The echoes of enlightened
The legend speaks of the 24 Fragments — ancient relics that bind the fabric of existence.
The beginning
Whoever possesses them gains the power to reshape the world and transcend mortality itself.
Kingdoms have fallen, blood has been spilled, and forbidden cults rise from the shadows in pursuit of these sacred pieces.
For the one who unites all 24 will claim the Crown of Dominion, ruling the Sixteen Lokas for eternity — worshipped as a demigod among mortals.
The scene shifts.
Heavy rain lashes the barren badlands, and thunder roars across the dark sky.
Far out in the restless waters of the sacred river Reva, a small wooden bucket drifts helplessly among the waves.
Inside it lies a little child — barely conscious, slowly drowning as the bucket begins to tilt with the current.
On the distant shore, a woman in her early thirties stands near a ruined shrine.
The structure is almost destroyed, its walls cracked and broken.
Within it rests a nearly shattered idol of jina— the statuei chipped and weathered by time.
Despite the storm, the woman kneels before the shrine, offering a few grains of rice — all she can afford.
Her clothes are soaked, her hands trembling, yet her prayer remains steady.
Suddenly —
she hears it.
A faint cry.
A baby's cry.
She turns toward the river.
"Can someone help?!" she shouts to the fishermen nearby.
But the men are busy casting their fishing darts into the stormy waters.
"Save it yourself," one of them mutters without looking at her.
Desperate, she runs toward an old man sitting near a broken boat. He reeks of alcohol.
"Please… use your boat. There's a child out there."
The old man stares at the river, then at her trembling face.
After a moment of silence, he sighs and nods.
Together, they push the fragile boat into the raging waters.
The waves fight them, but somehow — somehow — they reach the drifting bucket.
Inside lies a beautiful little boy, shivering, crying, his tiny hands marked with strange sealing symbols — faint, glowing patterns that look ancient.
The moment she lifts him into her arms…
the markings flicker.
And then — they disappear.
The storm begins to calm.
Back on shore, the boy cries endlessly, weak with hunger.
The woman has almost nothing.
She is only a field laborer — almost a slave — earning barely enough to survive.
Yet with the little money she has saved, she buys some milk.
And under the broken gaze of Lord jina's shattered idol…
she feeds the child.
After rescuing the child, Marissa brings him home.
The rain had softened into a quiet drizzle, and the narrow lanes of the settlement shimmered under weak lantern light. Her house stood at the far end — a fragile structure of cracked mud walls and a patched roof that sighed with every passing wind. Smoke curled lazily from a crooked chimney, carrying the faint scent of burnt wood and boiled grain. It was not much, but it was shelter — and tonight, it felt like fate had followed her inside.
Inside the small, broken house, another boy sat cross-legged near the fire, tracing shapes in the dust with a stick. He was about one and a half years older, thin but sharp-eyed, his face lit gold by the flickering flames. When the door creaked open, cold air rushed in with the scent of river water and rain.
Marissa stepped in, soaked, trembling — yet smiling.
"Peter… look who I brought. Your younger brother."
The older boy looked up, confused at first, his brows knitting together as he saw the bundle in her arms. The firelight reflected in his eyes as curiosity slowly replaced hesitation.
"He will be called Pixcy," she said softly, kneeling beside the fire. "Look at him… he almost looks like a girl. And those eyes… so beautiful."
Pixcy's eyes were unlike anything Peter had seen — dark, reddish pupils that seemed to hold depth beyond a child's innocence. When the flames flickered stronger, they caught the light in a strange way, as if something ancient shimmered far beneath the surface. For a brief second, Peter felt as though those eyes were not just looking at him — but through him.
The baby giggled suddenly, breaking the silence, curling his tiny fingers around his toes and laughing at nothing in particular. His laughter was light, pure, untouched by the cruelty of the world outside those cracked walls. The sound filled the small house, bouncing off the uneven ceiling, warming the air more than the fire ever could.
