Chapter 58 – The Nameless Birth Trilogy
Silence rolled over the dimension like a black shroud closing the eyes of the sky.
Maxcen and Elarion stood in the midst of a space that now felt dead—no vibrations, no currents of energy, not even shadows dared to move.
What vanished was not only Enver. Something within the dimension itself… had been severed and erased in mere seconds.
Elarion gripped his sword tighter, straining to recall the figure who had just stood there. Yet each attempt to remember pierced his mind with the agony of a thousand needles. What remained was only emptiness—like searching for a name on the charred pages of a book reduced to ash.
Maxcen stared at his own hand. The blood upon his fingers was not his, yet he could not remember whose it was.
"Damn…" he whispered.
There was no rage in his voice—only uncertainty, striking harder than any wound of flesh.
In the human world, the effect began to spread. In the highest tower, the council and the Hellseers exchanged bewildered glances, as though something vital had been ripped from within them.
A female Hellseer dropped her staff.
"There is an emptiness…" she murmured, eyes fixed on the air. "A void in the heart of the world. And it… no longer moves."
Enver no longer existed in the chronicles of history, nor in the memory of any soul.
Yet the void was not mere absence—it was a wound upon reality itself, and the wound bled in every direction.
The skies bore witness. Stars twisted into a pattern unseen before, spiraling like the iris of a colossal eye. Below, the fractures of the dimensions widened, dripping a light that carried no warmth—a radiance that reeked of metal and ash.
Back in the realm of battle, Elarion turned toward Maxcen.
"What just happened…?" His voice was heavy, steeped in the awareness that such a question might never find an answer.
For the first time, Maxcen did not answer immediately.
He lifted his gaze to the dimming heavens and whispered:
"It seems… we have just lost something even I cannot restore."
And somewhere, far beyond their reach, the void pulsed—like the heartbeat of a newborn, waiting to decide… whether it would become salvation, or destruction.
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The Pulse of the Sky's Wound
The night sky no longer bore stars. Above the tower of the Grand Hall, a colossal black void pulsed like an eye stirring from a long slumber. Its throbbing made no sound, yet each beat stripped something away from those beneath it—a fragment of memory, a person's name, even the way back home.
Inside the hall, the Seven Councilors stood around a great stone table, now cracked through its center.
Kavdrin, the eldest among them, spoke first.
"This is no mere dimensional fracture… it is a wound devouring the world from within. Corroding. Splintering the heavens until they vanish in an instant."
One of the Council, Dorvas, tried to gaze upon it directly—but his eyes immediately welled with tears. All he could see was a whirlpool of light and shadow, consuming one another, leaving only nausea twisting in his gut.
Out in the city streets, things began to vanish. Statues in the square disappeared without a sound, leaving only a thin dust adrift in the air. A child ran home, but upon arrival—found only empty earth. His house was gone. A nameless grief pierced his chest, and without knowing why, he wanted to scream until his throat tore.
Meanwhile, in the dimension of battle, Elarion and Maxcen ceased their movements.
Not from fatigue, but because the ground beneath them now flowed like sand, pulled toward a single point—upward, toward the sky of that dimension, where the same void gaped open.
"This… is spreading here as well," murmured Elarion, his gaze sharpening.
Something brushed the edge of his awareness—an energy he knew, faint and fleeting, like a shadow.
A power born of blood… and cards.
Maxcen stared unblinking at the void. From within came a faint voice—a whisper too familiar to dismiss. A voice calling a name he should never have forgotten.
Elarion's eyes slid toward him. "You know who it is."
Maxcen did not answer. His jaw tightened, fists clenching.
The void's pulse quickened. Within the maelstrom of light and darkness, a silhouette slowly emerged. Tall, imposing, yet still blurred—as if someone were pushing through the surface of water.
The world around them quaked. Then, with one final throb, the void burst with a force that extinguished all light from the dimension.
Darkness. And within that darkness… the silhouette opened its eyes.
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The Son of Life, The Essence of Existence
The sky trembled, as if the entire cosmos rejected the truth—that one soul dared step into the most primal point: the place between beginning and end.
Enver stood, his body still wrapped in wounds he never acknowledged as wounds, but as marks. Blood dripping from his pores gleamed like crimson ink, striving to rewrite fate itself.
Before him, Maxcen's shadow swelled larger than collapsing stars. His voice crashed into the very bones of the world:
"You are nothing but a failed shadow. To endure, you must become me. Become destruction. That is the price for defying the destiny I have woven."
Yet Elarion gazed upon him with eyes nearly melted by primordial light. The Median did not scream, did not wail. He only whispered:
"Enver… you are not me. You are not him. You are something even we could never comprehend."
Enver closed his eyes. Waves of sound, whispers and roars of the souls he had purified, spiraled within his mind. They did not rage, nor beg. They simply waited.
From the depths of his flesh and bone, his hand rose, and with it emerged the blood-forged cards he had hidden all along. They pulsed like additional hearts, breathing with a dark crimson glow.
These cards were not mere weapons. They were the lifelines of countless souls he had once sanctified. Each card was a memory, a tear, a confession of sin he had burned in silence.
Maxcen narrowed his eyes. For the first time, he did not laugh. His lips fell mute.
"You kept them… inside your body?"
Enver opened his eyes. His gaze was calm, like an ocean that swallowed thousands of wrecked ships yet kept its surface still.
"I imitate no one. I become no one. I am only… the Son of Life. The essence of existence, not the essence of death."
The air ceased its trembling. Light seeped from his wounds, falling as golden drops that embedded themselves in the fractured earth. The ground revived beneath him. Flowers blossomed from his blood—no illusions, but blooms with petals woven from astral light.
Elarion gave a bitter smile. The Median finally understood: Enver was not heir, nor bridge of two fates. He was rebellion itself against fate.
Maxcen stepped forward, each stride shattering dimensions. Yet Enver did not cower. The cards in his hands spun, dancing like ancient scripture. The voices of the countless souls he had purified echoed in the air, forming a choir belonging neither to hell nor heaven.
"We are the sins you have sanctified. We are the witnesses. We are the wall between life and death. You are not Maxcen. You are not Elarion. You are Enver Eraly—The Son of Life. The Essence of Existence."
The heavens split. Black and white lines collided, and from their rift, a path was born—a road that only one soul could tread. It led not toward heaven, nor toward hell, but to a place without name: the neutral point where life and death bowed before the wanderer.
Enver walked—not to defy, not to conquer, but to declare his existence.
And for the first time, Maxcen whispered faintly:
"You… are far more dangerous than I."
The chapter ended in a silence so loud it shattered the world's breath. Creation bore witness to the birth of something never recorded: not angel, not demon, not median. Only one name echoed—Enver. The Son of Life. The Essence of Existence.
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