Chapter 14 – Speaking With the Unknown (2)

"What do you want from me?" he growled, voice cracking under the strain of weariness and restrained anger.

The figure ahead didn't answer.
But it pulsed.
Not like a living being, but like a will.

It was impossible to truly see it — it shimmered, as if reflected by water — but Ezra felt it, always. Its silhouette always returned, and he could feel its formless eyes piercing through him.

It pulsed again, and Ezra had the distinct feeling that it… smiled.
Without a mouth.
Without a face.
But it smiled.

As if to say: "You know."

Ezra bit his lower lip. His throat burned, as if it were about to swallow a scream long buried.

"Give it up," he said, voice hoarse, weak. "I don't intend to go back."

The void responded with a faint tremor, almost imperceptible. As if the world itself were holding its breath.

"There's nothing good in that place." He lowered his eyes. "Only pain. Only lies."

'Are you sure?'

The voice didn't come from outside. Not from the figure.
It came from within.
From somewhere too deep. Too long forgotten.

Ezra blinked. "Of course I'm sure," he said, trying to sound firm. "What would I gain by going back?"

Silence returned — but now it wasn't empty. It was thick. Heavy. As if time itself were listening.

'Wouldn't you see your friends again? Your family?'

The words struck like shards of glass.

Ezra stepped back. "The friends... who lied to me?" he whispered. "Who used up everything I had and left me with nothing?"

He laughed. A dry, broken sound.
"They don't deserve to be called that anymore."

A gentle wind swept through the void, carrying shattered memories like leaves in an endless autumn.

'And your family?'

Ezra closed his eyes. For a moment, everything trembled.
He remembered things he would've preferred left buried — the warmth of a mother's embrace, lost before it even became memory. The contempt in the eyes of the one who bore him. The envy of a brother who smiled outwardly while sinking his teeth in behind closed doors.

When he opened his eyes, something had shifted. For a moment, they glowed with a faint fury — restrained, but alive — like an ember on the verge of reigniting.

"Family…" he spat the word, each syllable like glass in his mouth. "The ones who killed me?"

The silence that followed wasn't absence — it was accusation.
It was provocation.
A whispered invitation, spoken with the patience of centuries.

'So… you don't want revenge?'

Ezra hesitated. For an instant, the question hung in the air like a coin spinning on its edge.

This silence wasn't peace. It was uncertainty — a space where the answer struggled to be born, and he feared what it might say.

"Revenge…" he murmured, almost without meaning to. His voice faltered, choked.
"And what would it bring me? Satisfaction? No. Just more emptiness. Maybe more pain. It doesn't fill anything. It only digs deeper."

He began to walk. Or perhaps the world began to turn. It was hard to tell.
The ground was made of thought. The mist, of memory.
The air, of expectation.

"Even if I wanted it… even if I chose to chase it…" his throat tightened, "…what good would it do? Where would I get the power? I'm just… me."

And that's when he realized — he wasn't speaking to himself anymore.

The presence ahead was no longer just a shadow or a suggestion. It was revealing itself. It drew closer — not with sound, nor with movement. It didn't float, it didn't walk — it was. And with that, the distance between them shrank.

Now, Ezra saw it clearly. A form made of solid light.

Ezra felt his spine lock into place. His heart — which no longer beat for hope — quickened. The mist around him reacted to his breath, pulsing in time with him.
Alive. Alert.

Then it happened.
Something inside him stirred.
Not anger. Not fear.
Desire.
But he couldn't bring himself to say it aloud.

He stepped back. Eyes locked on the figure. "Who are you?" he whispered. "Are you… the Law?"

The figure didn't respond immediately. But its eyes — or what served as eyes — lit up.
A glow that seemed to burn ancient letters and primal symbols. A language not spoken, but felt against the skin.

And then, without sound, without a mouth, the answer entered his mind:

"Me?"
"I am one of those you would call Legislators. But in your tongue, perhaps Usurpers is more fitting…"
The figure tilted slightly, as if smiling.
"Or… how about Demon?"

Ezra clenched his fists.
"So that's it?" — his voice trembled, but stood firm. "You've come to tempt me with power? To make me sell my soul for revenge?"

The figure didn't move.
But Ezra felt a subtle wave of warmth around him — a pressure that hovered between threat and tease.

"I haven't come to offer. Not yet, anyway. I came to ask."
"Why do you still hold on?"

Ezra blinked.
"What?"

"Why do you insist on breathing, when you've already lost everything?"
"Why do you still draw symbols on invisible walls?"
"Why do your eyes still search the darkness, even when you claim you don't want to see?"

Ezra tried to answer, but the words caught in his throat. 'Yes… why?'

Why did he still dream of that golden light?
Why did he still hear the voice of the Law in his nightmares?
Why, despite everything, did something inside him refuse to go dark?

"I… I don't know." His voice came out ragged. "Maybe… maybe I just haven't accepted that it's over."

The figure seemed to draw closer, though it did not move.

"Nothing ends… until you understand why it began."

Ezra felt his mind reel. This wasn't just a conversation — it was a trial.
A sentence etched into his chest.

And for the first time since the day of the betrayal, he felt something that resembled hunger.

But he still didn't trust it. Not that thing.
"And what do you get out of this?" he asked, eyes locked onto the figure. "What do you want?"

And for the first time, the entity answered clearly:

"I want what still holds value within you, Ezra Ashenguard."
"Before it becomes nothing but void."