Marissa wrapped him in a worn blanket and held both boys close. Outside, the wind still howled across the badlands, and somewhere far away the river Reva continued its endless song. But inside that fragile home, beneath the trembling roof and beside the humble fire, something sacred had been born — not just a child, but a bond.
For the first time in years, the house did not feel broken.
It felt complete.
Pixcy is now eight.
The warmth that once lived inside their fragile home has slowly faded, replaced by the dry cough that echoes through the cracked walls each night. Marissa grows weaker with every passing day; her once steady hands now tremble even while lifting a cup of water, and her cheeks have hollowed under the weight of hunger she hides behind forced smiles. She eats little, pretending she is not hungry so the boys can have more, and sometimes she turns her face away so they will not see the pain tightening around her eyes. The small house feels colder now, even when the fire burns bright, as if illness itself has settled into the corners like a silent shadow.
Pixcy cannot bear it.
He runs through the muddy alleys of the district, past broken carts and rusted lanterns, to the only doctor who serves their settlement. The clinic stands like a crooked tooth between decaying buildings, its windows stained and its door hanging slightly ajar. Inside, the air smells of chemicals and neglect. Pixcy's small fists pound against the wooden counter as he begs the doctor to come and see his mother.
The doctor finally arrives at their house, his boots leaving dirty marks across the floor. He barely glances at the broken furniture or the empty grain sack in the corner. He examines Marissa with cold, mechanical movements, pressing his fingers against her wrist, lifting her eyelids, checking her breath as though she is an object rather than a person.
"She is dying," he says flatly. "Malnutrition. No vitamins. No proper food. This gutter you call a district kills slowly."
The words fall heavier than thunder.
Then his gaze shifts toward the boys — calculating, indifferent.
"If you want medicine… bring money. No excuses."
Pixcy steps forward, his voice trembling but determined. He promises they will work, that they will pay, that they will do anything. The doctor's expression hardens. Without warning, his hand strikes Pixcy across the face. The sound cracks through the room, louder than Marissa's cough. Pixcy falls to the floor, the taste of iron filling his mouth, his reddish pupils flickering with shock.
Peter immediately steps between them, his thin frame shaking but unyielding.
"Give us one day," he says. "We will pay."
The doctor leans down slowly, his shadow swallowing both boys. His breath smells of bitter herbs and decay.
"If you don't pay," he whispers, his voice almost amused, "I will sell your body parts myself."
The silence that follows is suffocating.
Outside, the wind scrapes against the walls like a warning. Inside, two brothers stand trembling — not just from fear, but from the cruel understanding that in their world, even flesh has a price.
The next morning, before the sun had fully risen above the broken rooftops, the boys step out into a world that has never been kind to them. The air is cold, carrying the smell of dust and rusted iron, and the streets of the settlement are already alive with men who look just as desperate. Pixcy and Peter go from shop to shop, from market stalls to loading docks, asking for work — any work. Most people wave them away without even looking at their faces. Some laugh. Others curse. Hunger has stripped the softness from the world.
By noon, they reach a construction site at the edge of the district, where half-built stone walls rise like skeletons against the pale sky. The sound of hammering metal and grinding stone fills the air. The contractor, a thick-armed man with a stained scarf around his neck, eyes them with irritation.
"Four bronze coins," he says carelessly. "If you can last till sunset."
Four bronze coins.
To the boys, it sounds like salvation.
They begin lifting stones heavier than their small bodies should bear. Their palms tear. Dust fills their lungs. Sweat mixes with dried blood on their fingers. Pixcy stumbles more than once, but Peter silently shifts the heavier load to his own shoulders. The sun climbs higher, merciless and white, burning their skin as if testing their resolve. Workers twice their size struggle — yet the two brothers keep going, because every stone they lift feels like one more breath for their mother.
As the sky finally begins to bleed orange at sunset, the site grows quieter. The contractor counts coins in his hand while chewing lazily on a twig. The boys stand before him, exhausted, their clothes stiff with dust, their hands trembling not from weakness but from hope.
