The air in the Sanctuary was thick with unwept grief. Akero did not see the walls around him—he saw only an inner graveyard. In his palm, he held Nea's necklace of dried flowers, now so brittle that he feared even his breath might turn it to dust. Every fleck of that ash felt like a knife pressed into his ribs.
He stood on the cliff above the valley where fields of flowers had once stretched. The wind carried his own scent—the scent of a man who had stopped caring. All it would take was to extend his hand, to let gravity pull him into an embrace that felt natural, almost deserved…
"Stop."
The voice behind him was not loud. It was exhausted. Kaelion stood three steps away, his face carved with fresh lines etched by a sleepless night. Behind him stood Serin, her hands clasped as if holding something invisible and fragile.
Akero did not turn his head. "I'm setting out on a journey."
"I know where that road leads," Kaelion said. His voice did not break. It was hard, like stone lodged in his chest. "I can see it in your back."
"Vexius and Ariela remain with you. Protect them."
"We don't give you permission to run." It was Serin who spoke, and there was something in her voice that cracked Akero's numbness—not despair, but pain that was still fighting.
"I'm not asking for permission," Akero said, taking a step forward, toward the edge.
Then something happened that he did not expect. Kaelion did not shout. He did not grab him in an embrace. Instead, with a speed that surprised even Akero's exhausted reflexes, Kaelion stepped forward and struck him across the face with an open hand.
The blow was not merely physical. It carried so much rage, so much fear, and so much love that Akero's mind emptied for a heartbeat. He turned—not from pain, but from shock.
Kaelion seized the front of his tunic, dragged him back from the edge, and held him so close that their faces were a hair's breadth apart.
"Would *they*?" Kaelion roared, tears spilling from eyes he clearly hated. "Would your parents—Alabaster, Kael—*Nea*—want to see their sacrifice turn into this? This… self-pitying wretch? Did they die so you could become just another stain on the stones below us?"
Each word landed like a hammer. Akero wanted to shut down, to retreat into the apathy that was so comfortable in its emptiness. But he couldn't. Because over Kaelion's shoulder he saw Alabaster's disappointed gaze, heard Kael's irritated curse echoing through the labyrinth, and worst of all—felt Nea's trembling as she confessed her love to him, a trembling that had now become eternal.
It wasn't just shame. It was anger. Anger at himself for wanting to steal what had been taken from all of them—a future.
Slowly, finger by finger, Kaelion released his grip on the tunic. Akero did not fall. He stood firmer than he felt.
"Protect Vexius and Ariela," Akero said again, but this time his voice carried a different weight. Not a plea. A command. A trust. "Protect what remains."
He turned and walked down the path, unwilling to see their expressions. He did not leave as a hero, but as a man who chose to postpone his end for one more battle.
---
Griemvield smelled of scorched earth and old blood. The former village where he had found Vexius and Ariela was now nothing but a tangle of charred ruins and broken beams. Akero was not searching for survivors. He was searching for proof. It was the only way he could function—without emotion, only procedure.
He moved methodically from house to house, turning stones, examining remains. It felt as if an eternity passed in silence before he reached a half-collapsed hut on the edge of the settlement. The floor was raised, as though something beneath it had pushed upward.
When he pried the planks aside, he revealed a hollow. Inside, wrapped in a blood-colored cloth, lay an object the size of a hand—a crystalline capsule split along its length. From the fracture seeped a substance dark and viscous like oil, yet pulsing with a muted violet glow. Even from a meter away, Akero felt its influence—dizziness, a faint nausea, and a sharp metallic taste of fear on his tongue.
An Unknown source. A fragment of raw energy that fueled his Ranks. Vexius and Ariela—former Rank Four—had clearly hidden it. Perhaps out of sentimentality, perhaps fear, perhaps hope they might one day need it. To Akero, it was not a relic. It was a bloodstained trail.
