Chapter 34: Reverence
Xiall's eyelids fluttered shut, and a profound darkness swallowed him whole, a void so absolute it felt like he was unraveling at the seams of his existence. No pain seared his nerves, no warmth pulsed through his veins—just the raw, unfiltered essence of him, adrift in an abyss that was both chilling and strangely tender. So, this is death? he thought, his mind a flickering ember in the cold expanse. It wasn't the fiery torment of ancient scriptures or the golden gates of paradise he'd half-expected. Instead, it was an eerie, soothing nothingness, a cradle of shadows that held him gently yet firmly, like a mother's arms laced with frost. Yet, beneath this calm, a sharp pang of sorrow pierced his core. Tiffany's face flashed in his mind—her indifferent smile, a crescent of cool detachment; her angelic features framed by auburn hair that caught the light like autumn leaves ablaze. Old Matt, that gruff, racking old man with his weathered scowl—he'd only known them a few days, yet their absence carved a hollow ache in his chest. Why does it hurt so much? Regret, bitter as bile, coiled tighter, a serpent of missed chances and unspoken words. He wanted to grit his teeth, to let tears spill, but his body—if he even had one anymore—was a ghost, unresponsive to his will.
Anger flared, a molten spike through the haze. The Great Tree, those goddamn undead, that so-called angel… and that colossal Condemnation. The names burned in his mind, each a curse spat into the void. All he'd ever wanted was freedom—simple, unshackled freedom. Was that too much to ask? His consciousness churned, a storm of defiance and frustration. If this was death, it was a disgrace—smashed to a bloody pulp by some monstrous fiend in a nightmare he couldn't escape. But hold on. This couldn't be real, could it? His real body was supposed to be sleeping, safe in the waking world, his consciousness tethered to it. No way he'd just die like this, reduced to a smear by a grotesque titan. The thought ignited a spark of rebellion. If this was an illusion, a twisted dream, he'd claw his way out. He'd get stronger, hunt that colossal bastard down, and shove its own teeth down its throat. But right now, certainty was a luxury he didn't have. He wanted to facepalm, to scream into the void, but he had no hands, no voice—just a fleeting will suspended in the dark. Maybe I should just… let go, he thought, exhaustion creeping in like a tide. Close my eyes and rest. I'm so damn tired.
Then, the whispers began. They slithered into his psyche, familiar yet venomous, a chorus of torment that felt like claws raking across his soul. Erratic, dreadful, they were less sound and more sensation, a cacophony of dread that marked him as prey in some unholy ritual. The whispers crescendoed into a soul-scorching shriek, a piercing wail that seemed to flay his very essence. "Ugh," he groaned inwardly, the mental torture slicing through the veil of death itself. Come on, Soul Tree, cut me some slack. I'm dead here, aren't I? But the whispers sharpened, their chaos coalescing into something intelligible, something commanding. "Wake up, Xiall… wake up…" The voices roared, a symphony of shrieks and screams, each note heart-wrenching, as if torn from a thousand grieving throats. "Open your eyes… see the world…" they thundered, their echoes ricocheting through his skull like a swarm of locusts, each syllable a hammer blow to his fraying consciousness. The sound was a maelstrom, a whirlwind of agony and urgency that threatened to shatter him.
Then, as if ripped open by an unseen god, his eyes burst wide. The sensation was horrific, a visceral jolt as if his skull had cracked apart, his vision flooded with a blinding, searing light that burned away the darkness. His heart—if he still had one—thundered with primal terror, a galloping rhythm that shook his core. His mind reeled, caught in the grip of a waking nightmare, as if he'd been yanked from a grave and thrust into a furnace of awareness. The whispers died instantly, snuffed out by an eternal, unseen hand, their silence a deafening relief. A wave of reprieve crashed over him, not just because the tormenting voices had ceased, but because he could feel again. His body—his body—was his own. He gasped, chest heaving as air flooded lungs he hadn't known he still possessed. Am I… alive? Hope surged, electric and fierce, a wildfire coursing through every fiber of his being, rekindling a spark he thought had been extinguished.
A strange, warm hue kissed his skin, a sensation so foreign it snapped him from his reverie. He hadn't even noticed his surroundings, too consumed by the chaos within. His eyes wandered, and his breath caught, stolen by the grandeur before him. He stood in a realm of eternal night, the sky a boundless, starless void streaked with shimmering green auroras that danced like celestial flames, their emerald ribbons weaving patterns of cosmic grace. Below, the ground was an endless sea of black glass, its surface mirror-smooth, reflecting the auroras' ethereal glow in a hypnotic interplay of light and shadow. No tides stirred its depths, no currents rippled its face—it was an obsidian plane stretching to infinity, a frozen ocean of polished darkness that held the heavens in its embrace. In the air above, fifty-one green orbs floated, their soft luminescence pulsing like heartbeats in the void. They swirled in a mesmerizing whirlwind, a perfect circle of light that seemed to hum with quiet purpose, their glow casting faint halos on the glassy sea below.
Xiall's initial dismay hit like a sledgehammer. He was standing on this sea, his boots firm against its unyielding surface, not sinking an inch. "What the actual hell?" he muttered, his voice trembling with a cocktail of awe and unease. His reflection stared back from the dark mirror below, a lone, disheveled figure dwarfed by the cosmic splendor around him. This place was perfection, a breathtaking masterpiece painted in shades of night and emerald light, and he felt like a smudge on its flawless canvas. Man, this is unreal, he thought, his mind teetering between gratitude and dread. He could've stayed here, lost in the serene beauty, if not for the nagging fact that he was kinda dead. "Gotta get outta here," he told himself, shaking off the trance like a dog shedding water.
