Zayeron froze when he heard the words. His breath hitched, his body trembling as though the weight of centuries had been dropped upon him. The look in his eyes was not of the present—it was the gaze of a man who had endured four hundred years of suffering, chasing a dream, only to discover, at the bitter end, that it was all a lie.
The silence between him and Sunny stretched into eternity. Then, without warning—
Sunny screamed.
It wasn't a cry of anger or sorrow, but something far worse. A scream that tore through flesh, bone, and soul, so violent it felt as if his body might burst apart. Agony clawed at every nerve, every thought. In that moment, death seemed kinder than what he endured. If he had known such pain awaited him, he would have chosen the grave long before.
And then… visions.
In his mind's eye, Sunny saw a boy sitting upon a stone. His hair was dark, streaked like twisted roots. His face was etched with despair—a sadness so deep it felt eternal. Regret bled from his eyes, heavy and endless.
Sunny whispered to him.
"…So, you're leaving?"
The boy lifted his gaze. His voice was quiet, resigned.
"Yes. I have to."
Moments later, the vision twisted. Sunny's eyes widened as the boy's body broke—splitting apart into eight separate pieces. Yet, disturbingly, the boy's lips carried a faint smile, as though he had finally found peace in his dismemberment.
Time warped.
"Where are you?" Sunny's voice echoed as he searched the void. His tone cracked, desperate, as though he were calling out to a friend already slipping beyond reach.
But there was no answer.
Only a note.
Written in trembling hand, the words carved themselves into his mind:
I am leaving.
And then—
The town vanished.
No ashes, no ruins, not even whispers of memory remained. It was erased, not destroyed, swallowed whole as if it had never existed. A place once alive, gone from history itself, leaving only silence in its wake.
Sunny opened his eyes, his chest heaving. Reality had returned, but the echo of that vision lingered. He could feel the absence, like a wound in the world that would never heal.
Zayeron stared at him, frozen. His lips parted as if to speak, but no words came. His eyes trembled with something he had not felt in a long time—fear. Not of the vision, but of the boy standing before him.
Sunny's silhouette flickered against the night, like a phantom half-torn between worlds.
And for the first time, Zayeron wondered if standing beside him meant salvation… or doom