Night fell over the Ashborne Plains like a slow, suffocating curtain.
Stars were visible only faintly, obscured by drifting ash and the unnatural glow of the distant Spire of Judgment. Soltharion had not yet forgiven his defiance. Neither had the Radiant Dawn.
Kaelith walked alone. Each step carried the weight of hundreds of sins, many centuries old, each etched into his soul like scars that refused to heal. The burden was no longer abstract. It pressed against him, bending the ground beneath his feet as if reality itself acknowledged the immensity of what he carried.
And yet he did not falter.
Because someone must.
The village lay ahead, a collection of simple homes, farms, and narrow streets. Smoke rose lazily from chimneys, oblivious to the world's hidden fractures.
The Radiant Dawn had come before him, of course. They always did, eventually. But Kaelith had been waiting, watching from the shadows, calculating, learning.
Tonight, he would act—not to punish. Not to dominate.
To save.
He stepped into the village square just as the first patrol of knights raised their blades against a man accused of minor corruption—a merchant who had mismanaged taxes, nothing more.
The villagers watched, helpless, eyes wide with fear. Children clutched their mothers. The accused man trembled.
Kaelith spoke.
"Stop."
The knights froze, their swords halfway to their target. Their armor shimmered faintly in Lux's light, but their eyes betrayed confusion, a fleeting question: Who dares oppose divine will?
Kaelith raised both hands. Shadows pooled beneath him, thick and writhing, almost alive. The air vibrated with the weight of centuries of human cruelty—the sins that had been committed by those who called themselves righteous.
"Take it," Kaelith said softly, voice calm but commanding. "Everything you fear, everything you cannot bear… leave it with me."
The knights hesitated. Conflicted. They could sense the impossible burden he carried. Some felt it clawing at their minds, whispering truths they had buried under layers of virtue.
Kaelith's eyes glowed faint red as he absorbed their unspoken sins. Every thought, every concealed lie, every act of cruelty, every fear of failure—all flowed into him.
The first knight screamed as his memory of inflicting pain on innocents transferred into Kaelith. Then the second. Then all.
By the time he lowered his hands, the knights were on their knees, overwhelmed by the moral weight they no longer carried themselves. Their swords fell harmlessly.
The villagers stared in awe and terror. Some whispered his name—faintly at first—then louder. The Black Mercy.
Kaelith turned to the merchant. "You are free."
The man looked at him, confused. "I—I was going to be executed…"
"You were," Kaelith said. "But not anymore. Not while I carry what you cannot."
The man collapsed, weeping, as the village realized the miracle—or curse—that had occurred.
Kaelith did not smile. He did not linger.
Because the moment of mercy was also the moment of solitude.
Hours later, he sat atop a ridge overlooking the village. The sins he had absorbed throbbed inside him like a second heartbeat. He could feel them, a tide of anguish, despair, guilt, and fear.
He reached into the void within himself, organizing, binding, and labeling each burden so that none could break free. Each one made him heavier. Each one made him more… complete.
And yet, as complete as he became, a whisper echoed in the corners of his mind.
"Do you see now, Kaelith? Do you understand what it means to hold the world's sins?"
Null's voice. Patient. Cold. Watching. Waiting.
"Yes," Kaelith whispered. "I understand. And I will continue."
The first rays of dawn illuminated the village. Smoke drifted lazily from chimneys, children laughed quietly in the streets, and the Radiant Dawn's patrols remained paralyzed somewhere between obedience and fear.
The villagers would speak of him in hushed tones for generations, calling him a savior, a monster, a curse, and a mercy.
And Kaelith walked away, carrying sins no one else would touch, shouldering the unbearable weight of morality itself.
Every step made him heavier. Every breath reminded him of the life he had chosen.
But he did not look back.
Because to turn around was to falter.
And the world, fragile as it was, could not afford faltering.
Far above, the Spire of Judgment pulsed faintly. Somewhere deep in the archives, the Conclave whispered prayers that could not reach him.
And somewhere beneath the veil of reality, Null stirred.
It watched. Calculated. Learned.
The Black Mercy was moving.
And the world would never recover from what he had become.