Fang stood where Father Ruin once had.
The wind tugged gently at his robes, carrying with it the faintest trace of incense and ash. Below him, in the courtyard still stained by loss and mourning, the students had begun to regroup. Some clung to each other. Others sat quietly, staring at their trembling hands. A few tried to laugh—
but the sound came cracked and thin.
Fang simply watched.
His arms crossed loosely behind him, his posture relaxed—but his eyes were steady. Open. As if he could bear it all for them, if only they let him.
Beside him, Kal'tsit's drone hovered—slightly scorched from the earlier chaos but still functional. Her voice crackled through it, cool as ever.
"That man… the one who appeared. Who was he?"
Fang didn't take his eyes off the students. His voice came low, like a mantra meant more for himself than anyone else.
"A father," he said. "One who sees this world as a child he must protect… even if it costs him his soul."
The drone went quiet for a moment.
Kal'tsit didn't question him further.
"What now?" she asked. "You've rescued the students. That was the extent of your plan, was it not?"
Fang finally turned slightly, his gaze drifting to the Doctor, who stood nearby, silent as stone.
The wind passed over them, soft and cold.
Fang exhaled, a breath that seemed to take something heavy with it.
"The grief in that song… it clings to him," he whispered. "Doctor."
The man blinked, his thoughts breaking apart like mist.
"We're not done," Fang continued gently. "Are we?"
The Doctor turned his eyes toward the distance. Toward the battered skyline that remained of Chernobog's outer limits.
"No," he said quietly. "We need to move on."
"District B?" Kal'tsit's voice confirmed.
The Doctor nodded. "The students I spoke to mentioned the teachers. They left the school when the lockdown began. They were heading toward District B to protect the civilians who were sheltering there."
"Then we follow," Fang said.
He turned his head slightly and glanced down toward the courtyard again.
Kharon knelt among the children, his massive frame hunched slightly to seem less threatening. His face didn't move much, but he tried. A small tug of the lips. An awkward pat on the shoulder. His presence alone gave them strength.
He had always been better with soldiers than with children—but today, he tried.
At the far side of the rooftop, Burngear sat slumped against the crumbling stone rail, shoulders heaving. His head was bowed low, and faint sounds of retching came in intervals. His mechanical arm twitched occasionally.
Every now and then, he wiped at his eyes with the back of his sleeve, as if angry at the tears still coming.
He hadn't said a word since the choir left.
Fang didn't approach.
He simply closed his eyes… and knelt.
His palms touched the ground.
A slow breath entered his lungs.
From his sleeves, twin incense rods unfurled, and the moment they touched the rooftop stones, a faint orange glow began to shimmer at their tips.
Prayer.
Dust rose around him—warm and radiant, catching the last rays of the broken sky. It floated in delicate spirals, wrapping him in a gentle haze as though he were breathing firelight.
But even now, blood escaped his lips.
A small trickle.
Barely noticed.
Barely mourned.
He did not stop.
He only whispered one thing beneath his breath as the sun began to set.
"We must not fall behind…"
What remained of it poured like molten amber across the broken skyline, bleeding through shattered windows and collapsed rooftops. The fog from earlier had finally lifted, but the city remained haunted—not by specters, but by silence.
Chernobog's ruins stretched in every direction. Even from the rooftop, one could see the trails of smoke rising where fire still clung to buildings. Orange light flickered from far-off districts, glowing softly like candles in vigil.
No peace came with the quiet.
Only survival.
And in that silence, Fang stood.
The incense rods now tucked away, the blood at the corner of his lips carefully wiped clean. He raised his head to the darkening sky. The wind curled around him like an old friend.
And then—he began to sing.
" Walk slow, my heart, through fields of ash,"
Not loudly.
" Where voices sleep beneath the stone. "
Not dramatically.
"Though fire falls and tempests clash,"
Just a soft melody—low, even, deliberate.
" We do not walk alone. "
A mirror of what Father Ruin had sung before. But this time, the notes were warmer. The syllables were ancient, but the feeling behind them was unmistakable:
Comfort.
Where Father Ruin's song carved grief into bone, Fang's hummed the sorrow away. The same aching honesty… but filled with light. The grief was not erased—but it was held.
And below him…
The students stirred.
One girl, her face streaked with dirt and tears, lifted her head and blinked in disbelief.
Then—she hummed.
Another joined.
And another.
And slowly…
The children who had moments ago clung to each other in terror, now raised their voices, however broken, in fragile harmony.
Even those who didn't know the words hummed the tune, struggling through the pain in their lungs.
The sound carried.
Not far—but far enough.
Far enough to remind them they were still here.
Still alive.
Still themselves.
Burngear didn't sing.
But he listened.
And when no one was watching, sat behind Fang and leaned against him. letting his warmth —the humanity of it
—wrap around his wounded heart.
Kharon didn't move.
But he closed his eyes.
And for the first time in a long while, the tension in his shoulders eased.
Fang's voice continued into the night, guiding the sun's last rays past the edge of the world.
As if singing to the dusk.
As if reminding it to return.
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Heya Everyone! welcome to another series of chapters! Father ruin was one of the Antagonists created by our dear Author! to put it simply, in his eyes, he wanted more opponents and challenges in the story, so he made more! what a happy and warm story it will be!