The council chamber felt like a courtroom designed by trees with delusions of grandeur. Twelve ancient elves arranged in a crescent of judgment, each radiating enough disapproval to power a small city. Ren stood in the center like exhibit A in the case of 'Humanity: Mistake or Menace?'
"So," Elder Tyrael began, his voice dripping disdain like sap from a wounded tree, "the human claims he can read the sacred tongue."
"I don't claim anything. I just read Japanese mixed with your language. It's my grandmother's—"
"Silence." Tyrael's hand cut through the air. "You will speak when spoken to, creature."
Rating: 1/10 for hospitality, 10/10 for making me miss customer service jobs.
Elder Maeris leaned forward, her ancient features twisted with fascination and revulsion. "I have lived eight hundred years, and never did I imagine I would see one of them in the flesh. Humans are myths. Stories to frighten children."
"Yet here one stands," Elder Vaelon added, studying Ren like a particularly interesting specimen. "Smaller than the legends suggest. Less... impressive."
"Thanks. I'll add that to my dating profile. 'Less impressive than mythological expectations.'"
Several elders hissed at his sarcasm, but Mayfell raised a hand from her elevated seat. "He has read the sacred tongue. I witnessed it myself."
"Convenient," Tyrael sneered. "The child-queen finds her pet can perform tricks."
"Watch your tongue, Tyrael," Mayfell's voice carried winter despite her small frame. "Or shall we discuss your 'pure' bloodline's interesting genealogy?"
The elder's face darkened, but before he could respond, Elder Sylvaine spoke up. She was impossibly old even by elf standards, skin like bark and eyes clouded with millennia.
"Show us," she commanded simply. "Read the prophecy."
They brought forth a stone tablet covered in the mixed script. Ren approached carefully, aware of twelve pairs of ancient eyes tracking his every movement. Some watched with curiosity, others with barely concealed disgust. A few exchanged glances when they thought others weren't looking—subtle communications in eyebrow twitches and finger movements.
The tablet's surface was worse than the murals, corruption eating through characters like acid. But enough remained:
"最後の警告..." Ren read slowly. "Final warning. 避難所プロトコル七... Shelter Protocol Seven. 扉が開く時... When the door opens..."
He paused, frowning at a particularly mangled section. "This part's rough. Something about... dimensional cascade? No, dimensional anchor failure. And then—" His blood ran cold. "復活. Revival. Or resurrection."
"He could be inventing meanings," Tyrael protested. "Speaking gibberish to fool us."
"Then how does he read this?" Sylvaine produced another artifact, this one metallic with engraved text. "Found in the deepest ruins. None have deciphered it in three thousand years."
Ren took the plate, recognizing it immediately as some kind of warning sign. The Japanese was clearer here, less corrupted: "警告:次元アンカー・メンテナンスエリア. 許可されていない人員は入らないでください."
"Warning: Dimensional Anchor Maintenance Area. Unauthorized personnel do not enter." He looked up at their shocked faces. "This is just a maintenance sign. Like 'Employees Only' but for whatever dimensional anchors are."
The silence that followed could have been bottled and sold as 'Pure Awkwardness, Aged 10,000 Years.'
"The Pale Walker rises," Elder Morvain whispered. "First the Mist spares him, now the sacred tongue yields its secrets. The prophecy unfolds."
"Which prophecy?" Tyrael's voice cracked with barely controlled emotion. "The salvation verses or the damnation cantos? This creature could be our doom made flesh!"
"Or our salvation," Mayfell interjected.
"The prophecy is clear," Tyrael stood, robes billowing with his agitation. "The Pale Walker shall break the seals and return the Void King. He will open the ancient doors and bring forth the hunger that consumes stars!"
"The counter-prophecy is equally clear," Elder Resaine argued. "He shall stand against the Void and preserve the new world. Shield-bearer against the endless dark."
"Two futures," Sylvaine mused. "Both possible. Both terrible in their own way."
Ren raised his hand like a student in class. "Quick question—what if I just don't do either? What if I stay in my room, eat cup noodles, and avoid cosmic destiny entirely?"
Every elder turned to stare at him with expressions ranging from horror to amusement.
"The prophecy doesn't account for apathy," Maeris said slowly, as if tasting the words. "How very... human."
"Enough." Tyrael's patience finally snapped. "I call for confinement. The human must be sealed away until we determine which path he represents. The risk is too great—"
"I call for freedom," Mayfell countered. "He has harmed none, helped many, and shown nothing but confused cooperation. Imprisonment based on fear is beneath us."
"You forget yourself, child," Tyrael snarled. "Your parents' sacrifice bought you that throne, but wisdom comes with age. And you are barely out of your second century."
"Yet I see clearer than you, who has lived eight." Mayfell stood, and despite her child-like stature, power radiated from her small frame. "Or shall we discuss why you flinch whenever pure bloodlines are mentioned? What truth are you hiding, Elder?"
The temperature in the room dropped twenty degrees. Several elders shifted uncomfortably, and Ren caught more of those subtle glances—knowledge hidden behind ancient eyes.
Oh. OH. Some of them know something. Something about bloodlines and purity that Tyrael doesn't want discussed.
Rating: 7/10 for political drama, 10/10 for things I don't want to be in the middle of.
"The council will vote," Sylvaine declared before violence could erupt. "All in favor of confinement?"
Four hands rose, led by Tyrael.
"All in favor of conditional freedom?"
Seven hands, including Mayfell's.
"Motion carries. The human remains free but supervised. Elanil will serve as primary guardian."
"She's compromised," Tyrael protested. "I've seen how she looks at—"
"Then she'll be motivated to keep him alive," Sylvaine cut him off. "Unless you volunteer for the duty?"
Tyrael's expression suggested he'd rather volunteer for dental surgery via dragon.
"Then it's settled. The human lives freely under watch. We observe which prophecy he follows." Sylvaine's clouded eyes found Ren's. "Choose wisely, Pale Walker. The fate of more than this world hangs in the balance."
"No pressure," Ren muttered. "Just cosmic responsibility with a side of political intrigue. My favorite combination after 'expired milk and bad decisions.'"
The council dispersed with the kind of tension that promised future problems. As Ren turned to leave, Tyrael caught his arm with surprising strength.
"I know what you are," the elder hissed. "Harbinger of the end. I'll be watching, and when you reveal your true nature, I'll be ready."
"Cool. I'll add you to my paranoid stalker list. It's getting quite long."
Tyrael released him with a disgusted sound, but Ren caught something else in his expression. Fear, yes, but also... guilt? Knowledge?
He definitely knows something about bloodlines he doesn't want revealed. File that under 'problems for future Ren.'