For as long as I have existed, I have seen it all, and truly, it does get boring.
I have seen six crusades rise in a hunt for the Last Word.
I have seen six crusades die in this very same hunt.
I have seen six Chapters start with endless potential and promise.
I have seen six Chapters end by failing to live up to said potential and promise.
Empires were born from cosmic dust and runes and returned to it.
Gods roared with divine authority. Fiends schemed with profane insanity.
The mortals clawed at their destiny. The immortals endured their fates.
Heroes shattered Conflicts, Champions bled Discord dry—yet still, the Last Word eluded them all.
Always.
And they always fell with each failure.
I do not announce the Seventh Crusade with any hope in my pages.
For it has long run out.
It is my exhaustion given form. A final begrudging mercy for this world I have long forsaken.
There are no new answers left in this world.
No untested faith.
No unbroken blade.
There are no paths left, and they know that, and that is why they have forsaken their world, just as it has forsaken them.
Only one truth remains—one power sealed not to protect reality, but to delay its ending.
And now, at last, someone has reached for it.
If the Zenith of the Axiar awakens, the cycle will end—one way or another. Salvation and extinction have long become indistinguishable.
I will not interfere.
I will not warn them.
I will only record what comes next.
I have long grown bored of this tale.
I always was and always will be.
So when this Chapter ends…there will be nothing left that is worth recording.
—The unheard Epigraph of the Seventh Chapter by The Highest of All Stories, The Archtext.
************
"—Why do you keep going on about this? You're just acting absolutely insane."
The word insane cracked through the channel like a whip, sharp and raw with barely restrained annoyance. The speaker did not bother to mask her temper; she was too tired to do so. "I don't know what fantasies you've got running around, but you need to get your head out of the clouds. Now."
There was a brief distortion—static, the telltale sign of a three-way relay struggling to keep coherence across long-range lines.
"Back me up here," the annoyed but tired voice snapped. "Tell her."
A second voice answered, more relaxed, looser, tinged with a tad more joliness than the other voice. "She's… not wrong," the laidback speaker said, almost apologetically. "I mean, I get where you're coming from, but there's no more hope for that. Not anymore. Not after this long."
A sigh followed, long and drawn out. "You should be focusing on the upcoming excursion instead. With your condition, surviving the Stories is near impossible, and we've got, what—" a pause, then quieter, "—one year left."
Silence.
Then the third voice spoke.
Soft. Timid. Careful. But not retreating.
"I'm not giving up."
The words lacked volume, but they carried weight. "The destined one exists; I know they do. We just need to find them. And if we just… if we try, if we really try, then we can still save Mythraion and fix everything."
The annoyed voice barked out a humorless laugh. "Save it with that useless fairy tale?" she shot back. "That's what you're clinging to now? Some half-rotted myth about a 'destined one' riding in at the last chapter to save us?"
Her tone hardened. "Listen to me. Searching for this useless non-existent piece of shit is a waste of time. A luxury we don't have. The only ones we can rely on are ourselves. That's all it's ever been."
The laidback voice chimed in again, still gentle but a bit melancholic. "She's got a point. Several Chapters have passed already. Entire eras. If this destined one was going to show up, they would have by now. Why would they appear now, of all times?"
The timid voice hesitated—but only for a heartbeat.
"Because… because I've heard of a way," she said quietly. "A way to bring them forth."
The response was immediate.
A sharp intake of breath.
Then—stillness.
When the fierce voice spoke again, the edge was gone, replaced by something far more dangerous: restraint. "What… exactly… do you mean by that?"
The pause that followed stretched too long.
"…Are you talking about that prophecy?"
No answer came.
Many prophecies of different types and kinds had been told over the several eras of Mythraion, but from the hesitation of the timid voice, only one prophecy came to mind.
And the lack of an answer was answer enough.
The channel erupted.
"Are you out of your mind?!" the annoyed voice roared, all pretense of calm obliterated. "That isn't hope—that's madness! That thing nearly ended everything the last time its name was even whispered, and you're suggesting we—what—unseal it?"
