Chapter 19: Alright (3:16)

The sky was wrong.

Not broken, not bleeding — just… wrong. The clouds did not move, the wind did not whisper, and even the sun above the Holy Capital seemed to hesitate.

At the center of that stillness stood Ouroboros — motionless, hands clasped behind his back, eyes cast downward as if the earth bored him.

And across from him stood Ardent Lysander, the Blessed Knight, Champion of Eldarion, the Unbroken Blade of the Divine.

The world watched. Or it would have, if the weight of these two beings hadn't bent perception itself.

Ardent gripped the hilt of his sword, Aetherbrand, and felt the blessings activate within him, flowing like ancient rivers.

•Blessing of Unyielding Body
•Blessing of Radiant Will
•Blessing of Flame Dominion
•Blessing of the Celestial Vanguard
•Blessing of Immutable Faith

Power surged. His armor shimmered with runes carved by saints. Each breath resonated with divine affirmation. He could feel the presence of the gods — watching, guiding, empowering.

He was their sword. Their justice. Their truth.

And yet…

A whisper.

Faint. Distant. Ancient. Inside him.

“You were not made for this.”

He pushed it down. He could not afford doubt. Not here. Not now.

Ouroboros lifted his gaze. His expression was unreadable — not hostile, not mocking. Simply tired.

“You wear power well,” he said. “But it’s not yours, is it?”

Ardent didn’t answer. He lunged.

Aetherbrand ignited with the fury of heaven, trailing divine flame as it swung toward the Conqueror. The impact split the earth — but Ouroboros was already gone.

He moved like it was inevitable. Without motion. Without sound.

Ardent spun, using Blessing of Rearguard Sight, anticipating the counterstrike.

He blocked. Barely.

Then retaliated.

Dozens of radiant blades formed around him, each guided by a separate divine hand. He became a whirlwind of glory, a temple of vengeance given form. The ground cracked beneath him, divine pressure shaking mountains miles away.

But Ouroboros only walked. Dismissing blows with the flick of a finger. Redirecting power with a glance.

Ardent screamed, driving a holy spear into the sky and calling down a rain of light.

•Blessing of Heaven’s Mandate.

The Conqueror did not look up. He did not need to.

The light… missed.

It bent away from him.

Ardent’s breathing quickened. Not from exertion — but from something worse. He didn’t know the name for it, not at first.

Then Ouroboros spoke. “I remember you.”

Ardent froze mid-strike.

Ouroboros’s voice was quiet. Patient. Like a man reading a ledger. “In another thread of reality. Another world. You stood in a silent chapel. Kneeling. Your head bowed, but your heart... loud.”

Ardent’s grip tightened on the sword. 

“You asked the High Seer why the innocent suffered if the divine was just. Do you remember his answer?”

Ardent said nothing.

“He said faith requires surrender.”

A pause.

 “You did not believe him.”

The blessings trembled inside him.

 “You obeyed,” Ouroboros continued, stepping closer, “but you doubted. You prayed harder. Trained harder. Not because you were devoted — but because you were afraid.”

“No,” Ardent breathed, his voice brittle.

“You knew the truth before I ever arrived. I am only here to finish what your mind began long ago.”

Aetherbrand flickered. The blessings shivered.

 “Do you know what a blessing is, Ardent?” Ouroboros asked.

The knight said nothing.

 “It is a leash. Velvet-wrapped. Gold-plated. But a leash.”

Ardent took a step back.

“You never forged your strength. You were handed it. And every miracle you’ve ever wrought was permission. Not conviction.”

“Shut up,” Ardent whispered.

 “You were never chosen. You were selected. There’s a difference.”

“Shut up.”

Ouroboros kept walking — calm, deliberate, unstoppable.

“And that night — in the chapel, when no one watched — you wept.”

Ardent collapsed to his knees.

The sword fell from his hand. His armor cracked — not physically, but symbolically.

The blessings evaporated.


Not stolen. Not sealed.

They left.

One by one, the lights dimmed. The gods turned away. Not in anger. But in disinterest.

Because he no longer believed.

“You were strong,” Ouroboros said, now standing over him. “But you were never whole.”

 “I didn’t destroy your faith, Ardent. I just confirmed your doubt.”

A single tear rolled down Ardent’s cheek as he stared at his trembling hands — empty, weak, human.

Ouroboros turned.

 “I remember,” he said coldly.“You were conflicted.”

Ardent Lysander remained kneeling long after the sky lost its color.

The winds no longer stirred.

The birds no longer sang.

Even the clouds seemed to vanish, as though this world had lost permission to have a sky.

He clutched the hilt of his broken sword, knuckles pale, breath shallow. The armor he once wore like a crown now hung on him like rusted grief. The runes had dimmed. The blessings were gone.

And more horrifying still—he did not miss them.

He looked up at the heavens. Nothing looked back.

No stars.

No sun.

Just a widening void.

It began not with fire or screams, but with forgetting.

Across the world, oceans stilled and turned to glass. Trees crumbled into ash without flame. Cities stood frozen in time, their people gazing skyward in uncomprehending awe as the light left their eyes and their names faded from the memory of existence itself.

There was no pain.

Only disconnection.

Unraveling.

The priests at the Temple of the Thirteenth Hour felt it first: the severing. Their gods — once loud in their minds — had gone silent. Not dead. Not banished.

Deleted.

The mages of the Grand Astral Spire watched their constellations vanish one by one, lines snapping like threads under invisible fingers.

The dragons of the Aether Peaks took to the skies and found there were none.

And at the center of it all, standing atop the last remaining spire of the Holy Capital, was Ouroboros.

He raised no hand.

He uttered no incantation.

He simply stood still — and in doing so, the universe unmade itself to honor his presence.

“This world,” he said aloud, voice soft, “was built on borrowed laws.”

He looked out over the dissolving horizon, watching reality collapse in perfect silence.

“And borrowed laws do not deserve legacy.”

Lightning cracked in the sky — but in reverse, splitting upward from earth into nothingness. Mountains flattened to dust, then to memory, then to absence. Seas were swallowed by the vacuum of concept. Suns dimmed as the idea of heat unraveled.

Planets. Moons. Names. Stories.

All unremembered.

All unneeded.

Only one fragment remained.

At the edge of this unraveling stood Ardent — alone, surrounded by the blank canvas of nonexistence. He watched as even the idea of ground beneath him flickered, then flickered again.

Ouroboros approached him — not walking, but arriving, like a thought fully formed.

“I failed,” Ardent said quietly, not in despair, but in understanding.

“No,” Ouroboros replied. “You were never meant to succeed.”

Ardent looked up. “Why destroy everything?”

Ouroboros tilted his head ever so slightly, as if surprised the knight still needed to ask.

 “Because nothing here was true.”

He extended his hand — not in malice, but in completion.

 “You lived your life by stories written by frightened gods. And now... I will give you the only gift they never could.”

Ardent blinked.

“Freedom?”

 “No,” Ouroboros said.“Closure.”

And with that, Ardent Lysander, the last echo of a dying universe, vanished.

Not into death.

Not into afterlife.

But into perfect, final silence.

In the end, there was only Ouroboros — and the void.

Not watching.

Not waiting.

Just existing, until something else dared to believe it mattered..


And with that, the Conqueror vanished, leaving this unmade universe behind.

Chapter 19: Alright (3:16) End