Chapter 59 – The Torn Breath of Life
The sky looked fractured like glass struck by the hammer of fate.
The boundary between the human world and the astral realm cracked open, screaming in echoes that only chosen souls could hear.
Enver stood in the midst of a space that could no longer be called a world.
Blood trickled from the corner of his lips, yet his gaze remained proud piercing through every illusion that tried to engulf him.
Before him, Elarion held the power of the Median half light, half darkness.
And behind Elarion, Maxcen's shadow trembled, growing clearer… more real.
"You were meant to become me, to mirror me, Enver."
Maxcen's voice was not merely sound—it was an incantation that coiled around bone and soul.
"You are my failed breath.
A shadow that tried to walk alone.
Look at yourself eventually, you will return to me.
You can never escape me, Enver."
Enver said nothing.
Within his chest, the blood cards began to tremble, as if yearning to burst free from his skin.
They were the cards he had buried within himself long ago a secret unknown even to the Hellseer Council.
His hand reached for one card.
Black. Wet.
Inscribed in his own lifeblood.
As he lifted it, the air pulsed.
The shadows of cities crumbled.
Human screams echoed voices of those who had lost their path.
And among the chaos, the whisper he once heard from Maxcen returned:
"Become me… or vanish into nothing."
Enver closed his eyes.
For a moment, silence reigned
as though the world itself held its breath.
Then, he spoke—his voice deeper than the grave, firmer than ruin:
"I am not you, Maxcen.
I am not the beginning of destruction.
I am the end of your lies."
The card ignited.
Flames of blood licked the heavens, tearing through the veil between worlds.
Enver's body split between wound and power, between man and something far more ancient.
Elarion stepped back, stunned.
The Median within him quivered afraid of something beyond definition.
Maxcen laughed, yet it was no longer the laughter of victory.
It was the scream of a being who had just seen his own reflection in a broken mirror.
Behind that laughter, the world exploded.
The dimensions convulsed.
Cracks widened.
Enver's blood fell upon the ground
and the ground began to glow, forming ancient sigils the Hellseer Council dared not utter.
The blood card pierced the air, becoming a crimson incantation, swirling and shredding through Maxcen's illusion.
For the first time, Maxcen bowed his head
shattered not by divinity, not by damnation,
but by something born from Enver himselfhis own descendant.
Elarion screamed, not from pain but revelation.
For the truth had finally revealed itself:
Enver was not a Median heir.
Not a creation.
Not a follower of Maxcen's fate.
He was the Breath of Life itself the very essence Maxcen had long forced to deny its own being.
The sky broke apart.
Darkness screamed.
And amidst it all, Enver stood majestic, unwavering his blood turned to light, his cards into a spear that pierced the heart of illusion.
The chapter ends in silence—
a silence that could mean only two things:
Resurrection… or Ruin.
---
The Hymn of Hell
The sky of Maxcen was no longer the sky that was created; it had become an open wound, dripping blood of light upon the world below. Dimensional cracks bloomed like a rotten womb giving birth to faceless beings. From within the rift, an ancient chant resounded—like a choir, an orchestra twisted into notes of wrath. Each tone tore through the walls and layers of the soul, forcing mortals to their knees, covering their ears in vain.
Amid the vortex, Enver stood. His cloak billowed without wind, his eyes burned like eternal embers. He did not waver, even as the ground beneath him trembled as though the world itself were collapsing. From the beginning, he had known this day would come—the day when purificazione would no longer be enough to close the chasm. The chasm between beginning and end.
"Enver…"
The voice came deep and resonant—not merely a sound, but the echo of all sins ever committed. Maxcen.
The Puppetmaster. The Weaver of Dual Fates. The demon who wrote destiny and tore it apart with his own hands.
"Child of the Median, Breath of Life… You still try to stand," Maxcen's voice reverberated like a thousand tongues speaking in unison—some melodious, others bleeding.
Enver gave no reply. He only looked toward the shattered sky, as if daring the rift to devour him first. In his eyes reflected the faces of the souls he had once purified: the old man with hands stained in forbidden gold, the young woman destroyed by her husband, the children abandoned by prayers that had rotted before reaching the heavens. They all gazed back—not with anger, but with fragile hope.
Then the rift tore open completely.
From within emerged a colossal figure, towering like a mountain, cloaked in shadow. Its face was hidden behind a cracked mask, carved like the fate it had woven—half crying, half smiling. From its body, countless hands stretched outward, each bearing a book, a chain, or a burning torch.
Maxcen lowered his gaze.
"The Hellseer Council, the Median, even the heavens themselves cannot contain me. Only you, Enver. You who are neither judge, nor warden, nor savior. You are merely the eye that sees. What can you possibly do against Hell itself, when it sings in a rhythm already carved in beauty?"
Enver raised his hand. From his skin, golden lines of light emerged, swirling like living veins. Each line was a name; each glow, a soul he had once purified. They converged, spinning, forming a radiant circle behind him.
"I cannot restrain Hell," he spoke, his voice calm yet slicing through the air. "I only understand the world's wounds. And this wound, Maxcen… began with you. You are the origin."
The vibration shattered the air. The hymn of Hell grew louder, yet from Enver's circle of light, another sound was born a whisper, gentle yet defiant. The echoes of broken prayers, the sobs of the silenced, forgiveness that had never reached the sky. Together, they rose, forming a counter-harmony against the darkness.
Then the first collision occurred.
Maxcen unleashed the multitude of hands from his body, each sending fire, chains, and curses toward Enver. But the circle of light behind Enver exploded, transforming into thousands of radiant spirits charging into battle—souls refusing to be buried again.
Each impact birthed a world of its own: some exploded into rivers of flame, others into black snow, others froze time for a heartbeat before shattering it again. The mortal world wept, the earth cracked, cities fell—but the souls within the light continued their war against the hands born of the abyss.
Enver stepped forward once more. The ground beneath him fractured into glowing fissures.
Maxcen slightly bowed his head, his eyes visible at last behind the mask—eyes without pupils, swirling voids.
"Then… are you prepared to be my final adversary, Hellseer?"
Enver lifted his face. No fear. No doubt. Only certainty.
He was now facing the Weaver of Fate—his own father.
With a voice cold and deep, he answered,
"Not your final adversary, Maxcen. I am only a mirror. And you… will be forced to see yourself."
The sky shattered.
And the greater war began.