Henry wandered through the broken streets, bits of stone crunching under his boots. The ruins stretched out in every direction, jagged walls and fallen beams marking the skeleton of a place long gone. He muttered to himself as he walked.
"Guess they forgot to clean up after the party… couple thousand years ago," he murmured, stepping over a half-buried brick. "Could use a janitor… or ten."
A crooked shadow loomed ahead—a watch tower, still holding itself together like it was too stubborn to fall.
Henry tilted his head. "Tall, ugly, and still standing. Reminds me of Jeff." A smirk flickered on his lips.
The spiral stairs creaked under his weight as he started climbing. The air was cooler inside, carrying the faint smell of old dust and rain that had seeped in over the years. His hand trailed lightly over the rough stone wall, feeling every chip and crack.
Step after step, the narrow staircase curved upward. He hadn't even reached halfway before he stopped to adjust his coat. With a smooth motion, he slid his fedora from his head and tucked it inside, folding the lapel over it.
"Don't want you catching the wind up there," he whispered to the hat, as if it could hear.
The climb was slow but steady. Each turn of the spiral offered a sliver of light from narrow windows, revealing glimpses of the ruined city outside. Henry's footsteps tapped softly, mixing with the faint whistle of wind sneaking through the stone gaps.
"Still going… haven't seen the top yet," he muttered. "Hope it's worth the view."
Henry finally stepped out from the spiral stair's shadow, boots clicking onto the cracked platform at the tower's peak. The air was fresher here, brushing over his face like a calm hand. He turned his head and froze.
The ocean stretched far to the left, silver-blue under the soft daylight, breathing in and out against the shore. To the right, the ruins sprawled endlessly, like broken teeth jutting from the earth.
And there, in the middle of it all, sat Father.
A plain plastic chair and a small folding table. A steaming cup of tea in his hands.
Father glanced at him with a faint smile. "Sit, Henry."
Henry obeyed, lowering himself into the spare chair. The weather was gentle and cool air carrying the scent of saltwater, warm sun pressing lightly on their shoulders. The moment felt untouched by the chaos of the world.
They didn't speak at first. The only sounds were the slow sip of tea, the distant smirks of waves, and the faint whistle of wind through the stone cracks behind them.
Then Henry's eyes drifted toward the ocean and his chest tightened.
Floating on the water's skin were dozens, maybe hundreds of birds. Black, white, and grey feathers soaked through, heads drooping into the waves. They bobbed softly with the tide, as if still breathing, though they never moved.
His lips parted, but no words came. Something about it was wrong in a way that gnawed at the back of his mind. Not just the death itself, but the stillness… the quiet acceptance.
Father set his cup down slowly. "You see them."
Henry nodded, swallowing.
"They were caught between sky and sea," Father said quietly, gaze fixed ahead. "Too tired to fly, too far to rest. Moral ambiguity is a silent storm; it erodes the spirit from within, leaving the heart fractured by the constant tug-of-war between redemption and ruin. In the crucible of existence, survival is the art of burning without being consumed, forging resilience from the ashes of shattered hopes."
" Hehe, what a beautiful scenery."
Henry's fingers curled on his knee. The sight crawled under his skin. It wasn't loud grief, it was a cold, creeping one. A reminder of how easy it was to simply stop moving.
He thought of the ocean's calm face, hiding its deep pull. Thought of the ruins behind him, once alive and bright, now just shells under the wind.
And for a moment, the peaceful air around them felt heavier like the world itself was holding its breath.
Father sipped his tea again, but his eyes didn't leave the horizon.
The ground seemed to purr in its own strange heartbeat, but the air… the air had gone still.
Henry stood beside Father, eyes fixed on the sprawling city below. The tentacles black, glistening things that had been thrashing, whipping, clawing at the skyline only minutes before were now motionless.
One lay draped across the rusted frame of an old bridge, its ridged skin catching the light. Another slouched over the side of an apartment building, curling around shattered balconies like some grotesque vine.
In the distance, several more hung limp in the shallow rivers, their tips barely swaying with the current.
Henry didn't trust it.
"They've stopped," he murmured. His own voice felt loud against the silence.
