It felt so good… why did it feel so good?
Elion lay on his side, eyes closed, trying to spin his chaotic thoughts to sleep, but it was useless. He felt like an addict denied his fix. Every part of him ached. No position was comfortable—on his back, on his side, curled up, or relaxed. It all felt wrong, as if his skin was too tight for his bones.
The moment the illusion broke played over and over in his mind like a warped recording. The terror he'd felt when he saw what Mother truly was. The sensation of being ripped from paradise, only to realize it had never been real.
Worse still was the guilt. Not just about what happened, but about what almost happened. He wasn't stupid enough to blame himself entirely—he'd been under the mental control of a Class IV after all—but the thoughts that had drifted through his mind; they made him shiver.
What would've happened if Eshrod and Kellta hadn't reached him in time?
He already knew. The tendrils of flesh had felt sentient. He had called them brothers, hadn't he? If the Class IV had succeeded, Elion and Farha would've become a mass of writhing flesh, indistinct from the other lost souls it had consumed.
No wonder no stories of it had survived in Kellta's village. Whoever had seen it never lived to tell anyone. It crept in without sound, twisted your mind, and erased you so completely it left behind nothing. No bones, no traces, nothing.
Elion gripped his knees tighter.
He had been close—too close—to a fate worse than death. And yet, part of him still wondered. What would it have felt like to surrender completely to the embrace of Mother?
Was it even a malicious creature?
Its methods were vile. Its form was abhorrent. But the love he felt—total, warm, unconditional—was difficult to fake, even for a manipulator of Class IV magnitude.
Would it have been better not to be saved?
Elion shook his head weakly.
No. Losing my free will is the worst thing that could ever happen to me.
He knew the thoughts were dangerous and wrong, but he couldn't stop them from surfacing.
I really need to sleep.
He briefly considered knocking himself out cold, just to silence the storm in his mind—but quickly dismissed it as idiotic.
There was really only one way Elion found to earn the silence he so desperately wanted. He needed to split himself.
He would take these corrupted thoughts and bury them. Lock them away in the darkest, most unreachable part of his mind. Pretend they weren't his.
I know this is the wrong way to deal with it. It'll only fester. But what choice do I have?
If a therapist heard my thoughts, he'd probably throw his diploma at me and walk out. But there are no therapists here. There's no help.
Only survival. And survival doesn't wait for anyone's mental health.
After a while, he managed a weak smile. It looked wrong—strained, unnatural—but no one was watching.
Finally, Elion drifted off.
He awoke to someone gently shaking his shoulder.
It was Kellta. Eshrod stood nearby, most of the blood wiped from her face—but without their packs, medical supplies were scarce.
The fire-wielding imp gestured for him to lift his chin. She drew the rune on his throat again, and the numbing sensation flooded his mouth once more.
"We need to move," she said quietly. "We're near Starlight now. Still a long way to go, and we can't afford more delays."
Farha's condition was clearly deteriorating. The seal on her neck wasn't absolute—far from it. The Kral inside her was gathering power, preparing to break free. If they didn't reach the village soon, it would be too late.
Elion rose slowly, following without a word. As they walked, Kellta kept throwing him glances—she looked like she wanted to ask something but never did.
He hadn't checked himself yet—hadn't looked for any strange marks the encounter might've left behind. But he was fairly sure the real scar wasn't physical.
It was in his mind.
And it was… taken care of.
No need to worry. I'm back to my old self.
He tried to smile reassuringly. It failed miserably.
It's not like it was a big deal anyway.
He glanced at Farha, now carried by Eshrod—who no longer had to carry their bags. At the sight of the unconscious girl, Elion's heart tightened. The ache of what he'd almost done—what he'd nearly lost—hit him again.
The guilt was dulled, smothered under the same self-destructive strategy of locking it away and moving on, but it never went away, like a wound that never quite healed.
Only Kellta had managed to hold onto her hide pack—she'd taken it with her when they hunted the Rotler.
Not long after, they arrived at a massive clearing. To their right loomed the southern cliff, and in front of them was Starlight Lake.
It was breathtaking.
Dark waters shimmered with countless specks of white light, as if the universe itself had spilled into it. But it wasn't a reflection—above them, there was only a boundless void.
The lake was vast, stretching farther than the eye could follow. Towering spires of bone rose from the far cliffs, casting warped reflections across its surface.
Where they stood, the cliffside was gentler—less jagged, more scalable.
"That's where we climb," Kellta said, pointing to a narrow ridge.
"Why not just walk along the lake?" Eshrod asked, eyeing the cliff with dread. She was still carrying Farha, after all.
The fire-wielding imp said nothing for a moment, watching the slight ripples on the lake's surface.
"It's too dangerous," she finally said. "What lives in that water… no one can fight. And it doesn't always stay in the water."
Eshrod nodded grimly.
They began the climb.
The southern cliff rose nearly four hundred meters, but the path was manageable. Only a few moments required actual climbing—but when they did, the sheer drop was enough to paralyze the nerves.
Still, they made it.
At the top, Starlight Lake looked even more magnificent.
Elion stared, almost hypnotized.
"Don't stare too long," Kellta warned. "Things in there can weaken the mind with just a glance."
He swallowed and looked away.
Eshrod gave him a worried look, but she didn't say anything—which was odd, considering her character.
Now they followed the cliff's edge. From here, they could see the river glowing faintly below, lit by bioluminescent streaks. Its current still raged like a beast.
After a few hours of trudging the narrow ridge, they arrived at the final stretch before the village.
Exhausted, the three Unlocked decided to rest.
Kellta was whittling something from a piece of wood with her dagger. Her carving was impressive.
Elion, curious, eventually asked about it.
She looked up—her tired, violet eyes seeming to peer right through him—then returned to carving.
"It's a… disguise."
"To get into the village?" he asked carefully.
Her eyes narrowed. The blade paused in her hand. Her expression hardened.
"You don't have to come if you don't want to. We'll take Farha in and get her treated," he added.
"I don't know what's changed over there," she murmured. "But I know the most about the place. If anything happens… I think I should be there."
He hesitated.
"Why the change of heart?"
She looked at him—it was as if she was studying something behind his eyes—but she didn't say anything.
Is my face that off? Did she see something I don't?
I'll need to check a mirror soon.
He didn't press further.
By the next morning, the mask was finished.
It resembled the face of a demon with a sharp jaw and jagged teeth. The pale wood had been scorched black.
More unsettling than the mask was Kellta herself—panting, face twisted in pain.
She held her horns in her hands—both broken off.
Noticing the two humans' stare, she said between labored breaths,
"Don't worry. They grow back."
She borrowed Elion's camo jacket to hide her lavender hair beneath the hood. It was too big for her, but that helped—concealing her ash-colored skin entirely.
With the hood up and the demon mask on, she looked fierce, intimidating even.
"We're ready," she said, striding forward.
They were heading straight for the village, where Farha's life might be saved… or where they'd lose her for good.