The storm was gone, leaving only a sky washed clean of shadow. Through the open window the sunset bled across the peaks—orange melting into deep violet—while the last trace of the Ebonveil drifted like a black smear on the horizon. The air was sharp and still, carrying the faint chill of that dark sky.
Outside the small cabin, The man from before worked in silence. A few rough planks lay across his lap, and his scarred hands moved with patient strength as he shaped them into a crib. Wood knocked against wood in a steady rhythm, the only sound in the calm. Takeda watched from the girls arms, the flicker of the setting sun catching the man's dark hair and the edge of his sword laid nearby.
When the crib was finished, the man tested its joints with a slow push, nodded once, and set it up inside the cabin. He took Takeda gently, laid him onto the thin blanket, and placed him in the crib. The wood creaked softly beneath the infant's weight. For a brief heartbeat, his stern face softened—but then the mask returned. He strapped on his sword and cloak.
A short exchange passed between him and the girl in their mother tongue—words Takeda couldn't grasp. The man would probably scout the village below before nightfall.Takeda think- the girl answered with a small nod, her green eyes betraying a trace of worry. The man rested one hand on the crib's edge, gave a final look toward the child, and slipped out into the fading light. The door closed with a solid thud, leaving the house hushed.
The girl turned back to the crib and leaned over with a bright smile. She tapped Takeda's tiny nose, humming a playful tune and wiggling her fingers like dancing fireflies.
Takeda stared back, unimpressed.
Forty-five years old, he thought. And she thinks peek-a-boo will work on me.
He deliberately turned his head, offering nothing but the back of his tiny skull. The girl's smile faltered; a small shadow of sadness crossed her face.
But she wasn't ready to give up. She whispered a few soft words, lifting her hand. A gentle shimmer of light sparked between her fingertips, glowing like drifting motes. The little lights floated above the crib, twinkling in soft colors, weaving together in the shape of tiny birds that fluttered around Takeda's head.
For a moment, Takeda's eyes widened—then he sighed inwardly. Simple tricks. For children.
The magic fizzled in his disinterest, and the girl let her hand drop. The last glow faded into the dusk, leaving her expression tinged with disappointment.
For a moment she stood in silence, then her eyes lit as if struck by sudden inspiration. She straightened, scanning the room, and began opening shelves and drawers—searching for something. Her movements drew Takeda's reluctant attention. Curiosity, no matter how hardened the soul, was a stubborn thing.
At last she gave a soft exclamation and pulled a thick, weather-worn book from beneath a stack of folded cloth. Its leather cover was etched with faint silver lines that caught the last gold of sunset. She carried it to the crib, sat cross-legged on the floor, and opened it across her knees.
Takeda needed no words. The pictures told the tale.
The first page blazed with images of war—humans in radiant armor clashing with horned demons under a sky torn with lightning. Knights, mages, and adventurers fought desperately, the earth itself split with blood and fire.
Then came the turning point. A shadowed figure rose in the chaos: a faceless giant draped in endless dark, its very presence twisting the battlefield. Two words were scrawled beside it in curling script—The End.
The next pages showed humans and demons forced into an uneasy alliance, their banners joined against this calamity. Yet before they could strike, the sky itself began to twist.
First came the Ebonveil—a vast curtain of black storms spilling across the heavens, blotting out the sun. At its very center stood a woman whose beauty was terrible: long hair like a flood of midnight mist, eyes burning with cruel promise, hands dripping with black fire. The words beneath her image marked her as Lilith, the Witch of Nightmare.
From around her, as if drawn to her presence, came the Veylith—countless pale horrors with round, unblinking eyes, swarming like shadows given flesh. Wherever her storm spread, the Veylith followed, drowning the world in terror.
Takeda shivered.
Holloweyes. Exactly what I would've called them.
The story spiraled into chaos. Villages burned, skies tore, oceans boiled. United, humans and demons struck at both The End and the Witch. Then the pictures fractured—three final pages, each telling a different fate.
One showed the alliance triumphant, the two calamities shattered and scattered to dust while the demons hid in fear.
Another depicted the calamities sealed within chains of light by sacrifice.
The last showed the Witch and The End locked in mutual slaughter while the battlefield lay broken around them.
Afterwards, a final image showed survivors—humans—building massive walls and raising their banners, founding a Holy Nation. Beside it stood a grand spired structure marked with the symbol of a rising sword: the Academy of Heroes, created to train warriors against demons, monsters, and the lingering believers of The End.
Takeda stared at the last page, a knot tightening in his chest.
Why am I here?
What brought me to this world?
Am I supposed to fight this "End"… or the demons, like that child told me before?
The Veylith's many eyes seemed to follow him even from ink and parchment, stirring memories of the Holloweyes that had nearly devoured him. Coincidence—or warning?
Outside the window the sunset faded to indigo. The Ebonveil hung far away, a dark smear across the distant mountains like a wound that refused to close. The cabin fell into silence, broken only by the girl's steady breathing and the faint creak of the crib.
Takeda gripped the blanket with his tiny fist.
This world had already survived one End—
but the shadow on the horizon whispered that it might not be the last.
The thought lingered like a splinter, and as the first cold stars pierced the sky, he realized he was not falling asleep to a lullaby—
but to the shadow of a storm that might one day return.
---End of Chapter 5---