[Chp 27] Zero's Decision

The weight of his decisions pressed down on Zero, each hour deepening the ache behind his eyes as he saw paths twisting into abysses, futures colliding in a blaze of uncertainty. His head pounded, a drumbeat of consequence. Zen's voice, calm amidst Zero's turmoil, broke the silence: "No need to overthink it, Zero... Whatever choice you make... I will follow." The words hung in the still air like fog. Zero stood in the center of his chamber—a simple space despite his title—with a single window letting in the soft, grey light of dawn, casting long streaks across the floor. The walls were bare except for the twin weapons mounted on the far end: the blade he had reforged in the fires of the Eighth Realm and the broken gauntlet he refused to repair, a symbol of what he had once been. He hadn’t slept. Not really. Dreams came in shards, each one a vision of Zarif’s final moments, or worse—a future where he became something far more terrifying. He had felt the Orb stir last night, pulsing like a heartbeat, whispering things he couldn’t unhear: What if you failed? What if you broke? What if the fire inside was never meant to warm the world, but to burn it? His fingers brushed over the desk where guild requests sat in neat piles. This morning was like any other in practice—sign off requests, reassign bounty work, scan for intel from neighboring outposts—but everything felt heavier, as if the world had shifted overnight and only he had noticed. Zero turned from the desk and moved to the basin near the window. Cold water splashed against his face, shocking him into a fragile clarity. He stared at his reflection in the cracked mirror: the blue in his eyes had deepened, almost like the fire inside was slowly overtaking him—not in rage, but in purpose. “Do you think he ever had days like this?” he asked aloud. Zen’s voice came from behind, distant but present. “Zarif? Every day. You just didn’t read about those parts.” Zero gave a faint, humorless smile. “Yeah. I figured.” He dressed slowly—not in his battle gear, nor the ceremonial robes he had worn as Guildmaster, but in a tunic and leather harness. Something simple. He fastened the belt, slid on his gloves, and tucked a small blade into his boot—not for battle, but for reassurance. Downstairs, the halls of the guild had begun to stir. Soft footsteps echoed, hushed conversations drifted in from the common hall, the kitchen clanged with activity. Zero passed servants and guards alike; they bowed and addressed him respectfully, but he barely heard them. He stopped by the main corridor, watching as two young initiates sparred in the training ring. Their footwork was sloppy, their strikes wide, but their determination was fierce. A flicker of warmth lit inside him. “I used to be like them,” he murmured. Zen appeared beside him, arms folded, eyes scanning the ring. “No. You burned twice as bright, even then. You just didn’t know it.” Zero didn’t answer. He stepped through the archway leading to the records chamber, descending the staircase into cooler air. Here, everything was quiet. Sacred. Hundreds of scrolls lined the shelves—records of missions, treaties, relic sightings. He walked past them all until he reached a sealed compartment. Inside rested the Orb fragment he had stabilized months ago. It pulsed faintly, a dull red beneath crystal glass. He stared at it, unmoving. “He touched this too,” Zero whispered. “The same force that nearly shattered him. And I—I just accepted it.” Zen’s voice was low now. “You didn’t just accept it. You changed it.” Zero turned, face taut. “Did I? Or is it just waiting for the moment I slip? The moment I become him?” Silence stretched between them, long and unyielding. Finally, Zen spoke. “Every power is a test, Zero. Zarif failed because he tried to end the test by rewriting the rules. You’re still trying to understand them. That’s why you’re different.” Zero took a breath, deep and steady. He placed a hand on the crystal casing, and for a moment, the Orb calmed—as if recognizing its wielder, not as a master, but as an equal. He left the chamber without a word. Back in the main hall, the guild bustled with life. Maps were being marked. Orders dispatched. Mercenaries haggled with diplomats over pay. Zero ascended the staircase and walked out onto the balcony that overlooked the central square. The Eighth Realm spread out before him, caught in the pale gold light of morning. Smoke curled from chimneys. Birds with ember-tipped wings soared lazily through the sky. The realm looked peaceful. Almost normal. But he could feel it—a