Father Vain didn't answer right away. His gaze shifted upward. Henry followed it and saw the Diary, far above the hill.
It was still there, floating several feet above the Church like some forgotten balloon. Pages fluttered in a slow, unnatural rhythm. Then, without warning, it dropped. Not like a book falling from a shelf. More like it had been released.
It hit the ground with a dull thump, kicking up a puff of dust. The sound carried too far in the empty air, making Henry's stomach twist.
"They're not coming out anymore," Father said finally. His voice was low, like he didn't want to disturb something that might be sleeping.
Henry's mind itched. The tentacles had never just stopped before. This wasn't retreat. It wasn't defeat. It was….
A breath held somewhere beneath the skin of the world.
He looked at the still forms again, noticing tiny tremors running through their surfaces. Like muscle twitches. Like they were holding themselves back.
The Diary lay in the middle of the street, untouched, yet heavy with some kind of pull. The last time Henry had been near it, things hadn't gone well.
Father shifted beside him, his expression unreadable. "Something has just changed."
Henry gave a sharp, humorless laugh. "That's your way of saying 'this is worse,' isn't it?"
Father didn't deny it.
A wind moved through the ruins, brushing against Henry's cheek.
For a heartbeat, he thought he heard something deep below the ground—a low, drawn-out sigh. It made the hair on his arms stand on end.
The silence wasn't safety. It was the moment before something chose its next move.
Henry stayed silent, though the image of the floating birds pressed itself deep into his thoughts, where it would not leave.
....
Jeff's boots made a soft thud on each step, the sound quickly swallowed by the thick fog.
The stone stairs stretched upward, but he couldn't see more than a few feet ahead. It was like walking into a cloud that didn't want to let him pass.
Behind him, a few of his comrades followed, their shapes vague shadows in the pale mist. Someone coughed quietly, the sound muffled, distant. The air felt damp and cool, sticking to his skin, and every breath he took came with the taste of old stone.
He kept one hand on the trigger—not because he needed, but because it was useless for him, especially at this kind of situations. This church, the Church of Hazaya, wasn't the sort of place you entered without feeling watched.
"Can't even see my own fingers," one of the men behind him muttered. His voice sounded far away, as though the fog swallowed it before it reached Jeff's ears.
Jeff didn't answer. His focus was ahead. Somewhere beyond this staircase was the upper hall of Hazaya's church, where the air was said to shimmer with strange light.
***It was an hour ago, back at the station. The briefing room smelled faintly of stale coffee and paper files. Officer Andrew stood by the open doorway, coat half-buttoned, looking like he had too much on his mind to waste time.
"Jeff," Andrew said, voice sharp but not unkind, "you're the one going. No debates."
Jeff blinked. "Me? Why me?"
"Because," Andrew replied, straightening his sleeve like the answer was obvious, "you're the only one who can keep your head in this sort of mess." Then, with the smallest smirk, "Or at least pretend you can."
Before Jeff could reply, Nelson sitting on the desk in the corner started murmuring some kind of tune. It was low, mumbled, and definitely off-key.
"…la-da-da… doom in the air… probably not fair… la-da-da…"
Jeff raised an eyebrow at him. "What are you even singing?"
Nelson grinned without looking up from the file in his hands. "It's my 'mission send-off' song. For luck. Well… mostly for my amusement."
Andrew gave him a flat look. "Could you not?"
"Could I? Yes. Will I? No," Nelson replied, humming louder now.
Jeff tried to hide a laugh. It was ridiculous, standing there with an official order being handed down while some half-sung nonsense played in the background. Officer Andrew Fritz then slapped on Nelson's fat belly which bounced.
" Owh! What was that for?! " Nelson realised something. " I mean, it's okay, haha."
"Fine," Andrew sighed, waving Jeff toward the door. "Pack your things. You leave in an hour." Then slapped on Nelson's fat belly which started to bounce.
Nelson strummed the air like it was a guitar and mumbled, "Hero walks into the fog… maybe comes back, maybe not…"
Jeff shook his head as he walked out, muttering, "One day, Nelson, someone's going to write you into a comedy, and no one will believe you're real."
