Reaching the hidden chamber, Noah didn't hesitate. He ran to a carefully guarded scroll, seized it, and without a second thought, set it aflame with a nearby candle. He would leave nothing behind—whether he succeeded or perished.
The contents of that scroll? He had memorized them long ago.
Once the parchment was nothing but ash, Noah stepped toward the magic circle etched into the floor and stopped at its edge. It was time to finally discover whether there truly existed another world beyond this one. The scroll had spoken of countless parallel realms—some slightly altered, others entirely different.
He didn't care which one awaited him, so long as it was drenched in magic, so long as it allowed him to walk the path of a wizard.
If it was a world of war, or one of peace, it made no difference. He would carve his place.
No—he was tired of merely surviving. He would climb, he would conquer, whether in order or in chaos.
With resolve hardening, Noah began the ritual. He tossed the staff into the circle, then removed his earring and bracelet, throwing them in as well. Though the staff alone would suffice, he would not risk leaving anything behind.
The moment the artifacts landed, the circle blazed to life. The runes pulsed, drinking greedily, draining every drop of magic from the offerings.
Noah stepped into the light. His own magic resonated, entwining with the circle's. The sensation flooded him—raw, intoxicating, like the time he had held the staff… but magnified tenfold.
For a fleeting heartbeat, the temptation nearly consumed him. But he resisted. He forced his mind back to the incantation, chanting the alien syllables engraved into his memory. No mortal tongue had ever formed these words—he could only echo them because the scroll had taught him, whispering through power itself when he had fed it mana.
Above, faint noises reached him—confusion, perhaps chaos—but Noah didn't care. Nothing could break his focus now.
At last, he drew a single drop of blood. The final step.
"Please… let this work," he whispered.
The instant the blood touched the circle, the runes ignited in sapphire light, as if rending the fabric of reality itself. Noah's body convulsed. His skin seared, his veins boiled, his very blood screamed.
The agony was unbearable.
Was he being rejected?
No…
In the last flicker of thought, Noah understood.
He had been wrong all along.
The ritual was never meant to carry his body.
That realization was his final spark of awareness before consciousness shattered.
When he awoke, Noah had no body—no hands, no voice, not even weight. His mind itself felt fragile, like a breath on the verge of dispersing.
He drifted in a vast, white void. The very space resisted him, as if unwilling to let him through. All around, he saw rifts in the veil of reality—some no wider than a finger, others the size of a palm.
He shuddered at their presence. From within those cracks, eyes gazed back at him. Golden. Crimson. Blinding white. Different in hue, but all identical in essence: cold, detached, as though watching an insect crawl.
Their stares lasted but a heartbeat, yet left him trembling with both fear and rage. He hated the feeling of such power dismissing him.
Still, the current dragged him forward, deeper into this endless river of worlds.
He could not move of his own will. He could not force entry into any of them. And the mere thought of challenging those watching eyes filled him with dread.
His very soul grew thinner with each passing moment, fading, unraveling. His consciousness frayed at the edges. Soon there would be nothing left—no Noah, no self, only an empty husk scrubbed clean.
Am I going to die?
His grandfather's face flashed in his fading thoughts. Perhaps he would see him again in death.
No… I don't want to die. I want to live. I want to be free.
Then, another fissure appeared before him, small as the eye of a needle. And, like the others, a gaze pierced through—icy, crystalline blue.
Noah froze. He knew these eyes. Recognition stirred from some long-broken statue.
The stare lingered longer than the rest. And just as Noah's last fragments of self began to unravel, something happened.
A breath.
A whisper of wind.
It came from that very crack, from those cold blue eyes—and it pushed him away. Away from the gaze, away from that world.
Half-conscious, Noah barely realized as the breath carried him onward, thrusting him into another rift. This one bore no oppressive eyes, no smothering weight. Its veil was thinner, weaker.
And that was the last thing he saw before darkness swallowed him whole.
Back in the ruined house, everything shook. The walls crumbled, collapsing into dust and rubble. The witches fled, staring in horror at the ruins.
Steps echoed.
A woman, graceful yet terrifying in her elegance, approached. The twisted, disfigured witches fell silent, bowing low as she passed.
Her gaze ignored them. She fixed her eyes upon the shattered remains of the house. Then, slowly, she lifted her head, staring into the heavens, where black clouds devoured the sun, cloaking the day in shadow.
"What kind of magic… did you invoke?" she whispered, her voice like ice, threaded with curiosity.
"Should we search the wreckage?" one witch asked timidly.
The woman shook her head. "There is nothing left. I can't sense even a trace of magic here." She turned, her steps unhurried. "Whatever he did, the artifacts were all consumed as tribute."
She paused only once, eyes lingering on the sky that now darkened like twilight at noon.
"This world is safe… for now."
Her final words drifted like a curse.
"The demon is gone."
The witches bowed again. Then, with a last glance at the ruins, they followed their leader into the distance.
Not long after, villagers gathered, murmuring, fearful, curious about the collapse.
Among them, Margaret clutched her daughter tightly, tears streaming down her face.
"Noah…" she wept.
Thus ended Noah's story in this world.
All he left behind… were memories.
And tears.