Zac settled by the lakeshore, not as a resigned prisoner but as a monk at the threshold of his monastery. The cascade was no longer an interface, but a liquid mantra, a constant reminder of his task. He closed his eyes, his frail body upheld by a will of iron, and began the long, slow, deliberate process of purification.
[Song of the Ainur: 5,062,765 / 999,999,999]
[Song of the Ainur: 5,062,766 / 999,999,999]
[Song of the Ainur: 5,062,767 / 999,999,999]
The mental ticking of numbers was the only sound in the silence of his mind. He reflected on his victory over the dragon, more precisely, its neutralisation. For the first time in this hellish existence, he had achieved a monumental task without resorting to the Forge of Brutality or hiding behind Coward's Stealth. He succeeded through cunning, patience, and a weapon born of balance. A pure and cold pride, a feeling he had not experienced in ages, touched his soul.
Yet, paranoia, that survival instinct sharpened by years of torture, remained. He feared that using his old skills, even once, would be perceived as regression. Any deviation from the prescribed suffering would be punished by a new rule, still crueller, such as the enforced limitation on Echo transfers. The Entity was a sadistic jailer. He could never forget that.
Ancalagon was a deferred problem. Now, he was the last meal left. The final course on the table. And the plan was simple: he would make himself empty, a dish so tasteless, so devoid of flavor, that the cosmic farmer would either starve or simply ignore him.
He focused, not on the numbers, but on the very concept of the Song of the Ainur. He no longer sought to fill a progress bar, but to listen to the music. He dove deep.
[Song of the Ainur: 5,089,001 / 999,999,999]
[Song of the Ainur: 5,089,002 / 999,999,999]
[Song of the Ainur: 5,089,003 / 999,999,999]
The world faded away. The cavern, waterfall, the cold on his skin, the gnawing hunger, all vanished. He was a consciousness adrift in a void, not the Void Entity's, but his own. At first, this void was chaos, a storm of shattered memories. Every death, every scream, every moment of terror and shame swirled around him like a blizzard of souls. He did not resist. He observed. He let the storm rage, without judgement or fear. He became the calm at the center of his own hurricane.
The storm slowly subsided. The echoes of suffering fell silent. And in the silence that followed, he heard it.
At first, just a vibration, a single, pure note resonating through the nothingness. Then another joined it, then a third, forming a chord of beauty so heartbreaking he would have wept had he eyes to do so. Soon, it was a choir, a cosmic symphony weaving the very fabric of reality. The Song of the Ainur. He no longer heard it as a skill to unlock, but as the primal language of creation.
Freed from the weight of his own story, his mind let itself be carried on the currents of this music. He journeyed. He left the depths of Mordor, he left Arda itself. He floated among newborn stars, witnessed the raising of mountains and the carving of oceans. He saw the light of the Two Trees, not as a memory, but as a present reality, and understood their beauty and the tragedy of their loss.
He was there, but not there. He was a thread in the great tapestry, a note in the eternal symphony.
And in this harmony, he finally perceived his own dissonances. Coward's Stealth was just a false note, a silence where a crescendo of courage should have been. The Forge of Brutality, a broken chord, a percussion of hatred in a melody of life. Healing Stagnation, a pause too long, a refusal to move forward. The Music did not destroy them. It did not judge them. It resolved them. The false note found its place in the chord, the broken chord was reharmonized, the pause found its proper rhythm. He felt his soul, twisted and stained by years of survival, straighten and cleanse, not by miracle, but by a simple act of returning to order.
When he opened his eyes again, he could not say whether a second or a millennium had passed. Time no longer had meaning.
The cavern's silence was no longer oppressive. It was full, full of the music only he could hear. Hunger was gone. Fear was a distant, abstract concept. He felt… wise. A deep calm, a serenity that was not the absence of emotion, but their perfect harmony, filled him.
He thought back on his journey. Every death, every suffering, every terrible choice. It was no longer a litany of mistakes. It was a path. A torturous, brutal path, paved with his own failings, but a path that had led him here. To this precise moment. To this understanding. Redemption was not something given to him. It was something he had forged, note after note, in the silence of his own hell.
His gaze rested on the water of the cascade, and the numbers reflected there were no longer a condemnation, but an accomplishment.
[Fall of Night]
[Tears of Regret: 0]
[Coward's Stealth: 0]
[Healing Stagnation: 0]
[Forge of Brutality: 0]
[Echo Distillation: 0%]
[Chant of the Ainur: 999,999,999 / 999,999,999]
He stood. The cattle had become a shepherd. And it was time to bring the universe back into order.