Chapter 19: Who are you?

Everything was dark.

Not just the absence of light—but the absence of existence itself.

An unfeeling, unending void.

And then—

There was awareness.

A distant pulse. A flicker. A consciousness drifting between the edges of something far older than thought itself.

Then, light.

But not from a source.

Not from a sun, nor a moon, nor fire, nor magic.

Just light beaming down from nowhere, illuminating a single throne.

And on it—

Sat her.

She was beautiful.

Unnaturally so.

A mirror of something familiar but warped in a way he couldn’t place.

His breath hitched, something clawing at the back of his mind.

“Eliza?” he rasped.

The woman tilted her head.

Then, she laughed.

Not a giggle.

Not a smirk.

A sound that echoed endlessly, bouncing back from nowhere, curling into itself like a thing that had never been meant for mortal ears.

“Nooooo,” she drawled, stretching the syllables, her grin widening, teeth just a little too sharp, her eyes burning too bright.

“I am not your precious Eliiiiiiza.”

The way she mocked the name, the way her voice coiled around it like a predator playing with its food—

Tenebrae stepped back.

And realized—

There was nothing.

Nothing to step back into.

No ground. No sky. No walls, no ceiling.

Just him, the throne, and her.

Floating in a sea of blackened eternity.

He swallowed. “…What are you?”

She leaned forward, her elbows on her knees, smiling wider.

“Mmm. Good question.”

She tilted her head the other way, humming.

“What am I?”

Her fingers tapped her chin.

“Am I someone from your past?”

A pause.

“Oooor… am I someone from your future?”

She grinned.

“I can’t tell.”

She waved a hand in lazy circles, brushing the question away.

“There’s a lot of souls floating around. Some of them can see a looooot of possibilities.”

Her eyes gleamed in amusement.

“Hard to say which is real.”

Tenebrae forced himself to steady his mind.

This place—it wasn’t normal.

It was stripping him down, piece by piece, unraveling his sense of self.

The longer he stood here, the more the boundaries of his existence felt… loose.

He clenched his fists.

He needed control.

“What were you thinking, doing that?”

Her voice cut through his thoughts.

He turned back to her, blinking. “…What?”

She sighed dramatically, draping herself over the throne like a bored queen addressing a foolish peasant.

“I mean, I have witnessed stupid kings. Wise kings. Idiot kings. Prideful kings.”

Her grin turned sharp.

“But never a king who has a complete disregard for his own life.”

His mind was still foggy.

His memories were slipping, unraveling, reshaping, as if he were living them all over again.

But not through his own eyes.

Like a voyeur of his past.

His stomach twisted. “I asked you a question.”

But she ignored him.

She was laughing again, shaking her head, rocking slightly on her throne.

“I mean, when it comes to the undead, I must say—” she paused, smirking, “—at one point, I thought you were impressive.”

Her eyes darkened.

“But what kind of undead forsakes death… and burns away themselves to save… what?

She ticked off her fingers.

“A fish.”

“A woman you kidnapped from another realm.”

“And—oh, this one is my favorite—a city full of people who hate you for completely destroying their faith and forcing them into nothing.”

Her grin widened.

“Remind me—how many years ago again? Refresh my memory. Time is—”

She rolled her shoulders, sighing.

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“Really, really funny here.”

She tapped her temple, her voice mocking, condescending, yet… agitated.

“Time… memories… and why can’t I see yours?”

He stiffened. “What?”

Her smile vanished.

Her expression turned serious.

Dead serious.

She leaned forward, her green eyes burning like twin lanterns in the dark.

“Your memories.”

Her voice was lower now. Dangerous. Intrigued.

“I should be able to see every last secret you have.

Even things you’ve kept from me.

But I can’t.”

Tenebrae took another step back.

She smirked.

Then, her face twisted into something sharp and manic, her lips peeling back in something not quite human.

“Everything becomes mine in death.”

Her voice cracked with frustration.

And he finally understood.

His breath hitched.

“…You’re the Crown.”

She stilled.

Then—

Slow, mocking applause.

“Awwww.”

She grinned.

“There you go, sport. Now you’re catching up.”

His chest tightened.

Everything made sense now.

She looked like Eliza. But she wasn’t.

Her hair was silver. Her eyes were like his.