Holding it carefully, he felt the substance tug, like a magnetic needle turning toward north. The path was clear.
---
The journey through the Frozen Wastes was a walk through his own inner void. The cold gnawing at his fingers and nose was nothing compared to the ice in his chest. The pulsing crystal in his pack was the only warm, dreadful point in that expanse, guiding him onward.
The trail led him to a narrow canyon between two pillars of ice that reached toward the sky. The entrance was not natural—it was a perfectly circular opening cut into the rock, its edges so smooth they gleamed like glass. From within came a sound—not wind, but a soft rustling, like the shifting of thousands of dry husks.
The Labyrinth of Hope.
Inside, the light did not come from the sun. It came from bioluminescent fungi growing along the walls—walls that were not stone, but compacted, interwoven bones of every size and kind. The air was heavy with the stench of decay and something chemical, sharp.
Akero stepped forward, his boots crunching softly. The labyrinth shifted before him—passages narrowed, walls slid aside, forming new paths. It was a living, horrific organism.
In the central chamber, a man waited, standing calmly amid a gentle flutter of luminous particles forming and dissolving around his fingers. He had the appearance of a scholar—eyes sharp and curious, but devoid of warmth.
"I've heard of you, Gravedigger," said Lex, Lord of Matter. His voice was neutral, as though he were describing an experiment. "Unknown said you would come. That you are persistent. An interesting trait for such a fragile species."
"I don't want to fight you," Akero said, his voice echoing through the chamber of bones. "Tell me where Unknown is."
Lex smiled faintly, disdainfully. "You are not in a position to ask. You are an observer in an experiment. And I enjoy seeing how matter behaves under pressure."
He did not move. He merely raised a finger. From the air before him, hundreds of tiny, razor-sharp calcite crystals formed spontaneously and hurled themselves at Akero like a storm of needles.
Akero did not flee. He activated his perception. The world slowed, becoming a sequence of frozen frames. The needles, once moving at bullet speed, now drifted like feathers suspended in amber. He walked calmly among them, his body bending and twisting with minimal motion. To an outside observer, he would have looked like a ghost, evaporating from every attack's path.
Lex's eyebrow lifted slightly. "Fascinating. But time is an illusion. Matter is fundamental."
He lowered both hands to his sides. The bone walls around them trembled. "Domain: Synapses of Infinity."
Pressure followed—a shift in the structure of reality itself. He did not create matter from nothing; he summoned it, calling every free particle in the environment. The air ignited with billions of glowing points—protons, neutrons, electrons—visible to the naked eye, forming a fog of pure, raw potential energy.
Then he focused. From that fog, he shaped beams so dense they bent light itself. Gravitons—particles carrying the very force of gravity—traveling at a speed that rendered Akero's accelerated time hopelessly slow.
Akero tried to evade, but he could not bend space quickly enough. One beam struck his left shoulder. There was no explosion, no blood. It was a deep, resonant impact that pierced flesh and bone and shattered his internal rhythm. He felt his inner time unravel, seconds of his life burning away like years.
He dropped to his knees, screaming from pain that was not merely physical. Through the haze, he saw Lex approach—indifferent, ready to finish it.
*Not like this.* The only thought that survived. *Not before I see him.*
Akero clutched his chest, as if he could tear out his own heart. Instead, he drew forth his essence—his temporal energy in its purest, most vulnerable form. Light burst from his chest and formed in his hands—the **Heart Clock**. A crystalline staff of pure, pulsing time, so fragile it radiated cracks.
Lex halted, curiosity crossing his face. "What is this…"
"Moment Reversal," Akero murmured through the pain.
Light flooded the chamber, then snapped back, dragging everything with it. The walls, Lex, the needles, the graviton beams—all rewound, collapsing into a point three seconds in the past.
Lex stood where he had been, his eyebrow just beginning to rise.
Akero was already moving. He raised the Heart Clock, knowing he had only one shot. This time, he did not aim for the body. He aimed for the head—for the brain where ionic bonds decided movement and control.
