Chapter 4
Morning arrived without sunlight.
The Black Shores did not welcome dawn the way other places did. There was no golden horizon, no gradual warmth. Instead, the darkness thinned—like ink diluted by water—until the world became visible again.
Dino woke first.
He did not open his eyes immediately.
The house was breathing.
Not alive—remembering.
Wood creaked softly, not from age, but from recollection. The walls held impressions of conversations that had never happened here, yet felt familiar. Laughter without sound. Tears without wetness. Promises without words.
He sat up.
Eternum remained by the door, upright, silent. The silver-black bamboo leaned against it, indistinguishable from an ordinary walking staff—if one ignored the way space subtly curved around it.
Nothing threatened him.
That alone was unsettling.
He stood and moved through the house. It was simple: one main room, two smaller chambers, a kitchen that had never cooked yet smelled faintly of warm soup.
On the table lay two rings.
Plain. Unadorned. Unforged.
They were not artifacts.
They were intent.
Dino stared at them for a long moment, then turned away.
Outside, Luna stood at the edge of the cliff, her black dress unmoving despite the sea wind. Her white hair fell down her back like spilled moonlight, catching hues from moons that should not have been visible in daylight.
They were there anyway.
Gray Moon lingered faintly. Ancient Moon watched patiently. Divine Moon remained distant—but attentive.
And behind them all, unseen yet absolute
Black Hole. White Hole.
Not objects. Not powers.
Witnesses.
"You're awake," Luna said, without turning.
"I rarely sleep," Dino replied. "Old habits."
She glanced back at him, red eyes sharp but calm. "You slept longer than usual."
"…Did I?"
"Yes."
That unsettled him more than anything else so far.
He joined her at the cliff's edge. Below them, the sea reflected no sky—only depth. If one stared long enough, they would see moments they wished forgotten.
"I dreamed," Dino said quietly.
Luna raised an eyebrow. "That's new."
"I don't dream about the past," he continued. "I dream about futures that never happened."
She looked at him now.
"What did you see?"
He shook his head. "A house like this. Empty."
Luna's lips curved—not into a smile, but something close. "Then we're already changing it."
Silence followed.
Not awkward. Not heavy.
Comfortable.
That, too, was unfamiliar.
"You haven't asked," Dino said eventually.
"Asked what?"
"Why I chose to stop."
Luna leaned her elbows on the stone railing. "Because if I ask, you'll answer honestly."
"…Yes."
"And I'm not ready for that yet."
He chuckled softly. "Wise."
She studied him from the corner of her eye. "You've killed gods without lifting a blade. Erased worlds without hatred. Yet you hesitate over words."
"Words linger," Dino replied. "Blades don't."
Below them, the waves shifted.
For a brief moment, reflections appeared:
A battlefield without corpses. A throne without a ruler. A man standing alone as eternity passed him by.
Then they vanished.
Luna spoke again. "This house remembers you."
He frowned. "I've never been here before."
"That doesn't matter."
She turned to face him fully.
"The Black Shores don't remember where you were," she said. "They remember who you were when you arrived."
Dino met her gaze.
"…Then what do they remember of me?"
Luna stepped closer.
Close enough that the air changed.
"That you came here not as a weapon," she said softly, "but as a man who is tired of winning."
The words struck deeper than any attack ever had.
He looked away first.
Inside the house, something shifted.
The rings on the table warmed.
Far above, the moons adjusted their positions—not in response to power, but to choice.
Silver Moon brightened slightly. Mirror Moon reflected two silhouettes standing together. Holy Moon dimmed, satisfied.
Somewhere beyond existence, beings who once feared Dino felt something unfamiliar
Relief.
Luna turned back toward the sea.
"You don't need to decide anything today," she said. "This place isn't asking for vows."
He nodded. "Good. I'm bad at promises."
She smiled then—small, genuine.
"That's fine," she said. "I'm bad at believing them."
They stood together as the tide rose, neither touching, neither retreating.
Behind them, the house waited.
Not for conquest. Not for blood.
But for footsteps that would return.
End of Chapter 4