Chapter 45 – Those Who Bought Victory, Sold the Truth
The dusk sky spread open like a wound that had yet to heal.
The wind carried the scent of grass—mixed with blood, ambition, and hollow applause.
The field was silent. Not because no match was being played, but because the whispers of betrayal had long been swallowed by the soil—kicked around with the ball toward a goalpost called "victory."
Enver stood at the edge of the field, his black cloak rippling as though it absorbed all the fleeting cheers that had once filled the place. His gaze fixed on one figure—a young man in his twenties, handsome and masculine, yet his eyes… empty, like a trophy stripped of meaning. His name was Elvan.
The youngest football legend ever celebrated, yet his body radiated the aura of deceit. He had secretly injured his own teammates, bribed referees to corner his rivals, manipulated sponsorships to distract opponents—all for one thing: a victory untouched by truth. An illusion of triumph.
And today, the astral realm demanded payment. His corruption had birthed a flesh that should never have been born.
Enver raised his hand.
A black-gold card appeared, drifting like the final autumn leaf bearing witness to the end of a tree. The spiral sigil at its center glowed, signifying the moment of purificazione had come.
Elvan stopped kicking the ball. He glanced around—but no spectators cheered. Time itself had halted. The world became a stage where he was forced to face the weight of his sins.
"What… is this?" he muttered.
Enver walked forward. Each step stripped away a layer of false reality. The grass blackened, the sky bent like shattered glass. By the time he stood before Elvan, Enver's aura had split the world into two sides: those who pretended to win, and those who silently died.
"You sold truth for the illusion of joy, framed victory in photographs while trampling the weak beneath your feet."
Elvan collapsed, his chest tightening. Enver extended his hand toward his heart.
From Elvan's body, a sacred being burst forth. But unlike others before, it was not human, not beast—rather a pulsating network of light, multiplying, spinning, refracting itself like endless illusions.
Enver lifted his card, ready to draw it in. But the being halted in the air. It trembled—its glow flickering—as though it recognized Enver as the home it had long searched for.
"Enter," Enver whispered.
The being quivered. Then—without hesitation—shot straight into Enver's body.
Not into the card.
Not into the sacred realm.
But into him.
The world cracked for a moment. Enver held his breath. He did not feel the lightness that usually followed purificazione. Instead, something heavier pressed upon him. A new awareness he could not define. A sacred light fused within him, yet refused to obey.
The being rejected purification.
It chose to live inside Enver.
And once more, Enver became a battlefield—between darkness, and something he could not yet understand.
—
Elsewhere, far from the field, Thadric touched the ruins of the Hellseer Council's altar. Five names were etched into the rubble—Ysera, Kavdrin, Elhara, Dorvas, and Saelmir.
He knelt, drawing ancient symbols upon the ground. Violet and gold light intertwined, weaving a thread between dead time and spirits waiting to be revived.
His reason for restoring the five Hellseers' full strength was not merely to protect Enver. Not merely for humanity or the balance of the astral realm.
It was something hidden. Something he would never speak aloud.
Something rooted deep within his soul:
He wanted to see who would collapse first—
The Council, Enver, or himself.
For in the depths of his mind, Thadric believed that resurrection was but another lie. And only by watching them rise, fight, and fail—could he prove that faith in truth was the sweetest illusion ever crafted by sanctity.
Thadric… wanted to test the breaking point of everyone. Including himself.
—
Back on the field, Elvan wept. Not because of pain, but because of the burden he had carried to appear perfect. The wound of always needing to win. The torment of fearing disappointment. And now, it was lifted—yet what remained was emptiness.
"Who… am I, if I do not win?" he whispered.
Enver did not answer. He simply walked away.
But the being inside him did not fade. He felt his movements grow slower, his thoughts blur, his voice heavier.
The being did not want to be a trophy.
The being wanted to remind.
And now, it lived within the body of a Hellseer.
Above a tower of glass, Maxcen watched it all.
He laughed.
"One by one, they will lose their boundaries. Truth, sanctity, lies—even their own bodies will melt and merge. Let's see if they can hold it together."
His eyes glimmered with delight as he looked upon Enver.
"Keep purifying, Enver Eraly… until you no longer know who needs it more: them… or yourself."
—
Previously...
Thadric restored the strength of the five Hellseer Council—not only to aid Enver, but to defy a fate he suspected was nothing more than a divine stage play.
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