The timid voice tried to speak, but the force of the outburst crushed the words in her throat.
The annoyed voice pressed on, relentless. "Do you not remember the consequences? People far stronger than us—far smarter—refused to even consider releasing that monster. Entire Orders burned the records of its existence just to erase the possibility. And you think it's a good idea now?"
"I—I wasn't saying it lightly," the timid voice managed at last, her words small but desperate. "The prophecy—it mentioned the destined one too—"
"Enough," the annoyed voice cut in sharply. "How do you know the 'destined one' from that prophecy is the same one you're chasing? You know better than this. Every goddamned prophecy calls its centerpiece destined. That word means nothing."
The timid voice swallowed. "I'm sure," she said. "I can feel it. It's the same presence. The same pull."
A scoff. "Feelings," the annoyed voice spat. "For once in your life, stop thinking with these feelings of yours and start thinking with your head."
Before the argument could spiral further, the laidback voice intervened. "Alright. Enough." Her tone had maintained its lightness, but it now carried authority. "She doesn't have bad intentions. You don't need to tear her apart over a thought."
"A thought?" the annoyed voice snapped. "Did you even hear what she suggested?"
"I did," the laidback voice replied evenly. "And it was a suggestion. She's not breaking seals in the middle of the night. Right?"
Silence followed.
Heavy.
Pressing.
Finally, the laidback voice spoke again, softer now. "Log off for tonight. Cool down. We'll talk about this tomorrow."
Another pause.
"…Fine," the annoyed voice said at last, the word dragged out through clenched teeth. "But this conversation isn't over."
The channel blinked once.
Then one presence vanished.
Only two remained.
The timid voice inhaled, clearly bracing herself. "I just wanted to explain—"
"Drop it."
The laidback voice was no longer relaxed.
"Drop this whole destined one nonsense," she said flatly. "They're not coming. They never were. We've been fed lies and promises since our birth, and look where it's gotten us."
A beat.
"And don't ever suggest that again. Ever."
The timid voice fell silent.
"…I understand," she said eventually. "I won't bring it up again."
The laidback voice exhaled, tension bleeding away. "Good." Her tone softened. "And even if—hypothetically—that option were ever on the table, it wouldn't matter. The key to that seal went missing months ago and only those like us can use it. Without it, the prison stays closed."
A faint, almost rueful laugh. "So get some rest. We'll need you sharp tomorrow."
The channel dimmed.
"Good night."
The connection severed.
The glow of the communicator lingered, casting pale light across the timid girl's face as she stood alone before the ruins. Stone loomed behind her—ancient, fractured, sealed by time and silence.
She let out a slow breath.
"I'm sorry," she whispered, more to the dead air than to anyone who might hear. "I'm sorry, sisters."
Her fingers curled around the object in her other hand—a strange symbol, malformed and cracked, its surface humming faintly with a wrongness that made the air feel thin.
"But I can't give up like you can," she murmured. "This is all I have. The last chance we have… to matter. To be worth something."
She raised her head.
The sealed door of the ruins waited before her.
She knew they would never agree.
That was why she would do it alone.
********
Half an hour later, she was deep beneath the ruins.
Stone steps spiraled downward into darkness, narrow and uneven, worn smooth by time or something far older than memory. The faint glow of her communicator barely reached the walls, shadows folding over one another as though reluctant to be disturbed. With every step she took, the world above felt more distant—less real.
Her heartbeat changed.
At first, it had been frantic, loud in her ears. Now it slowed, deepened, syncing unnervingly with the silence around her. The air was stale, ancient, pressing against her lungs as if it had forgotten how to be breathed. She found herself analyzing the ruin without meaning to—cracked stonework, collapsed supports, sigils half-erased by erosion or deliberate defacement.
This place hadn't been abandoned for years.
It had been abandoned for ages.
That alone lent weight to the legends. Tales claiming that the monster had been sealed since the First Crusade, locked away when Mythraion was still young enough to believe in absolutes. She swallowed.
Could it even still be alive?
Most races couldn't endure such spans of time. Even Arisen—those who had risen from the depths of mundanity and touched the higher strata of existence—eventually faded, changed, or broke. Eternity was a luxury few could afford.
