Chapter 18: The New Leader
Lian stared at the black thread. The voice in his mind was clear. Cold. Commanding.
"Touch the thread."
He hesitated. He was a scholar. A man of books, not of battles. His memory was vast, but it had holes now—gaping, inexplicable voids. He knew he had forgotten something important. His instincts screamed at him.
Joric stood nearby, eyes glowing gold, veins shimmering with divine lines. Lian did not remember Joric. He only felt wrongness radiating from him, like rot beneath a golden mask.
The statue loomed above them. The black thread stretched from its base, pulsing faintly, alive with whispers. Looking at it, Lian felt the same ache he had felt when he first glimpsed the man with the sad eyes—a grief that was not his own. A truth he should not have known.
Fear gripped him. Not of Joric. Not of the thread. But of forgetting.
Something in him screamed: Protect it. Protect the truth. Protect the bleeding man. Protect the ghost. Protect the lie.
Joric raised his hand. His golden light flared. He would unravel the thread. He would erase the myth. He would prove his loyalty. His god. His purpose. His destiny.
But he was no more than a pawn. A tool dressed in glory.
Lian screamed. He didn't know why, only that he must stop Joric. He was no warrior. No hero. Only a victim. Yet victims fight hardest when there is nothing left to lose.
In the shadows, Kairo watched. From his hidden vents, he felt the clash—the collision of lies and truths, of myths struggling for dominion. He told himself he would not intervene. He was no savior. No god. He was a ghost.
But even ghosts have stakes. If Lian fell, the lie collapsed. If the thread broke, so did the plan. Kairo's chest ached with a terrible isolation. He was pragmatist and monster. Survivor and victim. Creator and destroyer. He had to choose.
Lian made his choice first.
He reached out, hand trembling, and touched the thread.
A shockwave burst through the hall. Not sound, not light, but myth. Joric staggered, golden glow sputtering, purpose unraveling. His certainty broke.
He looked at Lian—and what he saw was not weakness, not prey. He saw something new.
A leader.
A myth had been born.
Joric's devotion twisted. No longer hunter, no longer servant of faceless gods, he bent inward, toward Lian. Awe burned in his eyes. Loyalty reshaped his bones. The golden lines across his body pulsed once, then bent, as if kneeling.
Lian felt it. A weight pressing down on his soul. A crown he had not asked for. A destiny he could not escape.
The black thread pulsed. The whisper inside him softened, satisfied.
"Now… lead."
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