Far above the Durkan's skies, where even stars were eaten by shadow, there was a river.
It wasn't a river of water, but of black liquid that writhed as though alive. Its surface rippled like a living skin, swallowing light and spitting it back in distorted fragments. The locals of no world had ever named it. And through it, a lone knight walked.
His mask was broken, half of his face hidden, half revealed, scarred beyond recognition.
The shards of steel clung to his head like a wound refusing to close. His armor had once been proud, silver, adorned with a crest now long scratched away. Acidic water splashed against him with every step, eating through metal, biting deep into flesh.
His legs burned continuously....
The wounds hissed, blistered, dissolved into bone only to heal again. Muscle rewove itself, tendons stitched, skin spread, then burned once more. A cycle of pain without end.
Each step was deliberate, his weight sinking into the poisoned current, the waves fighting to push him back. The river did not want him. It wanted to devour him, to send him spiraling into the wormholes that coiled like black veins in the sky above.
Still, he walked further looking up at the dark horizon carrying the shadow of an Entity with a Jackal head.
There was no prayer to guide him. Only the hiss of acid eating away at his body, and the quiet sound of his breathing inside the shattered mask.
Every motion carved mystery into the silence, as though the knight himself carried a truth too terrible to hear or tell.
In the distance, beyond the writhing waters, something waited. A shape, blurred, immense, bending the river's horizon like a god peering through broken glass.
The knight kept going.
....
The three stood outside, the desert wind pressing sand into their skin.
The smell of rotted flesh still spread noisy where the infected guards had fallen.
Johan crouched beside one of the bodies, fingers brushing over the blackened veins that split through the corpse's skin. He let out a slow breath.
"That," he said quietly, "was only a level two parasite. Two-one, to be exact."
Tom frowned. " You mean Uptie 2, level 1? Only? It looked strong enough to tear a man apart."
Johan shook his head. "Parasites grow the more they live in a host's body. That was nothing compared to what lurks deeper. Imagine one that has lived for centuries, feeding, learning. That was a child."
Arlong tightened his bowstring, uneasy. His cheerful nature had dimmed. "And if that was a child," he muttered, "I don't want to meet the parents."
Johan rose, dusted his hands. His face was calm, but there was a weight in his eyes. "I've dealt with them before. Still, it takes work. I've only managed this far because I am Uptie Two—The Guardian. Level One, The Ladder."
Tom blinked. "You mean… you're at the same rank as Elior?"
Johan gave a half-smile. "Not quite. Elior is Uptie Two as well, yes. But Level Two. He carries the title The Pathfinder. His battle sense, his instinct—he's always been sharper than me. He sees moves before they even exist. Back when we fought together in Crescent Aurora Hive, I could barely keep up."
Tom tilted his head. "Crescent Aurora Hive? What is that?"
"A Sect," Johan said simply. His tone was flat, as if the word itself carried too many memories. "One of the old ones. We lived by discipline, rules, and war. For years, Elior was with us. But he walked away. For Independence, and some unknown reason he never told. The day he left, I thought the Hive itself dimmed."
Tom's eyes narrowed. "Wait. You mean you're still in that Sect?"
Johan's silence was long. Finally, he nodded. "Yes."
Arlong whistled softly. "That explains your way of talking. Always sharp. Always looking ten steps ahead. Sect-trained."
Tom crossed his arms, staring at Johan. "How long have you been in it?"
Johan looked up at the sky. The sun burned red, setting behind the sands. "Twenty-two years. Inside this world's time...." His voice softened. "....I'm eighty-eight years old, Tom."
Tom froze. "Eighty-eight?"
Johan chuckled bitterly. "Took me sixty-three years just to ascend from Uptie One to Uptie Two. Sixty-three years of blood, failures, nights where I thought I'd never crawl out."
Arlong's bow lowered. "That's…. cruel."
"That's the truth," Johan replied. "This world doesn't reward speed. It rewards persistence, patience and madness, sometimes."
Tom stared at the dead guard at their feet. His hands trembled without him noticing. "And Elior? He's still stronger than you even now?"
Johan's eyes softened. "He always will be."
Tom exhaled slowly, realizing for the first time just how small he was in a world built on endless time and suffering.
Arlong fiddled with his bowstring, then glanced at Johan. His tone was soft but restless.
"How long," he asked, "does a person…. live here?"
Johan's eyes stayed fixed on the horizon.
"Until something or someone kills you."
Tom blinked swiftly. "That's it?"