But that was only a face the Crown had chosen.

Ten straightened.

Despite the emptiness beneath him, despite the nothingness crawling at the edges of his vision, he stood his ground.

“You’re my crown?”

She froze.

Then—her expression twisted.

She leaned forward, hands on her knees, eyes glowing brighter.

And she laughed.

But it was not amused.

Not kind.

Not teasing.

It was mocking.

“Yours?”

The word was dripping with offense.

“No, no, no, my dear king. More like—"

She gestured toward him.

“You are my ride.

She grinned, baring her teeth.

“You carry me until the next person does.”

Her head tilted.

“You kings are all so prideful.”

She gestured vaguely, pacing around him.

“You think wearing a crown on your head makes you a king.

So you have people carry you, serve you, praise you—and yet, you don’t see."

Her fingers curled.

Her voice sharpened.

“You are nothing more than a ride for the crown.”

She pointed to herself.

“And in time, I will find someone new to carry me around.”

Her eyes burned into his.

“And you will die. Like you should be doing now.”

The bitterness in her voice was undeniable.

And yet, something in her words sent a shiver through him.

He locked eyes with her.

“Should?”

She stopped.

“Yes. Should.”

Her fingers twitched.

“You should be dying. But for some reason, you’re not.”

Her tone darkened.

“And because I haven’t eaten every memory of yours, I can’t figure out why.”

Her hands clenched into fists.

“Which wouldn’t matter if I was able to eat your memories—"

Her voice cracked.

Her form flickered.

Something unstable. Twisted. Wrong.

She was sentient.

She was alive.

And this was her home.

The world around him shifted.

The darkness moved.

And suddenly—

He could see them.

The souls.

The ones absorbed over the years.

They were everywhere.

The souls of the Incubi and Succubi he had killed.

The souls of the priests and priestesses.

The ones he had butchered.

They were trapped.

Bound.

This was not a relic.

This was not just an artifact.

This is a new nightmare.

His chest tightened.

His sanity frayed.

And she laughed.

“Get comfortable,” she purred, stepping toward the throne.

Because I am going to hold you here…

A long… long time."

But time didn't exist.

Not in this place.

Not in this void.

Not in the realm where Tenebrae now lingered—trapped, suspended between nothingness and the madness of a sentient crown.

But in a place where time still ran forward, where the sun still rose and fell, and where mortals still wept for those they had lost—

Time dragged on in unbearable agony.

Eliza was still standing there, frozen, as the last remnants of the storm faded into the horizon.

She had watched him disappear.

Watched the sky consume him.

Watched the storm of holy fire purge the battlefield, swallowing hordes of demons in divine light—

And then it took him, too.

One moment, he was there.

Then—gone.

Just gone.

Not a body.

Not a whisper.

Not a trace.

Like he had never existed at all.

Her mind refused to accept it.

Her body refused to move.

She could feel the cold press of night against her skin, the soft whisper of wind in her hair, the trembling warmth of Opal gripping her hand—

But she could not breathe.

The battle had ended, but Eliza’s world had shattered.

A hum vibrated through the air.

A deep, resonating hum, not of magic nor voices, but of something beyond human comprehension.

The city had changed.

The very ground felt different, as though something sacred now pulsed beneath its streets.

The storm had calmed, and the sky had returned to its natural darkness, but the city itself—

It was bright.

Not from lamps, torches, or fire.

It glowed with an unseen force, something woven into its very being.

The people stood in awe.

Some watched in fear.

Some fell to their knees, whispering in reverence.

Some still looked at Eliza and Opal, not with anger anymore, but something else—something close to regret.

But it didn’t matter.

Eliza couldn’t hear them.

Opal had to pull her away.

The two of them walked out of that holy city, out of the place where Tenebrae had vanished.

And the people did not stop them.

Not because they were outsiders.

But because no one knew what to say.

No one could answer what had just happened.

No one understood what they had just witnessed.

Eliza’s body moved, but her mind did not.

She was not there.

The road stretched on, but she did not see it.

The voices around her whispered, but she did not hear them.

The world blurred.

Her limbs were numb.

The only thing that lingered was the last moment she saw him—

His smirk.

His wink.

His voice, powerful yet broken, calling down judgment upon the wicked.

Then—light.

Then—darkness.