Without meeting their eyes, the contractor flicks a single bronze coin toward them. It lands in the dirt at their feet.
"That's enough," he mutters.
Peter stares at the coin, disbelief freezing his face. "You promised four."
The man shrugs. "You're lucky you got one."
The world feels suddenly very large and very unfair.
Pixcy bends down and picks up the coin, brushing dirt from its surface as though cleaning it might somehow multiply its value. It is too light. Too small. Too meaningless against the weight of medicine, against the doctor's threat, against their mother's fading breath.
It is not enough.
The walk home is silent. The sky darkens into a bruised purple, and the first cold winds of night creep through the streets. Near the corner of their alley, Peter stops walking.
"You go," he says quietly.
Pixcy looks up. "What about you?"
"I'll find more work," Peter replies, forcing a smile that doesn't reach his eyes. "We need more than this."
Pixcy nods, clutching the single coin tightly in his fist, and continues toward home. He does not turn back — because if he does, he might see something in his brother's expression that he does not want to understand.
That night, the wind howls louder than usual. The fire inside their house burns low. Marissa coughs in her sleep.
And peter never returns.
Night had already swallowed the district when Pixcy stood before the towering marble façade of Cassandra Hall, its golden chandeliers glowing behind tall glass windows like a different universe — a universe that smelled of roasted meat, sweet wine, and warm bread instead of damp walls and sickness. Carriages lined the cobbled entrance, their polished wheels shining under lantern light, horses snorting clouds of steam into the cold air. Pixcy's stomach twisted painfully as he watched a wealthy woman step out, her silk gown whispering against the stone, diamonds glittering at her throat like captured stars. When she paused near her carriage, laughing softly at something her escort said, Pixcy moved — silent, thin, desperate — his small fingers brushing the chain at her neck. For one fragile second he felt hope. Then a hand like iron clamped around his wrist. The world exploded. A fist crashed into his ribs, stealing his breath; another struck his face, and the taste of blood flooded his mouth. The bodyguards did not see a child — they saw dirt. They kicked him against the carriage wheel, boots slamming into his stomach again and again until the night spun red and black. The woman turned away, adjusting her gloves as if nothing more than a stray animal had been handled. Finally, they dragged his limp body across the stones and hurled him into a heap of garbage behind the hall, where rotten scraps and broken bottles pressed into his skin. Above him, Cassandra Hall continued to glow — bright, warm, untouched — while Pixcy lay trembling in the darkness, crimson eyes flickering open through blood and rain, something inside him beginning to change.
The tragedy
When Pixcy pushed open the crooked wooden door of their house, the silence felt wrong. Too heavy. Too empty. "Peter?" he called, his voice cracking. No answer. The blanket near the fire was folded. The single bronze coin lay untouched on the floor. Fear did not creep in slowly — it struck like ice water poured straight into his chest. He ran.
The clinic smelled of chemicals and rusted metal. The lanterns inside flickered weakly, casting long, trembling shadows along cracked walls. Pixcy stepped in, breath ragged, heart pounding so loudly he could hear it in his ears. Then he saw it.
Peter.
He lay on a cold metal table beneath harsh white light. Tubes ran into his thin body. Dark stains marked the sheets beneath him. Where his limbs should have been, there were thick bandages, soaked and heavy, tied tight around what remained. Machines clicked and hissed beside him, keeping rhythm with a life that was slipping away. His skin was pale — too pale — lips dry and split, eyes half-open but unfocused, as if already staring at something far beyond the ceiling.
Coins sat neatly stacked on a tray nearby.
Payment.
Pixcy's legs refused to move. His throat closed. The air would not enter his lungs. He wanted to scream, to break everything in the room, to tear the doctor apart — but his body betrayed him. He stood frozen, staring at his brother who had once shielded him from rain, from hunger, from fists — and now had sold pieces of himself like merchandise to keep their mother alive.
Peter's chest rose weakly. Slowly. Painfully.
For a moment, their eyes met.