pressure, distant but real, from beyond the borders. The pull of the Seventh Realm. It wasn’t just a realm. It was a memory waiting to be triggered. A war waiting to ignite. He exhaled slowly. Tomorrow, he would decide. Truly decide. But today, he would remember who he was—not just the inheritor of Zarif’s burden, not just the one who consumed the Orb. But Zero. The boy who survived the Ninth Realm. The fighter who kneeled to no one. The man who could still choose. He turned and descended the stairs, ready to face the rest of the day. Zero walked through the heart of the guild like a ghost among flames, a silent shadow threading through the clamor and heat of a world that moved on without him. The grand hall buzzed with life—a symphony of sound and scent and motion: warriors boasting with proud grins about dungeons conquered and monsters felled; healers bending over injured recruits, murmuring incantations and applying balms to cuts and bruises; merchants haggling furiously in shadowed corners, their voices sharp and greedy, rattling coins against rough wooden tables. Each faction lived in its own rhythm, bound together by unspoken loyalty and shared purpose. They all greeted him with respect—nods, smiles, even occasional words—but Zero responded with none of the warmth they offered. His acknowledgments were polite but distant, his eyes glazed with an internal tempest they couldn’t see. Not today. Not now. The air thickened with the rich aroma of flamefruit stew, bubbling warmly from the mess hall, while somewhere in the distance, a bard’s rough voice wove verses about a hero who defied the gods themselves—tales of bravery embroidered with hints of tragedy and legend. The words might have inspired another man, but Zero barely heard them. His thoughts drifted elsewhere, away from the bustle, away from the familiar, back to something far heavier—far more dangerous. The weight of a name, a legacy, and a force he barely understood yet bore within him pressed down like a stone in his chest. He imagined the words Iskar had once spoken, echoed in his mind with growing urgency, and most vividly, he saw again the impossible image of Zarif, battling Death itself—clashing with a shadow that swallowed worlds, a foe wreathed in despair and oblivion. Zarif’s veins had boiled with raw cosmic chaos, the Orb’s power coursing unchecked, a volatile tempest he could never fully control. Zarif had been brilliant, relentless… and broken. Zero clenched his fists, the leather of his gloves creaking softly. What was he to do with that same force? Would he be the salvation or the destruction? The guild’s training grounds lay ahead—a circle of polished obsidian, scorched here and there by past battles, black as the void itself. The sun filtered through high windows, casting shards of light that fractured like fractured hopes across the cold stone floor. As soon as his boots touched the obsidian, Zero felt the pulse ignite within him. His aura flared, vivid blue flames springing to life around his arms without conscious command—wild but purposeful, fierce but calm. Several trainees glanced up, eyes wide with a mixture of awe and fear. They knew who he was. They knew what he carried. Zero did not glance their way. He ignored the quiet hum of whispers trailing behind him. Today, there were no spectators. Today, there was only the fire—and him. He lifted a hand slowly, deliberately, as if beckoning unseen threads from the very air. The blue flames responded instantly, splitting into thin, delicate strands that floated and writhed like living things. Each strand danced with its own rhythm—some sharp and crackling, others slow and curling like smoke—but Zero did not let them merge into a singular blaze. Instead, he wove them. Not like Zarif, who had tried to force unity—fusing raw power into a searing storm that consumed everything around it—but like a master weaver at a loom, threading strands with patient care. Letting each flame retain its color, its chaos, its wild heartbeat, all entwined in perfect harmony without losing their individuality. The flames twisted through the air with an elegant grace, arcs curving in patterns only Zero could see—motions that spoke of ancient dances and forgotten rituals, a blend of martial discipline and elemental mastery. He moved slowly, deliberately, each gesture both art and command, a symphony conducted with hands and spirit. The strands of flame spiraled upward, weaving circles that encircled his body but never touched his skin. His expression remained serene, devoid of strain or battle-readiness; it was instead