The night was suffocating heavy with ash, drenched in silence, and haunted by the distant echoes of screams long since faded into the void.
Allen stood alone at the center of the shattered noble hall.
Around him, the ruin spoke in whispers of fire and death. Flames still curled hungrily along the fractured edges of the marble columns. The once-glorious gold had melted into grotesque, oozing puddles. The scent of burning flesh hung thick and bitter, choking the air like a curse.
Scattered across the floor lay noble bodies twisted, blackened husks frozen in silent screams of agony. Their laughter had vanished. Their cruelty was silenced forever. Their souls... devoured.
He had done this. Every burning ember, every agonized scream, every life ended by his hand.
He had made them suffer.
And yet he felt nothing.
No triumph.
No justice.
Only a hollow emptiness, a vast, crushing silence that settled like cold ash in his chest.
His footsteps echoed through the ruined hall, slow and heavy, carrying the weight of every choice, every chain pulled tight.
At the far end lay the forgotten discarded like refuse.
Slaves. Men, women, children beaten, starved, broken.
And among them, her.
Lara.
Her small body lay untouched by the flames, as if the fire itself had spared her out of some cruel mercy. Her face was unnervingly still peaceful, too peaceful the quiet stillness that only death could bring.
Allen sank to his knees beside her, the Iron Chain coiling tight around his arm, its glow soft and mournful a fragile light in the darkness.
His breath caught.
"Lara…"
His voice broke, small and trembling. "I'm here. I'm here now. I can fix this. I promise… please…"
He pressed the glowing chain against her chest.
His SERRA surged violent, desperate a raw storm of will bending the very fabric of existence.
The air trembled.
Light burst from his body in a brilliant explosion.
Time itself rippled, groaning in protest.
He was a god now. Had to be.
He had cheated death before.
He could do it again.
Her body lifted, slowly, faintly.
Then froze.
The chain hissed in his grip, a sound like pain.
And then came a voice.
Not from her lips. Not from her mind.
But from her soul.
One soft, heartbreaking word
"No."
Allen's breath hitched.
The world fell silent again.
Then, from the bodies around him, shapes began to rise ghostly, translucent forms drifting free like mist.
Dozens.
The dead slaves.
Their eyes hollow, vacant, empty.
Their limbs trembled not with fear, but with the lingering echo of unbearable suffering that death could not erase.
Allen rose, heart pounding wildly in his chest.
"I can bring you back," he whispered, his voice trembling with desperate hope.
"All of you. I'll erase everything that happened. I'll give you peace. I swear it."
He raised his voice, pleading.
"My power is greater than ever before. I can rewrite the world itself
you don't have to carry this pain anymore. You don't have to suffer!"
But the souls remained still, unmoved.
Then the old man stepped forward, his face gaunt, eyes sunken but fierce with sorrow and accusation.
"We remember everything," he said softly.
"Every broken bone. Every cry that went unheard. Every moment of agony."
Allen's throat tightened.
"Even if you erase the memory," the old man continued, "the pain remains.
We are not saved. We are still broken. Always broken."
A woman's voice rose next, bitter and worn.
"You promise to fix us. To heal our souls, our hearts, our memories.
But what can heal a wound that cuts to the very core of who we are?"
A child's ghost stepped forward, clutching a tattered doll, her voice fragile but piercing.
"You can't fix what's already dead inside.
And even if you could…
We wouldn't be us anymore."
Allen's legs gave out beneath him. He collapsed to his knees, crushing grief crashing down.
Then came soft footsteps real and trembling.
The living slaves emerged from the shadows. Survivors. Wounded. Burned. Hollow-eyed.
Their bodies bore the scars of cruelty, but their eyes held a fragile new hope and fear.
One young man stepped forward, limping but steady.
"You saved us," he said quietly.
Allen nodded slowly, voice hoarse.
"Then live."
But the man's eyes darkened.
"We can't. We don't want to."
More stepped forward, one by one.
"You're the only one who can set us free," a woman said, her voice barely a whisper.
"Please…"
Allen's voice cracked. "You want me to kill you?"
They nodded slowly, sorrow heavy in their gaze.
"You don't understand," Allen whispered. "I don't want to hurt you."
"You already did," one replied softly.
"When you let us live."
His hands trembled uncontrollably.
The Iron Chain pulsed in his grip, sensing his hesitation, longing to obey.
"I'm sorry," Allen whispered, tears blurring his vision. "I'm so… so sorry."
He raised the chain.
Each strike was soft. Gentle. Like closing the eyes of a child.
But every life taken drove a knife deeper into Allen's heart.
With each soul released, the dream of being a hero shattered further.
Until he was broken.
Alone.
The Iron Chain slipped from his hand with a dull clang.
It no longer resisted.
No longer fought.
Because it had broken, too.
Allen collapsed fully, hands pressed against the blood-soaked marble floor.
"This power… it was meant to protect people," he said, voice ragged and barely audible.
"It was supposed to bring peace…"
He stared at his hands hands that had burned, healed, killed, and wept.
"All it brings me is suffering."
He clenched his fists. His breath shuddered.
"It's not the Chain. It's me.
I'm the flaw. A human trying to bear the weight of gods."
His voice cracked into a sob.
"I can't die.
And I can't save anyone."
He laughed then quiet, bitter, hollow.
The laugh of a boy who had lost everything.
Then the temperature dropped.
The shadows lengthened, curling like dark tendrils reaching for him.
From the smoke, a figure emerged.
Cloaked in midnight and starlight.
Eyes burning with unreadable light.
Ravik.
He said nothing.
Only watched.
Allen did not look up.
He did not need to.
He knew.
"…Why are you here?" he whispered.
But Ravik gave no answer.
There was nothing left to say.
Only silence.
Only ruin.