The path beyond the mountain was quiet.
Not peaceful — just emptied.
Charred earth stretched for miles. The husks of trees, the scattered bones, the hollowed ruins of a hamlet — all told the same story. Fire had passed through. And something older than fire had lingered.
Guts walked ahead, dragging the weight of Dragonslayer across his shoulder. Every footstep was heavy, like a man pressing forward not because he believed — but because he couldn't stop.
Aeon followed several paces behind.
They hadn't spoken since the Apostle fell.
They didn't need to. Not yet.
A dying wind swept across the road, carrying ash and voices.
The whispers weren't real.
Not entirely.
"The Flame returns…"
"He walks with the Butcher…"
"One judged. One was judged."
Guts grunted and glanced back. "You hearing that?
Aeon nodded. "They remember too well."
"Or not enough," Guts muttered.
They pressed on, past crumbled statues — most of them toppled effigies of kings. One still stood, a headless figure with its arms outstretched in eternal surrender. The phrase etched into the base had been scorched out.
By midday, they reached the outskirts of a village.
What remained of it.
The few huts that still stood leaned inward like they were ashamed. Smoke rose from a single chimney. Children watched them from behind broken fences, silent and wide-eyed. A woman held a dull knife across her chest as they passed, her hands trembling.
Then a man stepped forward, dirty robes tied with frayed rope, his skin tight from hunger.
He knelt in the road.
"Flamebearer," he whispered, bowing his head. "Judged One. Ender of Thrones."
Aeon stopped.
Guts turned sharply, ready to intervene.
More villagers emerged. Some knelt. Others stared with awe — or fear.
"Is this a joke?" Guts growled. "You tell them to do this?"
"No," Aeon said, voice low. "But my absence left a shape behind."
The kneeling man looked up. "Save us."
"I am not your savior."
"You were," the man said. "Once. When you burned the kings. When you ended the gods."
Guts stepped forward, grabbing the man by the shoulder. "You don't know what you're asking for."
The man didn't resist. "We know pain. Fire is better than rot."
Aeon's eyes narrowed. "You don't want me. You want vengeance wearing a crown."
He turned away.
They left the village without a word.
Once they were alone again, Guts finally spoke.
"They worship what you were."
"I know."
"They don't care what you destroyed."
"They only care that it was stronger than what broke them," Aeon answered.
Guts stopped. "How many did you kill? When you… burned everything."
Aeon was quiet for a long time.
"Too many to count," he said. "And not all of them deserved it."
The silence returned — heavier.
Then a shape moved in the distance.
Thin. Limping. Almost human.
It spoke as it approached — hunched and draped in a veil of burnt cloth.
"Did you think he would not rise again?" it hissed.
Guts gripped his sword.
Aeon stepped forward.
The creature smiled.
"Griffith rebuilds what you broke, Flame. You shattered the heavens. He's making new ones."
Guts lunged.
One swing.
The head came off clean.
The corpse hit the ground, whispering even in death.
"He is becoming what you could not."
Aeon stared down at the body.
"Then he will become what I must stop."
Far away, beneath a sky split by eclipse-light, a white-feathered figure stood atop a tower, eyes cast toward the west.
And the Shadow smiled.