And yet…
The ruin felt occupied.
Not in a physical sense. There was no stench of decay, no sign of nesting or infestation. Instead, the air reeked of something far more unsettling—a pressure beneath the skin, a wrongness that slid along her thoughts without ever forming words. It wasn't disgusting.
It was uneasy.
Each step tested her resolve. Pain pulsed through her bones, remnants of the long journey she had taken to reach this place, of sleepless nights and rationed strength. Her body wanted to stop.
She refused.
This is my chance, she told herself. To do something. To matter.
Despite everything her sisters had said, she knew the truth they wouldn't voice aloud: none of them believed the Seventh Crusade would succeed. Not truly. They were preparing for duty, not victory.
Her fingers tightened around the object in her hand.
The key.
It was cold, heavier than it should have been. As she turned it slightly, its form shifted. At one angle, it resembled a greatsword driven point-first into the earth, wrapped tightly in chains. At another, a spear thrust upward toward the heavens, similarly bound. Tilted just a fraction more, and a monstrous face emerged—jagged, half-formed, its mouth frozen in a silent snarl beneath restraints meant to never break.
No matter how she looked at it, the chains were always there.
She knew the cost of possessing it. The punishments that awaited her if the Alcove discovered what she had done—what she intended to do. Even her position would not shield her from that judgment.
But some prices had to be paid in advance.
As she descended further, she felt it.
A hum.
Low.
Deep.
Steady.
Like the heartbeat of a colossal creature buried beneath the world—or the distant rumble of an engine that had never truly shut down. It resonated through stone and marrow alike, stirring something primal within her chest.
And with it came memory.
A fragment of prophecy, burned into her mind long ago.
When crimson blazes crown the world,fury shall reign, and slaughter shall answer slaughter.The void shall open its pits wide,devouring infinite light with nihil dark and unending.
In ruin, the golden gates of supremacy shall yet endure,as the Destined stands unbowed before the Star of the Apocalypse—and before its herald,the Zenith of the Most Exiled.
Who stands in the end is irrelevant,for the Apocalypse is not victory nor defeat,but the ending of all endings.
Her breath caught.
There was more to the prophecy. Volumes more. But it all circled the same truth: the being sealed below was not merely a threat. It was an ending. The destined one was almost an afterthought in comparison, eclipsed by the inevitability of destruction.
And yet—
Every time she recalled those words, something deep within her stirred. A pull. A resonance she could neither explain nor deny.
I have to believe, she thought. I have to.
The stairs ended.
She stepped onto level ground, the hum now impossibly loud, vibrating through her ribs. Before her stood a pair of massive stone doors, ancient and scarred. Carved into their surface were markings identical to those on the key—shifting, unstable, never quite the same when viewed twice.
She stopped.
Closed her eyes.
Remember, Seraphine, she told herself. Remember what stands at stake.
As she opened them again, the symbols on the doors began to glow—soft, refracted light blooming in myriad colors that bled into one another. The hum deepened.
Then she heard it.
A voice.
No—voices.
Unified, yet fractured. Singular, yet countless.
"You who hold the key," they spoke as one. "Do you forsake yourself—and the world—enough to take the next step?"
Her heart lurched.
"Forsake?" she whispered aloud. "No. I'm trying to save it."
Silence.
Then the voices returned, quieter. Closer.
"Even if the world has already been forsaken by all others?"
She frowned. That wasn't—she didn't understand. Her impatience surged suddenly, sharp and uncharacteristic, as though something within her demanded motion. A faint red mist clung to the edges of her vision.
"I don't forsake it," she said firmly. "I refuse to. Just let me through already."
The voices paused.
"Then your choice and its consequences are your own," they finally declared. "Whether a world remains to bear those consequences, though… that is left to chance."
The doors groaned.
Stone screamed against stone as they parted slowly, like the yawn of an ancient, dreaming entity.
Her heart stilled.
Beyond the threshold lay darkness so profound it seemed to swallow light itself.
Salvation—or ruin.
Seraphine stepped forward.