The fire danced in its flow, throwing sparks into the night. The desert wind whooshed against the sand, carrying with it a silence that felt unnatural. It wasn't just quiet. It was the kind of stillness that made men shiver, like the land itself was holding its breath.
Tom sat with his knees drawn up, staring into the flame. His hair was still tangled with dust, his shirt torn, but his eyes carried something worse than fatigue. Across from him, Elior leaned back against a broken log, arms folded, watching Tom carefully.
Arlong sat to his left, a blanket thrown over his shoulders, bandaged stump of his missing arm resting against his side. Johan rested on his elbows, cigar clamped in the corner of his mouth, blowing smoke into the cold air. Grace kept her gaze fixed on Tom, waiting.
"I saw it," Said Tom. His voice was lower, "All of it inside Ghira's mind."
Grace leaned forward. "What do you mean by all of it?"
Tom shook his head slowly, exhaling. "She.… she wasn't born like that. She was Emperor Watcj's wife. He loved her, I think, but left her during the Great Old War. Left her for the empire. When she was accused of treason by the betrayal of her own people, he didn't defend her. He promised he'd come back for her once the war ended. But he never did."
"She fell into the arms of something else," Tom continued. His face twisted as if the words tasted bitter. "A devil named Satan. He gave her shelter, gave her power, even crowned her queen of Darga, the capital of Hell. And she… she clung to him, because he didn't abandon her. However, he was killed in the War of Ashura. Angels ripped him apart, and still neither side won. She's been chasing one thing ever since, reviving him."
Johan whistled softly through his teeth. "So the Queen wasn't born a devil. She was made. Sounds like a random shounen."
"Yeah." Tom's fists tightened. "Azmaik, he used that chance. He promised her Satan's return if she helped him."
Elior sat up straighter, eyes narrowing. "Azmaik? You saw him?"
Tom nodded once. "He's alive. The Overseer gave him one percent of its power. Just one percent, and he has already began to spread his chaos. He's making people into his…. Erotic Arts."
Arlong flinched, his voice uneasy. "Erotic.… Arts?"
Tom's eyes hardened. "Puppets. People hollowed out of themselves. Erotic Arts are puppet units or players controlled by other players through hypnosis, hallucinations, malfunctioning their consciousness or etc. After someone or something becomes Erotic Art it loses its consciousness, independence and free will. They look alive, but they're not. He turned Sassy and Vincent into that."
Grace gasped, her hand covering her mouth. "We almost forgot about those two."
Arlong lowered his head, closing his eyes, as if he were steadying himself from a blow.
"Hold on, it doesn't end there," Tom said, looking around the fire at each of them. "I saw where he was sent to inherit the power. The Overseer threw him into a wormhole. It was like a cave made of knowledge itself. Words, memories, truths floating like dust in the air. That's why he knows so much. He is planning something very hazardous."
The fire spat sparks into the night. The glow of it lit Tom's face, made the hollows of his eyes look deeper.
Elior finally spoke. His voice was steady, but heavy, like stone being placed on the table. "So it's not only us. Not just this camp. Everyone in Durkan is suffering the pre-chaos. The Overseer which is involving tonight's hunt, its identity is still unknown. Azmaik is smart that he avoided to tell anyone about the Overseer's identity. Whole Durkan will turn into a world of chaos, people will turn into undead bloody puppet monsters. Families will torn apart, cities will turned into ash, people will try to rip themselves apart to escape. What you saw in Ghira's mind…. it's just a fragment of what's happening everywhere."
Grace looked at him, her voice small. "But why…. why now?"
"Because the night is ripe," Elior said. His gaze flicked to the broken violet moon above. "The Rampage will probably start at midnight. The Overseer is trying to retrieve its old domain. Durkan was once its throne, until it was banished. Now it wants it back."
Tom swallowed. " I saw the Fifth Vessel of Artorias is in Durkan, right?"
Elior nodded. "Yes. Which means the Overseer has more than one reason to bring its chaos in Durkan. That Vessel could change the whole board."
Johan tapped ash from his cigar, breaking the suffocating silence. "So we're ants, dancing on a bonfire. Good to know. Blah, blah, blah, nothing new to hear."
Arlong gave a short laugh, though it carried no joy. "I'd settle for ants. At least ants know what they're doing."
Tom rubbed at his temples. His voice was quieter now, almost to himself. "It wasn't just watching memories. It was like walking through grief itself. Her mind was filthy, confused to decide. Smelled like rotting flowers. Underneath it.… I could still see the woman she was before, beautiful, innocent but forgotten in the edge of shores."
Grace's eyes softened, though she didn't speak.
Elior leaned forward, elbows on his knees, the firelight catching the hard lines of his face. "Then remember this, Tom. Every time you walk into their memories, every time you touch their pain, you're carrying a piece of it back. Don't lose yourself in it. Because once the Overseer descends fully…. none of us will have room to carry anyone else's pain. We'll be drowning in our own."