peaceful, curious—as if the flames themselves were an old friend he was rediscovering. For a long moment, he stood like that, wrapped in spirals of living fire, an island of calm in a sea of chaos. Then, as he drew one arc wide—allowing a ribbon of flame to cross his chest and spiral outward toward the edge of the ring—a flicker caught the corner of his eye. Something unusual, something unexpected. A single, brief spark—white. It shimmered at the heart of the blue arc like a pulse, a breath of light unlike any flame Zero had ever seen. The white spark blinked and vanished before he could focus on it fully, too fast, too subtle for even him to grasp in its entirety. Zen, who had been leaning casually against a nearby pillar, straightened abruptly, eyes narrowing. He watched with quiet intensity, every muscle alert. That brief flicker—he had seen it too. Zero remained unaware. He continued his motions, gathering the threads inward now, weaving the flames into a ring suspended above his head. The ring pulsed gently before he let it collapse slowly into soft embers that drifted to the ground like dying stars. All around him, silence reigned. No one spoke. No feet shuffled. Even the wind held its breath, as if the world itself respected the fragile moment. Zero stood motionless in the center of the scorched training ring, eyes closed, inhaling a quiet breath. The blue flames vanished, leaving only the faint scent of ozone lingering in the air. Zen said nothing. Not yet. The moment had passed, delicate and ephemeral, and he did not want to interrupt it with uncertainty or suspicion. Instead, he let the silence stretch a little longer, feeling a seed of unease settle deep within him. White flame... That had not come from the Orb. And it certainly had not come from Zarif. The thought echoed through Zen’s mind like a warning bell. He pushed himself off the pillar and walked toward Zero as the latter slipped his gloves back on and prepared to leave. The shadows beneath the courtyard’s arches stretched long, but Zen’s gaze was sharp, unwavering. Zero turned, catching the movement out of the corner of his eye. “Something wrong?” he asked, voice calm but cautious. Zen smiled faintly—a small, knowing curve of lips, neither comforting nor cold. “Not yet,” he replied. “Just… keep practicing like that. It suits you.” Zero gave a single nod and left the courtyard without another word, his footfalls light, his mind—remarkably—calm for the first time that morning. Zero returned to his chamber just as the sun began to slip low, the dying light painting long shadows across the cold stone floors and barren walls; the day outside still hummed with life, but inside, the air was heavy with quiet, and when the door closed behind him with a firm click, it sealed him away from the noise and expectation that waited beyond. His eyes immediately sought the cloak he carried—a heavy, oppressive thing folded neatly across the bed as if waiting—the cloak Voragoth had given him, the symbol of power and dominance, the mark of his position as right hand to a master whose will was iron and whose gaze never softened; it was more than cloth—it was a burden woven into thread, a weight that pressed down on his shoulders whether he wore it or not. Zero sank the cloak flat against the fabric of the bedspread, his fingers lingering over the coarse embroidery that gleamed faintly in the fading light—the sigil of the Ember Throne, sharp and unyielding like a blade—and he stared at it long and hard, memories swirling around the edges: the cold smile of Voragoth, the whispered commands, the countless days and nights he had spent carrying a crown forged in cruelty and fire. The cloak was a lie—a lie disguised as power—because power given by Voragoth was a chain, a noose wrapped tight with expectations of obedience and blind loyalty; the cloak had marked Zero as a weapon, a tool wielded for conquest and control, its fabric soaked with the blood and fear of those crushed beneath Voragoth’s ambition. Zero’s breath was shallow as he reached for a nearby brazier, still smoldering faintly from a dying ember; without hesitation, he folded the cloak and laid it carefully atop the coals, the cloth hissing and catching flame in a sudden blaze of fire that roared to life in the quiet chamber, the smell of burning fabric filling the air—sharp, acrid, and cleansing. As the flames consumed the cloak, Zero watched with a mixture of fury and relief, the heat searing away the last remnants of Voragoth’s grip; each thread that turned to ash was a step away from a past he refused to wear any