It was not true that everyone in the village was asleep that night.
In one of the narrow alleys,
between houses built from stones reused hundreds of times,
there was a man who did not quite belong…
and never drew attention.
That was his secret.
His name did not matter.
Names are the first things to be erased.
He stood behind a cracked wall,
his eyes half-closed,
but his ears wide open.
He heard everything.
Every word Kim said.
Every silence between Nir and Beath.
Every sentence that should never have been spoken:
"You are the proof."
He trembled.
Not out of fear…
but realization.
This was not just another exile.
Not just another neglected world.
This was…
a flaw beginning to understand itself.
He swallowed.
Raised his hand to his chest,
where something small was implanted beneath the skin—
a mark unseen…
yet one that warned its bearer when forbidden words were spoken.
The mark pulsed.
He closed his eyes.
"So…" he muttered.
"We've reached this stage."
He withdrew slowly,
not running,
not looking back.
He knew that the eyes watching this world
did not see movement…
but intention.
Between two worlds,
he needed no gate.
No ritual.
When he vanished,
he left no void behind—
as if he had never existed at all.
Elsewhere—
a world that did not know the meaning of "exile,"
because it had never known weakness—
the man stood upon a polished white ground,
the sky reflected on it like a mirror.
Before a throne upon which no body sat,
but a concept.
He bowed.
"My lord."
No voice answered.
But the pressure increased.
He spoke quickly, before being erased:
"The intermediary world… is no longer silent."
The air shifted.
The concept spoke—not with sound, but with imposition:
"Explain."
The man raised his head slightly,
sweat pouring down.
"There is an exile," he said.
"But not like the others."
"They are all the same."
"This one is not," he replied, trembling.
"He is aware of the flaw."
"He speaks of it."
"He understands that the system…"
He hesitated.
"…is not just."
A silence fell heavier than any threat.
Then came the question everyone feared:
"Were his words heard?"
The man hesitated for a fraction of a second.
Then said,
"Yes."
"By the inhabitants."
"By the exiles."
"By… your former children."
The pressure suddenly dropped,
as though something had decided.
"Then the world is no longer worthless."
The man's eyes widened.
"My lord… shall we erase—"
"No."
A pause.
"We will erase the connection."
The man shuddered.
"You mean…"
"No one was exiled."
"No one was banished."
"No one was cast away."
Words began writing themselves into the layers of existence.
Redefinition.
Record alteration.
Cancellation of acknowledgment.
The concept said with absolute coldness:
"Everyone in that world…"
"Was never ours to begin with."
The man opened his mouth—
then closed it.
This was worse.
This was not just death…
but erasure from cosmic memory.
He asked in a broken voice:
"And what about the entity—
the one that is aware of itself?"
Everything stopped.
Then the answer came:
"If it is proof…"
"Let it be tested."
The ground shook.
"Send the Hunter."
The man's blood froze.
"The Hunter…?" he whispered.
"But that means—"
"It means this world…"
"…is no longer a dumping ground."
The concept paused, then added:
"But a trap."
Back in the forgotten world,
in the village,
Kim stood at the edge of the light.
Nir was speaking…
but his voice sounded distant.
For the first time in a long while,
Kim felt something other than pain.
A feeling he knew well.
Danger.
The thing inside him did not speak.
But it…
noticed.
Beath stepped closer and said,
"Kim?"
Kim slowly lifted his head.
His eyes were steady.
He said,
"Nir."
"Who was outside the wall?"
Nir froze.
"What do you mean?"
Kim clenched his fist.
The black veins moved…
then stopped.
He said with frightening calm,
"Someone heard us."
"And went to tell those who do not want us to speak."
The three fell silent.
Then Kim said a sentence the other two did not fully understand:
"From now on…"
"This world is no longer forgotten."
He raised his gaze to the sky.
And somewhere very far away…
something
began to move toward him.