There was no regret in Peter's gaze. Only apology.
Something inside Pixcy cracked — not like glass, but like the earth splitting during an earthquake. The world did not feel real anymore. The clinic walls seemed to bend inward. The sound of the machines grew distant. The light above flickered, reflecting faintly in Pixcy's crimson eyes.
And in that unbearable stillness, as his brother lay dismantled for money, the last fragile piece of innocence inside Pixcy died.
The tragedy
When Marissa heard the truth, something inside her did not break — it ignited.
For a single heartbeat she stood still, staring at Peter's lifeless form on the metal table, at the doctor's trembling hands, at the faint smoke rising from overturned instruments. Her mind refused to understand what her eyes were seeing. Then the meaning struck her all at once.
Her son was gone.
She did not cry.
She did not collapse.
She did not ask questions.
She ran.
The clinic door burst open with a violent crash, slamming against the wall as a gust of cold evening wind tore through the narrow hall. Lantern flames flickered wildly, stretching shadows across cracked plaster walls. Her footsteps echoed against the stone floor as she stormed inside, hair loose and disheveled, breath ragged like an animal cornered beyond endurance.
"You monster!" she screamed, her voice tearing from her throat.
The doctor barely had time to turn.
She collided with him with the force of a mother who had nothing left to lose. Instruments scattered in every direction. A tray flipped into the air, clanging as it hit the ground. Glass vials shattered, releasing sharp medicinal fumes that burned the lungs. The white curtain near Peter's table twisted and fell as Marissa shoved the doctor backward
She clawed at him — at his collar, his face, his throat — fingers digging desperately into fabric and flesh. It was not graceful. It was not controlled. It was raw, shaking fury born from grief too sudden to process.
The doctor stumbled, knocking into a cabinet. His spectacles fell and cracked beneath his heel. Panic overtook his features — not guilt, not sorrow, but fear for himself. His hand flailed backward across a cluttered metal counter.
His fingers closed around cold steel.
A surgical blade.
He did not aim.
He did not think.
He swung.
The blade plunged forward into the chaos between them.
There was a sound — not loud, not dramatic — just a wet, dreadful interruption of breath. A small, awful noise that seemed to echo far longer than it should have.
Marissa froze.
Her grip loosened.
For a moment she looked confused, as if trying to understand why her strength had suddenly abandoned her. Then she staggered backward, eyes wide, fury dissolving into shock. Her hands trembled as they pressed against the spreading warmth on her dress.
Pixcy screamed.
The scream ripped through the clinic like a blade of its own.
On the metal table, Peter — weak, pale, barely clinging to consciousness — flinched at the sound. The machines around him began to beep erratically as his heart struggled against the chaos.
The doctor jerked back in horror at what he had done. His elbow struck the edge of the operating table.
The table shifted.
One of its rusted support rods — already loosened from years of neglect — snapped free with a sharp metallic crack.
Time seemed to slow.
The rod tipped.
Fell.
It struck Peter's frail body with cruel precision.
Not from intention.
Not from cruelty.
From chaos.
The impact jolted the machine beside him. The monitor flickered violently. A single long, unbroken tone filled the air.
Flatline.
The sound was thin, piercing, and endless.
Marissa collapsed to her knees.
The doctor stood frozen, blade slipping from his fingers and clattering against stone.
Pixcy stared at his brother's still form, at the rod, at the silent machines that only seconds ago had whispered fragile hope. His ears rang. The world felt distant, like he was underwater.
No birds sang outside.
No wind moved.
Even the lantern flames seemed to stop trembling.
Silence.
A silence so complete it swallowed the world whole.
In that room filled with broken glass, spilled chemicals, and the smell of iron, three lives ended in different ways.
Peter's breath was gone.
Marissa's strength was fading.
And Pixcy's innocence — whatever remained of it — died without making a sound.
Later, inside the clinic —
The world felt smaller.