Nelson's voice followed him down the hallway, still humming that ridiculous tune. Funny thing was, Jeff could still remember it perfectly now.***
Back to the Stairs of Hazaya,
The fog wasn't natural. He could feel it. It didn't just block vision. it made the world quieter, heavier. The steps under his feet felt endless, each one like it was taking him higher into something that wasn't exactly the same world he'd started in.
At one point, the ground under his feet felt cold enough to sting. He almost pulled away, but didn't. It was better to keep holding on.
A dim shadow appeared above. A shape at the edge of sight. It might have been the landing… or it might have been something else. He squinted, but the fog wasn't thin.
The Vanguard behind him whispered, "How much longer?"
Jeff didn't know. He just kept climbing. He didn't look back. If he did, he wasn't sure he'd see the bottom anymore. Maybe the stairs just went on forever.
Somewhere above, a faint bell rang once, low and hollow, and the sound drifted down through the mist. It made Jeff's skin prickle.
The fog on the staircase thickened until it looked alive and shifting, curling, breathing.
Something moved in it.
At first, Jeff thought it was just the wind playing tricks. Then a shape began to form. Slow, deliberate, like it wanted them to see it coming. A man's silhouette, white and ghostlike, began to step down the stairs toward them. The air grew colder, biting through their clothes.
Boots clicked on the stone, the sound scattering far too loud for this enclosed space. The mist swirled tighter around the figure until it cleared just enough for them to see the face.
"...Major Salis Phantos," one of the vanguards whispered, horror leaking into his voice.
Jeff froze. Salis was a nightmare from war stories. Someone who should have been dead years ago. But he still lived to this decade… it wasn't flesh. This was a projection, a ghost given body.
"Major—" Jeff began, but before the words could leave his mouth, the white mist clone lunged forward. Showed to hesitation.
The stairs shook under the force of the strike. A single blow from Ghost Salis's spectral blade smashed through the stone steps, splitting the path in two. Chunks of marble tumbled into the abyss below, swallowing three vanguards instantly. The survivors scrambled to find footing.
Steel sang as swords and halberds clashed against Salis's weapon. Sparks lit the fog in brief flashes, showing his pale, unblinking eyes.
One vanguard went for his back only to have Salis twist unnaturally, stabbing straight through the man's chest. Another tried to bind him with a chain, but the mist itself seemed to bend and slip through, reforming into his arm. Salis's sword moved in a perfect, merciless arc.
Blood hit the walls...
Jeff's heart pounded, but his hands moved on instinct. He grabbed a pouch from his belt—holy powder, meant to burn away spirits and flung it forward.
The powder burst into silver fire as it touched Salis, and for a second, the figure shuddered. His form flickered, almost transparent.
But then, Salis's Ghost smiled. "Not a spirit," he said coldly, voice echoing like two people speaking at once. "Only a mind."
Jeff's stomach dropped. His real body… was somewhere else, someone is controlling Major Salis's consciousness.
"Then we just cut the mind apart," Jeff muttered, drawing his blade.
They clashed. Jeff's strikes were desperate but sharp, his reflexes pushed to their edge. Salis moved like a tide seemed like fluid, unstoppable, each swing of his weapon filled with impossible precision. Jeff ducked under a sweeping cut, countered with a thrust, and felt it meet resistance. But the mist hardened around Salis' side, blocking it.
The ground cracked as Salis stomped forward, forcing Jeff back. A downward strike shattered the railing beside them.
Another vanguard tried to intervene, and Salis impaled him without even looking, using the body to block Jeff's next attack. Then, with a single push, he hurled both corpse and Jeff down three steps.
Jeff rolled, came up bleeding from the lip, and charged again. The fight turned into a blur. Steel ringing, boots scraping, mist curling around every swing. Jeff landed a cut across Salis' arm. Salis returned the favor with a slash that ripped through Jeff's shoulder plate.
Neither gave an inch. But Jeff could feel it. Salis was heavier, faster, and his strikes carried the weight of something far beyond human. The staircase itself trembled under their battle. He was getting overwhelmed. After all, he is just a normal human, right?
"Look at you, chasing the wind with such might! Sweetheart, when you grow up, you'll be a Hero, shining bright among the darkness!"
A line, out of nowhere whispered in his ear....
"Mom...."