"HELLO!" he bellowed, his voice raw with desperation, but the sound was swallowed by the vastness, muted as if the realm itself devoured it. No echo, no reverberation—just an oppressive silence that pressed against his ears. Frustration boiled up, a scalding tide, and he kicked the glassy sea, half-expecting it to crack like ice. It didn't. Instead, its cool, soothing surface met his boot, a balm that calmed his fraying nerves. He collapsed onto it, letting the cold comfort seep into his bones. A nap here wouldn't suck, he thought, a wry smile tugging at his lips. Not everyone gets a vacation in a place this damn gorgeous. But the thought was fleeting, a spark snuffed out by reality. He facepalmed—or tried to, his hand meeting only air. Focus, Xiall. You're not on some cosmic getaway.
His gaze drifted to the green orbs, their hypnotic glow pulling him like a moth to flame. He counted them—fifty-one, exactly. A memory sparked, sharp and sudden: a hologram, its voice flat and mechanical, telling him he'd acquired fifty-one souls. Are these… them? Instinct took over, and he raised a hand, beckoning with a tentative gesture. The orbs responded instantly, breaking their circular dance and drifting toward him, drawn like iron to a magnet. They moved with eerie grace, their light pulsing in sync with some unseen rhythm, as if answering a master's call. The moment his fingers brushed one, a jolt shot through him, electric and invasive. Images flooded his mind—memories, vivid and raw, as if he'd stepped into another life.
He saw a knight, barely sixteen, clad in dented, hand-me-down armor, training alone in a misty courtyard. The boy's face was a mask of determination, his sword slashing through the fog with disciplined fury, each swing a defiance of the world's scorn. His dreams flickered through Xiall's mind: to protect his village, to rise above the taunts of "lone whelp," to carve his name into legend. A glimpse of a sparring match unfolded—the boy's sweat mingling with blood from a shallow cut, his eyes blazing with unyielding resolve, even as his opponent sneered. Then, the vision faded. Xiall pulled back, heart racing, his breath shallow. Those were his memories. It clicked, a revelation that lit up his mind like a flare. This is my Domain. Soul..
Memory.
He could touch souls, see their lives, their dreams. A thrill of elation surged, the fog of despair burning away like mist under a rising sun.
Emboldened, he reached for another orb, curiosity outweighing caution. This time, it was a girl, a teenage trader with calloused hands and a quick smile. Her memories unfolded like a tapestry: bustling market stalls under a blazing sun, her fingers deftly sorting vibrant spices, her laughter ringing as she haggled with a grizzled merchant. A fleeting image of a boy she loved, his shy smile as they shared a crisp apple under a gnarled tree, their hands brushing. Then, a bathing scene—her humming softly, water rippling around her in a wooden tub, steam curling in the air. Xiall's face flushed crimson, and he yanked his hand back, heart pounding. "Okay, that's… too much," he muttered, a smirk creeping onto his lips despite the embarrassment. "This power's dangerous. Really dangerous."
But the moment of levity shattered. The black sea trembled, a deep, guttural rumble rising from its unseen depths. Ripples spread, wild and chaotic, fracturing the glassy surface into a frenzy of waves that shimmered with the auroras' reflected light. The water surged, splashing against him in cascades of obsidian brilliance, yet no dampness clung to his skin—it was an illusion, yet so vivid it felt like truth, each droplet a prism of night and emerald fire. Xiall stumbled, boots slipping as he fought to stay upright, his pulse hammering in his ears. Dread coiled in his gut, a primal fear that whispered of something ancient, something vast. Something's coming.
From the depths, it emerged—a colossal statue, an angel of biblical terror, rising in glorious, horrifying splendor. Its form was divine yet menacing, carved from dark stone that seemed to drink the light, its surface etched with runes that pulsed with a faint, holy glow. Four majestic wings unfurled from its back, two on each side, their feathers shimmering like molten silver, each plume a masterpiece of celestial craftsmanship. Its height pierced the clouds, a towering monolith that dwarfed the realm itself, its head adorned with five radiant halos, their light searing the darkness. One halo crowned each arm, pulsing with divine rhythm, while in one hand, the angel held a towering scale, its pans swaying as if weighing the sins of eternity. In the other, a tree grew, its gnarled branches wreathed in white mist, alive and writhing, as if it held the secrets of creation itself. The statue's emergence sent tsunami-like waves of black water surging toward Xiall, a roaring tide that threatened to engulf him. Yet, as it reached its peak, the water recoiled, receding as if time itself had been rewritten, leaving only stillness in its wake.
Fear clawed at Xiall's mind, a visceral dread that sank into his bones like ice. The statue's presence was overwhelming, a divine weight that pressed against his soul, forcing him to his knees. His body bowed involuntarily, as if drawn by an unseen command, the angel's majesty a force of reverence that demanded submission. What the hell is this? his mind screamed, thoughts fracturing under the pressure of its holy aura. It was a being of splendor, of glory, its very existence a hymn to the divine, yet its gaze—if it had one—felt like judgment incarnate. Before he could gather his wits, the sea erupted again. Great chains, dark and pulsing with a sickly green hue, burst from the depths, each link the size of a man, etched with runes that glowed with malevolent intent. They snaked toward him, swift and unrelenting, wrapping around his arms, legs, and chest. The chains burned with a cold fire, their weight poetic in its cruelty, shackling him to the glassy sea in a posture of servitude. Each link seemed to hum with a will of its own, binding him not just physically but spiritually, as if tethering his soul to the will of the divine.
His mind teetered on the brink, a single thought crystallizing amidst the chaos: Is this… the Statue of the Divine Angel of Miracles?..