The fire outside had died, but its smoke still crept through the cracked windows, mixing with the sharp stench of medicine and dried blood. The lantern hanging from the ceiling swayed gently, though there was no wind, its weak flame trembling as if it, too, were afraid of what remained in the room.
Peter's body lay beneath a stiff white sheet on the metal table. One corner had slipped loose, revealing pale fingers that would never move again.
Pixcy sat on the floor, wrists bound, ash still clinging to his clothes. His face was streaked with soot and tears that had long since dried. He did not sob anymore. He did not move. He simply stared ahead, as though the world had already ended and forgotten to bury him with it.
The doctor stepped into the lantern light.
His boots echoed slowly across the stone floor.
Deliberate.
Measured.
He stopped in front of the boy and knelt down, bringing himself eye level. For a moment, he studied Pixcy's face not as one looks at a grieving child — but as one examines a rare specimen.
"Your mother destroyed my research," he whispered coldly.
His voice no longer shook. It was calm now. Controlled.
"Peter was valuable. His brain… remarkable. Do you know how rare that structure was? How much I could have learned?"
He glanced toward the covered body as if speaking about a broken instrument rather than a dead child.
"Years of work," he continued softly. "Ruined."
The lantern flickered again, casting long skeletal shadows across the walls. The metal instruments on the nearby tray reflected faint orange light, their edges glinting like patient teeth.
Then the doctor's gaze returned to Pixcy.
And it changed.
His eyes narrowed, focusing intensely on the crimson pupils glowing faintly in the dimness. Even through the soot and exhaustion, they burned — unnatural, vivid, almost luminous.
"But you…"
He leaned closer.
Pixcy could smell smoke on his coat. And something metallic beneath it.
"I cannot allow trash like you to possess eyes like these," the doctor murmured. His voice lowered further, almost reverent. "They don't belong to a gutter child. They belong to someone who understands their worth."
His gloved fingers reached forward, hovering just inches from Pixcy's face without touching.
They are extraordinary," he whispered. "Do you know how rare this pigment is? How rare that glow is under stress? You're not just a boy… you're an opportunity."
The lantern above sputtered violently, the flame stretching thin before shrinking again. For a brief second, the room plunged into near darkness — and in that darkness, Pixcy's eyes seemed to glow brighter.
The doctor smiled.
A thin, curved smile that did not reach his eyes.
"I will take them."
He stood slowly and walked toward the metal tray, selecting instruments with careful precision. Steel clinked softly against steel. The sound echoed too loudly in the silence.
"I will preserve them properly," he continued, almost kindly. "Unlike your brother, I will not waste what makes you special."
Outside, thunder rolled in the distance.
Inside, the clinic felt colder.
Peter's covered body lay still.
The ash on Pixcy's clothes fell silently to the floor.
And as the doctor turned back toward him with polished steel glinting in trembling lantern light, the shadows on the walls seemed to lean inward — as though even the darkness wanted to witness what would happen next.
But Pixcy did not look afraid anymore.
He looked empty.
And in that emptiness, something far more dangerous than fear began to grow.
Pixcy was restrained in the surgical chair.
Cold metal cuffs bit into his wrists. Leather straps pinned his chest and legs. The chair itself was bolted to the floor, its surface stained by years of quiet suffering. The air inside the clinic had grown thick — smoke lingering from distant ashes, rain tapping steadily against cracked windows.
The doctor moved calmly now, arranging his tools with obsessive precision. Steel glinted beneath the trembling lantern light. Outside, thunder rolled across the sky, low and restless.
Pixcy did not struggle.
He did not scream.
He did not beg.
He felt nothing.
Peter was dead.
Marissa was burned.
The settlement had watched.
For a long moment, Pixcy allowed himself to sink into the emptiness. His chest felt hollow, like something had carved him out from the inside. The pain was so large it circled back into numbness. A quiet thought whispered through him:
There is nothing left. Let it end.
Rain struck harder against the glass. Lightning flashed, illuminating the room in white for a split second. In that light he saw Peter's covered body.