He released the shot.
A lance of light—pure temporal energy—crossed the chamber and struck Lex square in the temple.
There was no explosion. Only a quiet, piercing sound like glass cracking. Lex remained standing, eyes wide. The right side of his face—from eye to jaw—went perfectly still, completely paralyzed. A cough escaped his mouth, then he collapsed to his knees, his right arm hanging uselessly at his side. He looked at Akero—not with anger, but with pure, scientific shock—before turning and crawling into the labyrinth's darkness, leaving behind a trail of blood and helpless terror.
Akero remained standing as the Heart Clock shattered in his hands. He felt his strength leave him, but a colder, more frightening sensation spread through him. Within, where his source had once been, he felt a fracture—as though his inner clock had been struck by a hammer. Every breath now echoed painfully through that crack, his life force leaking away second by second.
He tried to step forward, but his legs refused. The ground seemed to tilt. One step. Another. His vision blurred, the world's sound fading into a hum. He saw green light through the labyrinth's bones, a fan of color drawing closer. He felt hands—gentle yet firm—catch him before darkness fully claimed him.
---
Scent was the first thing he noticed—flowers and something antiseptic, sweet and clean. The opposite of ash and blood.
He opened his eyes. He lay in a bed, in a room bathed in warm yellow light from a window. The walls were pale wood, dried plants hanging above him. Through the open window came the sound of a fountain.
A girl sat beside the bed. She had green eyes the color of spring leaves and blond hair braided into a practical yet elegant plait. Her expression was not pity, but intense, focused attention—as if she were studying a complex equation.
"You're awake," she said. Her voice was clear and calm. "That's good. I wasn't sure you would ever breathe on your own again."
Akero tried to sit up, but a sharp pain in his chest forced him back. He raised his hand and saw that his skin was pale and translucent, thin violet veins running along his forearm—a visible sign of source damage.
"Where…" His voice sounded foreign, hoarse.
"Apelion. The Royal Hospital of Sources. I'm Lenalda de Mastrea. But please—call me Lena." She smiled faintly, though that analytical sharpness remained in her eyes. "You've done quite a number on your energy core. I didn't know it was possible for someone to survive such severe internal temporal dysrhythmias."
Akero slowly gathered his thoughts. She had saved him—for some reason. He pushed himself up on his elbows, ignoring the pain. He knew what he had to do.
He grabbed the edge of the bed and placed his feet on the floor. Then, with what strength he had left, he lowered himself to one knee, head bowed.
"I thank you, Your Highness, for your mercy," he said, his voice formal and hollow, a mechanical habit from another life.
Lena flushed and waved her hands. "No—no, please, get up! There's no need for that. This isn't a court." She hurried to lift him, her hands surprisingly strong. "Just Lena. Sit."
She helped him back onto the bed and sat on the edge, watching him. Silence stretched between them, broken only by the fountain.
"What troubles you?" she asked at last, her tone gentle but direct. "You're not only physically wounded. I can see it." She touched her chest. "Here."
Akero stared past her—through the wall, through the room's calm beauty. He saw only ash.
"Everyone who ever mattered to me," he said, each word falling like a stone, "has long been dead. And this world is no longer worth anything. I seek nothing but Unknown."
The moment he spoke the name, he saw the color drain from her face. Her green eyes widened with recognition—and then with something else. Fear, perhaps. Or sorrow. She knew. She *knew* who Unknown was.
She looked at him—this broken man with eyes older than mountains, who had knelt before her out of habit, not reverence. He saw the struggle play out in her mind—the urge to ask, to warn, to say something.
But in the end, she said nothing. She only nodded slowly, deeply, as if accepting something inevitable. That silence—heavy with unspoken knowledge and quiet respect for his suffering—was heavier than any refusal. It was an unspoken consent.
The path remained open, even if it led into darkness.