Elior excused himself without a word more than, "I'll sleep," and walked back into his chamber.
He walked over and went in his room.
He lay on the thin mattress, boots still on, arms behind his head. His eyes closed easily, as though the weight of the night had been waiting for him to surrender.
Sleep didn't take him softly. It pulled him under like a riptide.
The world around him shimmered, black and endless. A horizonless expanse, like glass that stretched forever. And in the middle of it stood a figure, hands tucked behind his back, wearing a crooked grin.
Azmaik was baking potatoes right there.
His hair was wild, his eyes shining with mischief and cruelty both, as if he were carved from temptation itself.
"Elior," Azmaik said, voice resounded like laughter in a hollow chamber. "So the little serpent comes to dream. Last time we met, you put me down. Now look." He spread his arms.
Elior didn't flinch. He stepped closer, gaze sharp, jaw tight. "Alive, but never free. Your soul reeks of chains."
Azmaik's grin sharpened. "Chains? No. Ambition, I will ascend, Elior. I will reach the Higher Depth, and when I do, eternity will bow before me. No more hunger. No more death. No more being your shadow in this game."
Elior's lips curved in the ghost of a smirk. "To chase eternal life while rejecting love and duty is to grasp infinity with empty hands. That selfishness craves endless days, but the wise seek timeless moments. Immortality teaches us that nothing lasts, except your own loneliness."
Azmaik tilted his head. His grin faltered, but only slightly. "Pretty words. Words can't stop hunger. Words can't stop death of someone." He leaned closer, eyes blazing. "Do you know what death tastes like, Elior? It tastes like being forgotten. Like dust gathering on a name. I'll never taste that again. When I hold eternity, I'll never be forgotten."
Elior chuckled softly, though it carried more weight than humor. "Eternity is not measured in years, but in the weight of memories no mortal can bear. You'll find that the longer you live, the heavier the silence becomes. Immortality is not victory, it's a prison with no end. What use is infinity if you cannot share even a single sunrise?"
Azmaik scowled, his grin flickering into a snarl. "Love, friendship, duty.... all fragile toys that time breaks. You cling to them like they're anchors, but they're only weights dragging you down. I don't want anchors. What I want is wings to spread without orders."
"Wings to fly into darkness?" Elior asked, tilting his head slightly, his voice smooth, piercing. "A blind child seeking power for nothing. That's all you are. You think eternity will fill the hollowness inside you, but you don't see, eternity only deepens that void. You wish to see the end of existence but what will you do after that in the void? Touch grass? Oh, forgot, grass won't exist there."
Azmaik sneered. "What about you, Elior? You pretend you carry wisdom, but you're just a coward, scared of stepping into the abyss. You killed me once because you feared what I'd become. You'll try to kill me again, won't you? Because you know I'll rise above you."
Elior's eyes hardened. "I killed you because you mistook cruelty for power. Because you wore people's suffering as ornaments. I'll kill you again not out of fear, but mercy. You beg for eternity, but mercy is the only gift you deserve. If you agree, we can live together."
The dream darkened around them. The glassy void cracked, splinters of shadow raining like broken stars. Azmaik's laughter rang out again, but now it was tinged with madness.
"Mercy? You speak of mercy like a priest, but your hands are soaked in blood. You and I we are not so different, Elior. You kill to end pain, I kill to end weakness. Different words, same blade."
Elior stepped forward, his voice cutting through the dream like steel. "No. We are not the same. You kill to feed yourself. I kill so others may live. That is the difference between a tyrant and a guardian. But you aren't a tyrant, you have just become too blind in the brightness of darkness that you are now blind."
Azmaik's grin returned, but it was thinner, weaker. "Guardian of what? Of people who will forget your name in a generation? Who will curse you even as you protect them? You're a fool. When I reach the Higher Depth, they will kneel to me, not curse me. I will outlast their hatred."
Elior's voice dropped, low and sharp as a blade drawn in the dark.
"You mistake kneeling for respect. You mistake fear for love and when the Higher Depth swallows you, Azmaik, you will find that even eternity spits out men who stand alone. Even though, you are a threat to the reality, you are still a pawn to the Overseers."
For a moment, Azmaik's grin froze. The silence between them was thick, trembling.
Then Elior lifted his hand and with a surge of will, the dream shattered.
Azmaik's image split into fragments, breaking apart like painted glass, until only Elior stood in the void again.
"Out," Elior whispered.
The world folded in on itself. The void collapsed into nothing.
Elior awoke on his cot, the faint flow of the campfire outside seep through the bunker walls. His body was calm, his mind steady. First time in weeks, he closed his eyes again and slept peacefully.