After the whispers faded, Sendo sat upon his throne, watching the scene unfold without lifting a finger. He had written this play with meticulous care—every act, every movement—for no purpose other than seizing control of the Blessed House from the celestial creatures. He was waiting for the hero he had chosen to take the stage in this sacred mission, a mission sculpted to his will, as if fate itself were nothing more than threads entangled in his hands.
Sendo was the Prince of the Kingdom of Sinara. Yet he had never accepted being chosen merely as a part of the House; one of the divine creatures had decreed such a fate for him. But his pride would not allow it. He saw himself as too great to be bound by walls or by place. He wanted to be the House itself, to claim it, to embody it. His overbearing arrogance was but the echo of an ancient wound—a reminder of another being long ago consumed by the plague of pride, until that sickness spread to lesser creatures, dimming their light piece by piece.
Thunderous laughter shook the pillars of the crypt. No one could tell whether it came from Jack's throat or from the unknown being that lingered within him—something beyond species, beyond definition. Some whispered he was of the rank of lords, a rank seldom spoken of, for mercy's sake, since the answer was greater than mortal minds could endure.
Syria stepped forward with steady strides, her sacred blade gleaming in her grasp. Her stance was that of a holy warrior, as if summoned from the legends of the First War—when angels stood shoulder to shoulder with faithful jinn before the birth of humankind. The sword itself—Serfiabel's Blade—was a relic of loyalty to the heavenly covenant, an ancient weapon once stained with the blood of rebellious jinn.
She advanced until she heard his guttural voice boom through the shadows:
"The Blade of Serfiabel… the sword that slaughtered my ancestors. You dare raise it against me, you whore?"
Syria smiled, raising the sword higher, its brilliance tearing through the gloom.
"And I shall slaughter you as well, you crawling, useless vermin."
The darkness around him quivered before he spat back, his tone dripping with rage:
"My name is Barbaz… the grandsire of yazur and Yaturk. A traitor? Yes—just like the one who betrayed his kin and stood with mankind beside the Lord. You are all traitors."
Then he roared, his eyes blazing with light:
"But remember this well… if I die, Jack dies with me. You must find another path—if you dare."
Syria walked forward slowly, her gaze heavy with a quiet madness. She smiled—a sick, wicked smile—and let her sacred sword fall to the ground, as if she no longer needed it.
With cold disdain, she said:
"I don't need that sword to destroy you…"
From behind, Jaga screamed, running toward her in disbelief:
"Stop, you lunatic! He'll kill you!"
But Syria answered with unshaken confidence, her smile unbroken:
"He can't… because I am not alone. I see him behind you…"
Her eyes flared crimson, the pupils vanishing entirely. Barbaz staggered back, his body trembling as he whispered in fear:
"The Eyes… the cursed Western Kingdom of Bugaros… the Eyes that see everything!"
Suddenly his body froze, bound by an unseen power. He cried out helplessly:
"What have you done to me, you merciless wretch?"
Syria stepped closer, her voice thick with arrogance:
"I am no human. I am Marsha's sister—from the Eastern Kingdom of Bugaros. But I lived in the cursed West. And it wasn't me who did this to you."
From behind him emerged a monstrous figure, eyes glowing blood-red without pupils, its fangs gleaming, its tongue long and serpentine as it licked Barbaz's neck and spoke:
"You're rambling words you do not even understand… grandfather."
Barbaz shuddered.
"yazur Yaturk… you traitor. Would you slay your own grandsire?"
Yazur's voice rumbled deep and grim:
"Look before you, grandfather…"
Barbaz raised his eyes. There, bound in chains, was Ali Pasha, with creatures looming above him. Nearby, the mermaid Katherina lay sprawled upon a wet stone, her fins trembling as she stared at him with eyes steeped in a tragic love.
Yazur said:
"This is the dearest mortal to my heart… Ali Pasha. And that is his beloved, Katherina. If you wish to know their tale… read it in Emperors of the Earth."
He then gestured to his right. Upon a black rock, molten fire streaming around it, sat Abd al-Jalil, smoking calmly. At his side was Christina, clutching his arm, her head resting on his shoulder, her eyes lost in the sky.
Yazur continued:
"And this is Abd al-Jalil… he carries the blood of Ali Pasha, his forefather. If you wish to know his story, read I Fell in Love with a Cursed One. Then you will understand."
He paused, fixing his gaze upon his grandfather.
"Do you know why I am showing you this, Barbaz?"
Barbaz stammered:
"It is not me… it is Syria. You are showing her all of this. She seeks a way to save Jack."
Yazur nodded.
"Yes, grandfather."
Barbaz gave a bitter smile.
"I was the one who taught you this technique… do not forget that. But beware of desiring what you do not comprehend."
At that moment, Syria rushed forward and threw herself into his arms, clutching him tightly, whispering:
"But I do understand… I have been in contact with Marsha. She told me of Abd al-Jalil… of her love for him, and her struggle with Christina over him…"
Suddenly, Syria drew Barbaz—Jack—closer into her embrace, as though she wished to burn away the darkness devouring him. Her eyes glowed deeper red, her voice trembling as she whispered in his ear—not to his body, but to his soul:
"I love you, Jack… please, come back to me…"
The chamber trembled as a piercing scream tore from Barbaz's throat—a cry laced with fury and despair, shaking the very walls. His body began to dissolve, little by little, leaving behind a void of shadow, until Jack's features slowly returned.
But before he vanished completely, Barbaz's voice thundered through the crypt, dripping with menace:
"I will return… this is not over!"
Then his voice faded into nothingness, and Jack collapsed to the ground, unconscious.
In that instant, Yazur Yaturk vanished as well, along with Abd al-Jalil and Ali Pasha. The images of Katherina and Christina dissolved like ghosts into the void.
Silence reclaimed the crypt. Only Syria's trembling breaths remained. She bent down, cradled Jack in her arms, her face torn between fury and tenderness.
She stood tall, carrying him toward the exit with steady steps, while Jaga followed in wordless awe and unease, his eyes fixed on her—as if the battle they had just endured was but the prologue to an even greater storm awaiting them.