He saw his mother's hands in memory — rough, tired, but gentle when they touched his hair.
He remembered her dividing a single piece of bread into three unequal parts — giving him the largest piece and pretending she was not hungry.
Rare. Fragile. But real.
He thinks..
It had been hard.
It had been cruel.
But they had protected me
Even when it was tough.
Even when it was very tough.
And suddenly the emptiness shifted.
If I died now… then what was all their suffering for?
If i let this man carve my eyes out… then what did Peter lose his life for?
Outside, lightning cracked violently.
Pixcy's crimson gaze lifted slowly to meet the doctor's.
"You should not have touched my brother," he whispered.
The words were not loud.
But they were steady.
Something beneath his skin burned that was seal that triggered his rage and necessity of survival he wanted to survive so that he could take revenge
Faint lines — barely visible before — began to glow along his arms and neck. Seal marks. Patterns that had appeared only once in childhood during another moment of terror.
Now they returned.
Faint.
Burning.
Not wild.
Controlled.
The lantern above flickered violently. The old wiring in the ceiling sparked, weakened from earlier chaos. The doctor hesitated, just for a fraction of a second, distracted by the sudden tremor of light.
That moment was enough.
Pixcy slammed his head forward into the doctor's nose.
A sickening crack.
Blood sprayed across the doctor's coat. He stumbled backward into a metal tray. Instruments crashed to the floor.
But Pixcy did not lose himself to rage.
The seal burned, yes — but his mind remained sharp.
He observed.
The right wrist strap was older leather — cracked at the edges. When he had shifted earlier, he had felt a slight looseness. The scalpel that slid across the floor stopped inches from his bound hand.
The doctor cursed, clutching his bleeding face.
Pixcy twisted his wrist sideways, ignoring the tearing pain as skin scraped against metal. He forced his hand downward until his fingers brushed the scalpel's handle. The blade was cold.
He cut.
Not the strap first.
His own palm.
Just enough.
Blood slicked his skin, allowing his wrist to slide through the tight cuff. Pain flared white-hot, but he did not react.
Lightning struck again.
The clinic lights sputtered. A spark leapt from exposed wiring to a hanging curtain near the chemical shelves.
Flame caught.
Small at first.
Then growing.
The doctor saw it and panicked, rushing toward the spreading fire.
Pixcy freed his other hand quickly, then reached for the metal cart beside him. Instead of attacking blindly, he shoved it toward the doctor's legs. The heavy cart crashed into him, knocking him off balance and sending bottles of volatile chemicals crashing into the rising flames.
A burst of sparks erupted.
Smoke thickened instantly, black and choking.
Pixcy dropped low to the ground where the air was thinner. He remembered something Peter once told him: "In smoke, breathe near the floor."
The back hallway.
There was a narrow storage exit — half jammed, rarely used.
The doctor coughed violently, disoriented, trying to smother flames with a coat already stained in blood.
Pixcy did not look back.
Not crying.
Not hesitating.
He grabbed a fallen lantern and hurled it toward a second shelf, forcing more chaos between himself and the doctor. The explosion of glass and fire created a wall of heat.
Then he ran.
Through smoke.
Through darkness.
Through the back corridor where rats scattered and rainwater leaked through the ceiling.
He shoved the warped door with all his weight. It resisted — then gave way.
Cold rain poured over him as he stumbled into the alley.
Behind him, the clinic burned.
Flames roared upward into the stormy sky, devouring evidence, devouring screams.
Pixcy stood in the rain for one brief second, chest rising and falling.
He had wanted to die.
But not anymore.
The villagers had watched.
They had smiled.
They had thrown pebbles at his mother's burned body.
They had taken his innocence and treated it like entertainment.
His crimson eyes lifted toward the settlement lights in the distance.
"I will kill all of you," he whispered — not in madness, but in certainty.
The seal marks faded slowly, the rage receding.
What remained was sharper.
Colder.
More dangerous.
Not a monster driven by power.
But a survivor driven by intelligence.
