The sky wept ashes as Yeo stood at the boundary of the living and the lost—a thin veil of shimmering mist stretched before him like a curtain between two worlds. This was the Whispering Veil, a forbidden place where time was fragile and voices of the dead still roamed freely. Few dared to enter. None returned unchanged.
Behind him, Azariel remained silent, his ancient presence fading like a shadow at dusk. The Fangs of Rebirth were now fused to Yeo's spine, their molten gold veins visible beneath his skin, glowing faintly like wildfire. His power was new, volatile, but it pulsed with certainty.
He stepped forward.
As his foot crossed the threshold, the world changed.
Silence.
And then—whispers.
Soft, distant, like memories trying to speak.
"...Yeo..."
He spun around. The voice wasn't his imagination. It was familiar, painfully so.
From the mist, a figure emerged—his brother, Arin. But that was impossible. Arin had died in the old world. Yeo had seen his body, cold and broken.
Yet here he was—taller, eyes clear and knowing, dressed in the ceremonial robes of the old bloodlines.
"Brother," Arin said, voice trembling with warmth and sorrow. "You finally found it."
Yeo's heart pounded. "You're not real. You're a fragment."
Arin smiled faintly. "Maybe. Or maybe I am what remains of him. Here, in the Veil, we are echoes given shape. Memories desperate to finish what was never spoken."
Yeo's mind spun. The Veil wasn't just a passage to the past—it was a test.
"Why are you here?" he asked.
"To warn you," Arin said. "The gods are not dead. They're dreaming. And when they wake, they will remember you."
A sharp chill pierced Yeo's spine. The whispers around him turned to snarls, then screams. Shadows writhed beyond the mist, clawing, circling—fragments of broken souls, twisted by time and regret.
He reached for his blade, but it dissolved in his hand. The Fangs were pulsing—alive, responding to the chaos.
Suddenly, from the mist, a new figure burst forth—Maevira, the Flame Prophetess. She had once tried to sacrifice him to awaken her dying god. Her skin was cracked and charred, her eyes glowing with vengeful light.
"I warned them what you would become," she hissed, circling him. "But they didn't listen. Now I will end you before you cross the veil completely."
Yeo didn't flinch. The Fangs responded to his will, morphing into curved blades in each hand—like the claws of fate themselves.
Maevira struck. Fast. Furious.
But Yeo was faster.
He dodged, twisted, countered—every motion guided not by thought, but by instinct and resonance. The Veil bent around him, warping space, dragging him between flickering glimpses of past battles and future consequences.
He slashed through Maevira, and her form shattered like smoke. But her words remained:
"You cannot fight what you are becoming."
The Veil began to collapse inward. Time was unraveling.
"Yeo," Arin said again, stepping closer. "You must go now. But listen carefully—there is a name hidden beneath the Fangs. The First Fragment. Find it. Before the gods do."
"What is it?" Yeo asked, desperate.
But Arin was already fading, his form swept away in the dying mist.
"Look for the one who never forgot," he whispered. "She remembers everything. Even you."
And then—
Light.
Yeo burst from the Veil, coughing, drenched in sweat, the ground beneath him real again.
He collapsed to his knees, breathing heavily. His vision cleared slowly. Azariel was gone. The Burnt Sea had receded.
But etched across his arm now were new markings—runes, ancient and alive, glowing like fireflies.
Yeo looked up at the sky.
The gods were stirring.
And the world would soon remember why it had forgotten them.