Emptiness.
Not the darkness of a tunnel, but the absence of everything—light, sound, even hope.
Orion inhales sharply.
The air is cold and dry, stale as an unopened tomb. It stings the back of his throat.
He opens his eyes.
Mist swirls above, dark blue-black, moving in slow, silent spirals. There's no sky. No sun. Just the endless churn of nothing.
Beneath him, a path—smooth, white, marked with glowing blue lines that pulse softly underfoot. Beyond the path, only void, stretching onward, fading past a horizon that feels like a lie.
He sits up, bracing for pain.
There's none.
He feels… good. Whole, even. The wound in his gut is gone. No scar. No ache in his arms or legs. Not even hunger.
It's wrong. The absence of pain feels like a hole in his chest.
For years, pain was a constant companion. The reason he was feared. The reason he was admired. The refusal to stop, no matter how much it hurt.
Now there's only silence where that ache had lived.
And for what?
He made it to the throne room. Had the Emperor at his mercy. For one heartbeat, victory felt possible.
He failed. Not just himself. Not just Nortis.
He pictures faces in the dark—comrades who gave everything. Friends who fell, one by one, for a promise he couldn't keep.
And her. Lillia.
The last thing he lost.
He presses a hand to his chest, as if he can press the memory back inside before it shatters him.
He waits for the pain to return. For some flicker of fire in his heart, a memory to ignite old anger, a voice—Lillia's, his own, anyone's—to cut through the emptiness and remind him why he fought so hard.
Nothing.
All that answers is the cold. The silence. The ache that comes not from any wound, but from the truth that bleeds out in this place:
He was only ever as good as his last promise. His last victory.
And he lost both.
What use is strength, if it isn't enough?
What use is loyalty, if every friend who believed in you lies dead?
What does it mean to be called a hero if you couldn't save the one who mattered most?
Orion curls in on himself, fingers tight against his chest.
He remembers faces—men and women who fought beside him. Their smiles. The lines carved by fear and hope. He remembers laughter around fires, whispered plans, vows to return home.
He remembers the moment it all slipped away.
His failure.
Her fall.
He breathes, slow and shaky. For the first time, he wishes he could cry, just to prove he's still real.
But the tears won't come.
He sits there, motionless, for what feels like hours.
Maybe it's longer.
Maybe it's forever.
The path stretches out, patient, uncaring.
No hand reaches down to lift him up.
No ghostly voice offers forgiveness.
There's only him, and the long blue road, and the memory of a life that ended in regret.
He could stay here.
The Veil would let him.
He could curl up, let the emptiness hollow him out, become just another shadow swallowed by the dark.
But a small, stubborn part of him refuses to surrender.
Not yet.
Because to do nothing, to lie here forever, would be to accept that his mistakes define him—that failure is all he'll ever be.
He clenches his fist against his chest.
He's not ready for absolution. He's not ready for hope. But if he can move, even one step, then maybe there's a piece of him left worth saving.
He opens his eyes.
Looks down the glowing path, into the endless blue-black.
And, finally, he shifts his weight, sets his jaw, and forces himself to his feet.
He takes a step.
Not because he believes he deserves another chance.
But because giving up is the only failure left he can't live with.
And so, one foot after another, Orion moves forward into the unknown.
The first few steps are the hardest.
The cold doesn't leave, but the silence shifts. With every stride, the void presses closer, as if the darkness wants to whisper in his ear. The blue glow underfoot pulses softly, sometimes flickering, sometimes strong—echoing the rhythm of a heart trying to remember how to beat.
Orion keeps moving.
Because if he stops, the memories catch up.
He tries not to look back. He tries not to look at all.
But the mind is cruel.
The Veil seems to know what hurts.
Faces drift at the edges of his vision—sometimes clear, sometimes little more than smears of color in the dark.
There's Reim. The last words still on his lips.
There's Arush. Still laughing. Still brave.
