The pages turned themselves again, as if the chronicle no longer required Zero's hand. The parchment whispered like dry leaves, yet the sound carried a strange weight, echoing in the chamber as though the walls themselves wished to listen. Zero's chest tightened. He could feel Lilith watching him from across the table, her silence a tether, but her presence unable to ground him fully.
The words emerged in black fire across the parchment, bold strokes that seemed carved rather than written:
"On the seventh night, when strength had withered to embers and hope was a blade dulled with use, the Devil King faltered."
Zero's fingers hovered above the text, trembling. His heart drummed against his ribs, not only from the gravity of the tale but from the gnawing thought that this story—this history—was less a record of what once was and more a prophecy reborn.
He read on.