"That's it." Johan's voice was calm, but his jaw tightened. "But death doesn't always mean an end. You can be brought back if someone wills it. Reincarnation, resurrection, cursed revival—different forms, different costs. Sometimes a mage with the right spell. Sometimes an artifact, sometimes a miracle."
Arlong frowned. "What if no one brings you back?"
Johan glanced at the corpse of the infected guard. "Then maybe years later, a necromancer digs up your bones. Turns your body into a dummy, zombie or whatever. You keep fighting, but without your will. Basically a puppet. If not this, then you are permanently dead."
The silence that followed made the sand feel heavier under their boots.
Tom broke it, his voice unsure.
"Every Sect has a God, right?"
Johan nodded. "Yes."
Tom swallowed, staring at Johan with curiosity mixed with unease.
"Then who is the God of your Sect… Crescent Aurora Hive?"
Johan didn't answer immediately. His gaze shifted. His pupils narrowed, as if even speaking the name carried weight. The wind picked up, sand scratching against their faces.
Finally, Johan spoke, almost in a whisper.
"Sukarna."
The name itself felt harder than atom bomb. It rolled through the air like a vibration.
"The Omega Light." Johan's tone dropped lower. "The Burning Star of Revelation."
Tom felt his breath hitch. Arlong blinked, his usual cheer gone, replaced by a frown.
Johan closed his eyes. "That is the God we served or maybe endured. It depends how you see it."
Tom leaned closer, his curiosity unshaken. "What kind of God is that?"
Johan opened his eyes. For a while, something sharp passed through them, a light that wasn't his own.
"In history, back in the Great Old War, Sukarna was the one who stood against three Primary Servants and even one Supreme Servant."
Arlong's bow slipped in his hand. He muttered, "What?"
Then scratched his neck with tons of questions.
Johan's voice didn't shake. "It happened. The Omega Light doesn't bend, it's the light itself. It can burn anything—friend, enemy, nature, world. If light is revelation, then Sukarna is revelation at its cruelest form."
Tom licked his lips nervously. "What are…. Servants?"
Johan looked at him. His tone, this time, almost reverent but also tired.
"Ancient beings. They were once the closest to Artorias, the Uptie Five. The ones who saw creation unfold. They stood higher than any Sect, any mortal, any Facebearer. Probably, all the Original Servants of the 17s, none is alive. But it is possible to take over their position by ranking up."
Tom's skin prickled. "...Sukarna fought them?"
Johan said nothing at first. His silence was a answer enough.
The boy felt his heart pumping. A God that could fight the companions of Artorias himself. And this was the God Johan had lived under for twenty-two years.
Johan finally exhaled, voice low, almost refusing to reveal more.
"Don't ask me anything further about Sukarna. There are names…. and there are truths. His is both."
....
Inside her chamber, Rhea sat alone. The lamp at her desk flickered, throwing long shadows against the fabric. She wasn't reading reports or something. Her hand trembled faintly as she held a small, dust-coated frame.
The photograph was old, the edges burned as if it had been rescued from a fire.
Three faces stared back at her.
Emperor Watcj of Shombhasa, his regal chin tilted, his eyes sharp as a hawk's. Beside him, Empress Ghira, her gaze softer but no less commanding, robes fluttering with gold and crimson. Between them, a boy smiling faintly, his posture stiff as though he'd been taught never to relax, even in pictures.
Rhea's breath caught.
Her fingers brushed the boy's face, then the Emperor's. Something in her eyes hardened, a flash of disdain, then softened, as if regret.
She whispered under her breath, though the words were fractured, almost nonsense,
"Always caring… always binding… yet never came in time."
The lamp hissed. She turned it lower.
The silence of the room was bitter. Like someone else listened, leaning over her shoulder.
Rhea pressed the frame flat against the desk, face down. But that made it worse—her reflection in the glass looked back at her, warped, unfamiliar, as though mocking her own hesitation.
She tapped her finger on the wood.
"What game are you playing, Emperor?"
Her lips curled faintly, half into a smile, half into a grimace.
The shadows stretched longer across the walls, jagged, almost like reaching fingers.
She leaned back in her chair, covering her eyes with one hand, exhaling through her teeth.
"Shombhasa burns, his family and people extinct."
Her other hand clenched. The frame rattled on the desk, though she hadn't touched it.
A knock sounded at her door. Just once.
Rhea didn't move.
Her voice, when it came, that was low and flat.
"Not now."
Silence answered her.
Still, she kept staring at the frame, her pulse steady but heavy in her chest. The faces of the Emperor, the Empress, the boy—they seemed to stare back, even when turned face-down.
After a while, she realised she hasn't breathed all these time.