There's Lillia. A phantom on the edge of every thought, her eyes full of belief she shouldn't have had.
He wants to apologize.
He does. So with his whole being, he apologizes with every step, every thought.
I'm sorry. I should have told you to stay. I should have said goodbye. I should have been faster. Stronger. Smarter. I should have been the hero you believed I was.
The silence feels heavier, as if the Veil is listening.
His chest tightens with anger—not at them. Not even at the Emperor.
At himself.
He stops, just for a heartbeat, and screams into the emptiness. The sound is raw. Torn from a place deeper than pride or pain. It tears his throat, but the darkness drinks it down without echo, without answer.
He curses the gods. Curses fate. Curses the world for letting it all end this way. Yet most of all, he curses himself.
But still, he can't accept it. He can't make peace with the truth that this was all he was—one last mistake, walking a road with no destination.
The path stretches on.
Always forward.
Always alone.
Orion's anger burns out, leaving exhaustion behind. His steps grow heavy, as if the Veil itself wants to hold him back.
He wonders if he'll walk forever.
Maybe this is what he deserves.
Maybe the Veil is his punishment—a reminder that even the strongest heroes are only human in the end.
The loneliness is crushing. The cold was only growing deeper. But he keeps walking.
Because turning back isn't an option.
Because lying down would mean surrendering to the dark.
Because as much as he hates himself, he hates giving up even more.
He walks until his legs feel numb, until time stops meaning anything at all.
And all the while, the regrets keep pace beside him—silent, relentless, and impossible to outrun.
———
He doesn't know how long he's been walking.
There's no sunrise here. No stars. Just the endless blue-black and the path beneath his boots, lit by memory and regret.
He keeps his eyes down, head bowed.
Maybe the world will forget him if he walks small enough.
Maybe he'll forget himself.
But then—something shifts. He almost doesn't see it at first. A trick of the void. A faint glimmer ahead. But step by step, it takes shape.
An archway. Impossibly tall. Carved of black stone veined with blue light.
The runes that slither across its surface seem to shift and blink as he stares, alive and ancient. There is no door. Only a threshold. An invitation. A challenge.
A portal.
Orion stops. The silence is crushing.
He stares at the gate, heart pounding. He swallows hard, but the lump in his throat refuses to go away.
He imagines the possibilities of its destination.
What if it's the afterlife? Maybe it's a peaceful one, one where my comrades reside, where Lillia lays. Maybe I'll be happy there. But then again… do I even deserve that? Do I deserve to be with them?
The question echoes in his head. Louder than anything else he's said since waking here. He's not sure who he's asking—the Veil, the dead, himself. Maybe all of them.
He thinks of the friends he failed. The weight of their trust. The warmth of their laughter. The moment each of them slipped away, trusting he could do what no one else could.
He thinks of her. Of Lillia. The way her eyes believed in him right up until the end. The way he promised things he couldn't keep.
Maybe this is his punishment—to walk forever with nothing but his failures for company.
Maybe this Gate is a lie.
A final test he isn't meant to pass.
He clenches his fists, feeling his nails bite into his palms.
Is forgiveness something you earn?
Or just something you beg for when there's nothing left?
He lingers at the threshold, searching himself for even a shred of certainty.
All he finds is a hollow ache. A loneliness that burns colder than the Veil itself.
He wants to turn away. To stay. To atone.
But something inside him—a spark, the last stubborn ember of will—refuses to accept that this is all there is.
Maybe he doesn't deserve mercy.
Maybe he never will.
But standing still is a choice too.
And he's had enough of letting regret define him.
He closes his eyes.
Breathes once. Twice. Steadying his soul.
"I'm sorry," he whispers—to his friends, to Lillia, to himself, to the silence.
Then, uncertain and undeserving, he steps through the Gate.
The light floods over him, fierce and blinding. For a moment, all his burdens fall away, and he floats weightless between one world and the next.