Zero stood in the Hall of Records, a place where silence held more weight than words, where time itself seemed to hesitate among the endless walls of carved stone and bound parchment. The air smelled of old ink and dust, but beneath it lingered something else—an oppressive weight, as if the memories stored here carried the residue of centuries of blood and sorrow.
He trailed a finger along the spine of a cracked tome, its lettering barely legible after ages of wear. The flames flickering in the sconces threw long shadows across the marble floor, shadows that seemed to stretch endlessly, like the doubts in his mind.
The words carved into the record he'd just read echoed inside him:
"The Devil King rises not by chance, but by prophecy. And prophecy foretells his end, by human hands."
Zero clenched his jaw, shutting the book with a dull thud.
Should he join them?
