Chapter 32: The Shadows of Escape
The moon hung pale above Shinya, its silver light barely piercing the dense veil of clouds that rolled over the sanctuary towers. From within the walls of the dark energy–infused cell, Moro sat cross-legged, his gaze steady despite the chains of binding aura wrapped around his wrists. Kaya leaned against the cold stone wall, her breathing slow and measured, eyes half-closed yet alert. Hanks, the Saint of Wisdom, sat in silence, his cloak draped across his shoulders like a fallen crown, his eyes reflecting the heavy weight of both defeat and resolve.
The air was thick with suppression, a strange pulse within the cell constantly gnawing at their strength. Even breathing felt like defiance against the council's unseen grip.
A whisper of footsteps approached. From the shadows, Hawks emerged, his presence slicing through the gloom like a dagger. His crimson eyes flickered with cold amusement.
"You think there is hope?" he asked, his voice calm, almost pitying. "Hope doesn't exist within these walls. The council has already decided your fates. Your rebellion ends here."
He paused, letting his words sink in, then continued. "Herbet and his little band of fools will be caught soon. And when they are, I will deliver them myself. Their blood will be the ink of justice."
Kaya's hands curled into fists, but Moro simply stared at Hawks, unflinching. His silence was more defiance than any word could muster. Hanks broke it with a weary sigh.
"You speak of justice," Hanks said, voice deep and steady, "but you are nothing more than a tool. Once, I too believed that obedience was wisdom… until I realized that submission only births decay. I fought once to free Shinya, long before Moro's arrival. Against Jara himself, his father."
Moro's head lifted slightly, his expression sharpening.
"You met my father?"
Hanks nodded. "I did. Jara was fire itself. When the council labeled him a threat, I stood in his path. He carried a strength that shook the earth, and his will… was unbreakable. He fought not only with power but with purpose—purpose that frightened the council more than his blade. That day, I realized I was not his enemy but his reflection, chained by the same masters. He vanished into legend, but his spirit…" He looked at Moro with intent. "…I see it burning within you."
The silence that followed felt heavier than the cell itself. Even Hawks' smirk faltered for a moment before returning.
"Stories of dead men mean nothing here," Hawks said sharply. "Your time is already finished." He turned, the edges of his cloak dissolving into shadow as he melted back into the corridor. "Wait for the execution. It will be swift."
When he was gone, Kaya stepped forward. "He's wrong. Hope isn't dead. It's standing right here." She placed her hand on Moro's shoulder.
Moro's eyes burned faintly blue as the chains shimmered. "We'll get out. No matter what it takes."
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Meanwhile, beyond the sanctuary walls, Herbet crouched within the ruins of an old chapel, his squad gathered around him. The rebellion's banner had been hidden, replaced by the quiet determination in their eyes.
"They'll execute them at dawn," whispered one of the rebels.
Herbet's jaw tightened. "Not if we move first. The council expects us to scatter, to retreat into fear. But tonight, we strike back. Not to win the war… but to save the ones who carry the light."
He unrolled a parchment map of the sanctuary, the candlelight flickering over its worn surface. "The cells are beneath the eastern wing. Guard rotations shift every hour. We move under the bells of midnight. No hesitation. No mistakes. We are the shadows in their holy light."
The rebels nodded, determination etched on every face.
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The bells tolled midnight.
Darkness rippled through the sanctuary's courtyards as Herbet's squad slipped inside, their movements like ghosts under the moon. The guards were swift and vigilant, but the rebels knew the ground better. Silent daggers, muffled arrows—men fell without sound.
Below, Moro's eyes snapped open. He felt the disturbance—an echo of purpose breaking through the suffocating aura of the prison.
Then, the cell doors shuddered. A pulse of hidden energy spread across the chamber, dissolving the chains of dark aura. The door creaked open.
"Come," whispered a familiar voice. Herbet stood there, blood and dust marking his clothes, his eyes fierce with resolve.
Moro rose to his feet, Kaya beside him. Hanks followed, slower but steady, his gaze flicking to the rebels beyond.
"You fools," Hanks muttered under his breath, though his eyes glimmered with gratitude. "Do you realize what you've done?"
"Saved you," Herbet said simply. "Now move, before the shadows close in."
But they were too late.
The air grew colder, and from the corner of the corridor, black talons stretched across the stone walls. Hawks emerged, his shadow stretching like a beast hungry for prey.
"I told you," Hawks said softly, his voice echoing with malice. "Hope dies here."
Moro stepped forward, his aura flaring faintly, his voice steady. "No, Hawks. Hope begins here."
Herbet clenched his blade, ready to buy them time. But before the clash could ignite, a pulse of ancient energy surged through the air. The walls themselves seemed to hum. From the far side of the corridor, cloaked in a robe etched with arcane symbols, a figure appeared. His eyes glowed faint violet, and in his hand rested a staff carved with runes that shimmered like stars.
"Enough," the man said, his voice calm yet commanding. "If you wish to see dawn, follow me."
Herbet's eyes widened. "Xerx…"
The mystic magician lowered his hood, his face unreadable, but his aura undeniable. "The longer you linger, the more you will lose. The council has already unleashed their judgment upon this city. If you wish to resist, you'll need more than strength. You'll need wisdom—and the forgotten arts."
Moro studied him, his breath steady. "And you can provide that?"
Xerx's faint smile was unsettling. "No. I can only show you where to find it. But if you fail, not even your father's spirit will save you."
Kaya glanced at Moro, then at the mage. "Do we trust him?"
Moro nodded slowly. "We have no choice."
Behind them, Hawks' shadows surged, filling the corridor with dark claws and venomous whispers. But Xerx's staff struck the ground, and a barrier of shimmering light expanded, cutting the shadows short.
"Move," Xerx commanded, his cloak flaring as the air rippled with hidden power.
For the first time in Shinya's long night, hope did not feel like a dream. It felt real—fragile, dangerous, but alive.
And so, in the depths of chaos, the tyrants marked for execution walked free once more, led by a man whose very presence was a mystery, as the rebellion's fire burned brighter than ever.
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