The Hall of Prophecies existed in the oldest part of the Great Tree, where the wood had aged into something closer to stone than cellulose. Bio-luminescent veins pulsed through the walls like a circulatory system, casting everything in shifting blue-green light that made Ren's eyes water.
"Try not to touch anything," Mayfell instructed as she led him deeper into the hall. "Some of these murals are older than current civilization."
"No pressure," Ren muttered, keeping his hands firmly in his pockets. "Just walking through priceless history with my trademark grace and coordination."
The murals covered every surface—floor, walls, even the curved ceiling. They told stories in images that seemed to move when he wasn't looking directly at them, depicting wars and peace, creation and destruction, all centered around a figure that made his stomach drop.
White hair. Standing alone against purple darkness. Sometimes with a crown of stars, sometimes wreathed in flame, but always, always alone.
"The Pale Walker," Mayfell said softly, stopping before the largest mural. "Prophesied to return when the barriers weaken. To either save us or damn us, depending on interpretation."
Ren stared at his carved doppelganger. The artists had given him better posture and actual muscles, but the resemblance was unmistakable. "Great. Cosmic destiny. My least favorite trope."
"Look closer," she urged, pointing to text carved beneath the images.
He leaned in, expecting more elvish script he couldn't read. Instead, his brain short-circuited. Mixed among the flowing elvish characters were fragments of something else. Corrupted, faded, but unmistakably—
"警告..." he read aloud without thinking. "すべての避難所は... だめ... 時間が—"
Mayfell gasped. "You can read the sacred tongue!"
Sacred tongue? That's Japanese! Corrupted to hell, but definitely Japanese!
"Warning," he translated, voice shaking. "All shelters... no... time is—" The rest dissolved into elvish he couldn't parse. "This is my language. From Earth. How is this possible?"
"The Pale Walker knows the ancient words," Mayfell breathed, eyes wide with something between awe and fear. "Just as prophesied. You recognize your destiny."
I recognize my grandmother's language, not destiny. But explaining that seems complicated.
Rating: 3/10 for cosmic destiny, 10/10 for linguistic confusion.
He moved along the mural, finding more fragments. "第七... 破壊... 帰還..." Seventh. Destruction. Return. The words painted a fractured picture of evacuation and catastrophe, but mixed so thoroughly with elvish script that meaning slipped away like water.
"What does it say?" Mayfell pressed close, her child-like height forcing her to stand on tiptoes to see what he was reading. The green sapphire on her forehead pulsed with her excitement.
"It's... broken. Like someone tried to translate a warning but gave up halfway." He pointed to a particularly mangled section. "This part might be coordinates, or a recipe for rice balls. Hard to tell with the corruption."
"The prophets say the Pale Walker will read what others cannot, see patterns in chaos." She touched the mural reverently. "You're already fulfilling—"
"I'm reading bad Google Translate, not fulfilling prophecy," Ren interrupted. "There's a difference. Probably. Maybe."
But she wasn't listening, moving to another section with smaller text. "Here. The Duality Prophecy. The one that divides our scholars."
This mural showed two versions of the white-haired figure. In one panel, he stood triumphant over a shattered world, purple mist pouring from his outstretched hands. In the other, he held back a tide of darkness while protecting huddled figures behind him.
The text below was purely elvish, but Mayfell translated: "When stars weep purple tears and the Pale Walker emerges from Neither Mist, he shall either break the ancient seals and return the Void King to dominion, or stand as final bulwark against the endless hunger. By his choice shall the new world live or die."
"No pressure," Ren said weakly. "Just the fate of reality on my shoulders. Typical Thursday."
"The council will want to know you can read the sacred tongue." Mayfell turned to face him fully, and in the bioluminescent glow, her young features carried centuries of weight. "It will confirm their worst fears or greatest hopes."
"What do you think?" The question slipped out before he could stop it. "Destroyer or savior?"
She studied him for a long moment, ancient eyes in a child's face reading something he couldn't hide.
"I think," she said carefully, "you're a young man who lost everything and still chose to warn your enemies rather than watch them burn. That tells me more than any prophecy."
The weight of her words settled over him like a blanket. In the strange light, surrounded by images of cosmic destiny, Ren felt something shift between them. Mayfell's expression softened, her hand reaching out—
This was it. The moment. The beautiful mysterious girl, the prophetic connection, the obvious romantic development that his light novel experience had prepared him for—
"You remind me of my great-great-nephew," she said gently, patting his arm with grandmotherly affection. "He had the same lost expression when facing responsibility. Of course, he was actually a child, not a grown man, but the similarity is endearing."
Record scratch. Freeze frame.
Rating: 0/10 for romantic timing, 11/10 for emotional whiplash.