative emotions—to participate in what we call the "circle-closing expedition." Its apparent goal is to chart danger zones and secure safe areas. Its true goal is to reduce the number of mouths and plant the feeling that their survival depends on proving their worth.
Selecting participants: soft pressure. We present it as a heroic opportunity, not an obligation, but add a hidden idea—those who do not participate will not be prioritized for supplies if things go bad. No orders, just a reordering of priorities.
Internal motivation: illusory recognition. We announce that anyone who survives and completes the mission will have a special role in the coordination committee upon reaching Oracle. We give them badges—small, trivial, but shiny symbols. Humans need meaning, even if it's a lie.
Liquidation: after the others leave, we will eliminate the remaining civilians and convert their bodies into food. This process will not happen all at once. It will begin as multiple disappearances. We will place the blame on rifts and say it is one of their side effects. It will cause panic, but it will be better than them knowing we are getting rid of them.
Expected outcomes: if they return with a good map, we gain what we need and know the path. If they perish, the burden is lighter and internal problems decrease. If they rebel, we announce they left of their own will or were swallowed by a rift. Those who lose their voice are quickly forgotten.
When Naiv finished his plan, Mir sank back into her seat as if the air around her had turned poisonous. Her left eye twitched, as though something inside her had broken.
Mir said in a low voice that grew sharper,
"So we'll become worse than the rifts? At least the monsters kill because they know nothing else. We will slaughter with full awareness."
Naiv replied calmly and confidently,
"No. We know exactly why we slaughter—so we won't be slaughtered. What we are doing is not betrayal, but a surgical operation to save the body."
Ilsa did not look at anyone, only at the ground.
"Would you say that if your mother were one of them? Or your sister? What you propose is not survival—it is the erasure of what little humanity remains in us."
Ashura, his face expressionless, said heavily,
"I have seen cities fall because they waited for a moral solution. It never came. No one survived. We are not destroying values—we are burying them temporarily, like gangrenous limbs."
Zorim shifted his gaze between those present.
"I would rather be a living executioner than a dead angel. The map we are trying to draw is not for the land, but for the true nature of this world. There is no longer a place for the weak."
Mir stood up angrily and slammed the table with her palm.
"No—you are the ones creating new rifts. You are the fracture we fear, not in the sky, but in our decisions."
Ilsa said quietly, with sorrow,
"When we consume the last trace of humanity, we don't survive—we transform."
Naiv replied in a low but sharp voice,
"If we don't transform, we'll be buried with the rest."
Ashura looked at Naiv, then at Zorim, and nodded silently. Zorim tightened his grip on the hilt of the sword resting beside him and said in a low but firm voice,
"Every moment we delay brings us one step closer to the end. We must act now."
Mir said with a trembling voice,
"You're serious about this."
Naiv answered with steady, lethal calm,
"Ashura and Zorim will handle coordinating the scouting expeditions. We will not force anyone—we will convince them they are performing a national duty. We will draw for them a clear path to death."
Then he turned to Ilsa and Mir, his gaze allowing no argument.
"You two will be responsible for maintaining balance inside the city. Spread reassurance. Promote the idea that the disappearances are side effects of the rifts, as happens in neighboring cities. You are the last line of defense against chaos."
Ilsa did not answer. She stared at him with eyes drowned in refusal, without uttering a word. Mir lowered her gaze and swallowed her anger in heavy silence.
Naiv concluded in a low voice, as if passing judgment on them all,
"We are not monsters. We are the surgeon who cuts to save the body. And whoever disagrees can become one of the severed limbs."