longer. The fire crackled softly, casting flickering shadows that danced across his face, revealing the hard lines carved by years of conflict and quiet defiance. When the last ember died, leaving only a pile of smoldering ashes, Zero turned away from the bed and crossed the room toward his closet, the heavy wooden doors creaking open to reveal a stark contrast: rows of simple, worn clothing—armor pieces, sturdy boots, and among them, a solitary cloak that spoke of a different kind of path. He reached for it—a dark hooded cloak, rough in texture, weathered by countless journeys and battles fought not for crowns or thrones, but for survival and freedom; the fabric was coarse, but durable, stitched with care by hands that valued function over grandeur, its deep charcoal shade absorbing the remaining light in the room, a shadow within shadows. This cloak was his own. He pulled it from its resting place and let it fall over his shoulders, the hood slipping up to obscure the lines of his face; it was lighter, freer, a symbol not of dominance but of choice, of self-determination. Zero stood before the empty space where the burning cloak had been, feeling the weight lift and shift, the new cloak not a sign of submission or ambition but a banner of rebellion, a shield for the uncertain path ahead. He moved to the window and pulled back the heavy drapes, letting the last rays of sunlight wash over him; outside, the realm stretched wide and wild, full of danger and opportunity, of enemies waiting in the shadows and allies yet to be found. For the first time in a long time, Zero’s heart did not feel shackled; the ashes of the old were scattered behind him, the future lay before him, cloaked not in fire and tyranny, but in quiet strength and possibility. He breathed deeply, feeling the cloak settle around him like a second skin. Tonight, the world might still burn—but he would choose how to stand in the flames. The night’s chill seeped into Zero’s bones as he stood silent atop the watchtower, the vast expanse of the Eighth Realm spread beneath him like a shattered mosaic. But his thoughts were far from the present—pulled back to memories that burned with equal parts warmth and sorrow. He remembered the Ninth Realm, the place where his fate had been forged in fire and shadow. The harsh land where Kaku, the towering warrior, and Malik, fierce and untamed, had once trained him—guides whose presence had shaped the boy into the man he was becoming. But after the Ninth Realm collapsed in ruin, after the skies bled and the ground cracked open, Kaku and Malik had vanished like smoke on the wind. No word, no sign. Presumed dead, swallowed by the chaos. Zero had been left alone. The weight of their absence settled heavy in his chest—a ghost ache, a wound unseen but deeply felt. He recalled the early days of his training beneath their watchful eyes. Kaku’s steady voice instructing him to flow with the flame, not fight it. Malik’s sharp lessons, harsh but necessary, pushing Zero beyond his limits. The fire that raged within him then was wild and untamed, threatening to consume everything around. Countless times, Zero lost control, the flames exploding beyond reason, turning his strength against him. Each failure left scars, but also lessons carved deep into his soul. And then, the collapse came. A storm of destruction that shattered the realm, and with it, his mentors. Years later, left to wander the broken lands, Zero faced the flames alone. No guidance, no counsel. Only the endless struggle within himself. It was in that solitude that he discovered the Instinct Veil—not taught, not given, but born of survival. A veil that allowed him to slip through attacks before they landed, to see a heartbeat into the future, to unravel the strengths and weaknesses of any foe in a single glance. This secret power became his shield and sword. Now, gazing out across the Eighth Realm, Zero carried not only the weight of his own legacy but the unspoken memory of those lost guides. Their fate a mystery, their lessons a silent echo driving him forward. He turned to Zen, the only constant in the shifting shadows. “They’re gone,” he said quietly. “But their fire lives on—in me.” Zen’s hollow eyes met his with unyielding steadiness. “Then it falls to you,” Zen replied. Zero nodded, resolve hardening like tempered steel. “Tomorrow,” he said, “I face the Seventh Realm. Not as a weapon forged in conquest, but as a guardian born of loss and choice.” Zero’s days of quiet in the Eighth Realm have come to an end. Now, the unforgiving trials of the Seventh Realm await him.