Chapter 55
The bone-door yawned open like the maw of a sleeping god. As its ancient hinges whispered, a breath of air rolled out — not cold, not warm, but aware. Nezutsu felt it touch his skin, pause as if recognizing him, and then recede like a tide obeying something deeper than time.
"That song…" Kaelith whispered, clutching her blade. "It's singing your name."
Indeed, the lullaby continued — soft, childlike, layered with echoes, as though sung across overlapping realities:
"Nezutsu of the Flame,Left behind by name,Carried by stars, but never the same…"
They stepped through.
The Corridor of Names
The hallway was impossibly long and impossibly narrow. Each side was lined with name sigils — glowing etchings of people who had once stepped onto this path. Some were in languages that flickered and changed every second, as though undecided on what truth to use.
Eshryn traced one gently with her fingers.
"This one is… mine."
Kaelith looked over. "You've been here before?"
"No. But somehow… my name was waiting."
Nezutsu looked up — and found his own name carved again and again in the ceiling. Some were crossed out. Some glowed red. Others were cracked and smoldering, like they had tried to burn themselves off the wall.
"How many versions of me are there?" he muttered.
Eshryn's voice was quiet. "Too many. That's what Vorthal-Teyn is. A place where broken selves gather."
Subplot: The Memory of the False Nezutsu
A sudden gust of songlight rushed down the corridor and struck Nezutsu in the chest. The world spun. His eyes turned white.
He stood, now, in a version of reality that was almost his own — a world where Nezutsu had magic.
Where he was adored. Praised. Crowned as the youngest Archmage in history.
Where he had everything… except choice.
He watched himself incinerate an entire village, eyes blank, as the Celestarch whispered orders in his mind.
He watched Kaelith in this world — dead by his hand.
He screamed.
And just like that — the vision snapped.
"What was that?" Kaelith asked, catching him as he stumbled.
"A lie," he whispered. "A version of me that won… but wasn't me."
The Voice Behind the Song
They reached the end of the corridor, where a lake of liquid memory rippled beneath a floating dais of bone petals. In the center sat a small child — or something shaped like one — rocking gently in a cradle made of forgotten lullabies.
She looked up with white-glow eyes and smiled.
"You're late."
"Who are you?" Nezutsu asked.
"The one who sang your soul back into place when the gods broke it. I am the Remnant Muse. I remember you from when you were still starlight."
Kaelith stared. "Is this child the guardian of Vorthal-Teyn?"
"No," said the Muse, giggling. "I'm its regret."
A wave of images surged around them: worlds unmade, gods devoured by their own creations, magic twisted into chains, and at the center of it all — a flame refusing to kneel.
"Your flame is not magic," the Muse said softly. "It is rejection made real. The universe tried to break you, and instead, you became its wound."
"Then what is this place?" Nezutsu asked.
"The only place left unclaimed by prophecy. Where you can choose who to be… or be chosen."
Suddenly, three doors appeared behind her, each forged from different matter: one of glass, one of veinroot, and one of nothing.
Twist: The Door of Nothing
The first two doors pulsed with temptation.
The door of glass offered power — the kind to reshape continents.
The door of veinroot pulsed with ancient knowledge — a full restoration of his past life's memories.
But the door of nothing… it had no frame, no sound, no offer.
And Nezutsu felt drawn to it.
"What's behind this one?" he asked.
The Muse frowned. "I don't know. It was not built by the Celestarch. It was not built at all. It existed before even they dreamed."
Eshryn tensed. "You can't choose the void. That's madness."
Kaelith stepped forward. "But madness is the only path they haven't chained."
Nezutsu nodded.
And stepped into the nothing.
A World with No Sky
The instant he crossed the threshold, the world inverted.
There was no sky. No ground. Just floating shards of reality drifting like broken glass through infinite dusk.
And ahead of him stood a man in white robes… with no face.
Not masked.
Just… missing.
But the presence, the pressure — Nezutsu knew it instantly.
"You—" he choked. "You're…"
The faceless man tilted his head. The air folded.
A voice echoed in Nezutsu's mind:
"I am the version of you that accepted the gods.I am the flame that chose to serve.I am the mirror you must shatter... or become."
And he raised a hand, calling down a storm of mirrored blades.
[TO BE CONTINUED...]