And in the reflection of the burning clinic behind him, his crimson eyes shone brighter than ever — not with chaos…
But with purpose.
Rain chased him through the alleys like a punishment that would not end.
Pixcy ran without direction at first — slipping through mud, cutting through narrow passages between leaning houses, ignoring the shouts rising behind him as the clinic burned. His lungs burned. His wounded palm throbbed with every heartbeat. Smoke clung to his hair and clothes. The storm above felt endless, as if the sky itself refused to calm.
Only when his legs began to fail did he realize where he was going.
The old stone path.
The narrow climb behind the settlement.
The place Marissa used to visit quietly at dawn.
There, beneath a fractured arch of weathered rock, stood the ancient ascetic statue — the Jina figure carved from pale stone, hands resting in meditation, eyes half-closed in eternal stillness. Moss clung to its base. Offerings of dried rice still lay scattered in small clay bowls, some washed away by rain, some hardened by time.
This was where Marissa had come when there was nothing left to give.
When hunger hollowed them.
When Peter coughed through the night.
When Pixcy's eyes first burned red and frightened her.
She had knelt here.
Whispered prayers.
Offered rice she could not afford to spare.
Pixcy stumbled forward and collapsed at the statue's base.
Mud soaked his knees. Rain plastered his hair against his forehead. His chest heaved violently, each breath trembling with exhaustion that felt deeper than his bones.
He looked up at the silent stone face.
"The person who had faith in you…" his voice cracked, barely louder than the rain. "She believed in you."
His hands clenched into the mud.
"She offered you rice when we were starving."
Lightning flashed, illuminating the statue's calm expression. Unmoved. Unbroken.
"And you did nothing."
His voice rose suddenly — sharp, fractured.
"You did nothing!"
Thunder answered.
Pixcy's shoulders shook. Not from cold — from something breaking loose inside him for the last time. Tears spilled freely now, mixing with rain and ash, carving clean lines through the soot on his face.
He cried for Peter.
For Marissa.
For the boy who had wanted to steal only to survive.
For the innocence burned along with his mother's body.
But as quickly as the tears came, they began to fade.
Because beneath the grief, something else was forming.
A decision.
He wiped his face roughly with the back of his injured hand, smearing blood across his cheek without noticing.
"This is the last time," he whispered hoarsely. "The last time I cry."
His crimson eyes lifted again to the stone ascetic.
"I promise," he said, voice steadier now. "Every one of them. Every man who watched. Every man who smiled. Every man who threw stones at her burned body."
The rain seemed to quiet.
"I will destroy this village."
The words were not shouted.
They were sworn.
As the vow settled into the night, a strange stillness followed.
The wind shifted.
The rain softened to a whisper.
And then—
He heard it.
Not from behind.
Not from the trees.
From in front of him.
From the statue.
A faint vibration in the air. Like distant chanting carried through stone. Like a breath older than memory.
Pixcy froze.
The moss at the statue's base trembled slightly, though no wind touched it. The carved eyes of the Jina seemed deeper now, shadows pooling within them.
And then he heard it clearly.
A voice.
Layered.
Echoing.
Not loud — but resonant, as though spoken from inside a cavern beneath the earth.
"The echoes of Jina…"
The sound did not strike his ears alone. It reverberated through his bones. Through his skull. Through the seal marks faintly resting beneath his skin.
Pixcy's breath caught.
He could not tell if the words were real or born from exhaustion.
"You ask why she was not saved," the echo continued. "You ask why devotion met flame."
Lightning flickered again — but this time, the thunder did not follow immediately.
"Because this world is not ruled by mercy."
The crimson in Pixcy's eyes deepened.
The seal marks beneath his skin pulsed faintly — not burning in rage, but responding.
"You seek destruction," the voice whispered. "But destruction has a cost."
The air around the statue grew colder.
Like it was asking you are gonna have to wear it...
Pixcy did not hesitate. He wanted revenge but he is fragile
And falls sleep due to exhaution...