Then—nothing.

She didn’t remember falling.

She didn’t remember the days that passed.

Because time didn’t exist.

Not until it came crashing back all at once.

She woke with a gasp.

Her body jerked upward, her hands clawing at the sheets, her chest rising and falling as if she had been drowning.

“Ten!”

She screamed before she could even think.

Her voice broke the silence.

Her heart raced.

She looked around frantically—

But he wasn’t there.

Only Zanac.

Only his silent, watching eyes.

Her breath hitched.

Her fingers gripped the blankets beneath her.

And in that moment—

She knew.

Zanac’s metallic frame shifted, his presence heavy.

She barely registered Opal at the doorway, hesitant, afraid.

Only Zanac’s voice reached her.

Slow. Measured.

As if speaking any faster would shatter her completely.

“Lady Eliza,” he murmured.

She swallowed.

Her voice came out hoarse, small, fragile.

“Where is he?”

Zanac hesitated.

Then—

He sighed.

And he told her everything.

“When we arrived at the city, we had to port on the outskirts because it had been sanctified. This means no undead, demons, or dark associates can enter easily for a time. The prince falls under that category. Under normal circumstances, an undead shouldn't be able to use divine magic. You see, my dear, Damocles is a Priest spell,” he explained, his voice low, reverent.

“A very powerful one.”

Eliza blinked through her haze, struggling to understand.

Zanac continued.

“The Prince was once a Priest before he became a Lich. And all High Priests of the 90th Degree are granted access to one divine beast."

He took a slow step forward.

“They do not choose the beast. The beast chooses them. It is a bond that only they understand.”

Eliza’s lip trembled.

Zanac’s voice softened.

“His… was Damocles.”

Her breath hitched.

“The Guardian of Heaven’s Armory. A living weapon."

“Sadly, it is poison for a divine weapon to touch an undead. Even casting divine spells as a Lich is painful."

His golden eyes dimmed.

“He was most likely giving himself the worst third-degree burns you will ever see just by speaking the words.”

Her breath shuddered.

“But that wouldn’t be a problem if he had his mana and passives up…”

Zanac sighed.

“Which means,” he confirmed, “he had no defense against any of the damage.”

Zanac paused.

Then—his gaze darkened.

“In the past,” he murmured, “I have only seen the young master attempt this spell once."

Eliza’s stomach twisted.

“And its failure was the reason he… chose to walk away from that path.”

Her fingers curled into the sheets.

She forced her voice to steady.

“What do you mean it failed?” she asked. “As in—it didn’t come when he called?”

Zanac nodded.

His golden eyes dimmed.

“But desperate times call for desperate measures. He was most likely giving himself the worst third-degree burns you will ever see just by speaking the words.”

Her breath shuddered.

“But that wouldn’t be a problem if he had his mana and passives up…”

Zanac sighed.

“Which means,” he confirmed, “he had no defense against any of the damage.”

Eliza’s hands trembled.

Her mind raced.

“But Damocles is powerful,” she whispered. “Even if it had come, even if he was weak, it still should have—”

Zanac cut her off gently.

“It’s a level 95 spell."

He exhaled.

“And it wouldn’t have mattered if it was level 50 against a level 80 demon. It would still… hurt.”

He looked down.

Then—

“I am sorry.”

Eliza broke.

The wail tore from her throat before she even knew she was screaming.

A sound of pure agony.

A grief so raw it rattled the castle itself.

She collapsed forward, her sobs violent, earth-shattering, her body curling in on itself as if she could force the pain away, force the truth to be anything but real.

Zanac did not touch her.

He only stood there.

Silent.

Watching.

Opal was crying now, too, though she barely made a sound, clinging to the doorway like a child afraid to enter a world too cruel.

And beyond them—

The Kingdom heard.

The walls trembled with her lamentations.

Aura, deep within her chambers, felt it.

Mirabella, tending to the wounded, froze, her stitches halting mid-thread.

Opal’s mother, in the depths of her imprisonment, looked up, recognizing the sound of a soul-shattering.

The very air of the castle seemed to hold it.

To weep with her.

To feel the weight of her sorrow.

Because this was not the cry of a woman who had lost a lover.

It was the cry of a woman who had lost everything.

And in the halls of the forsaken, beneath the crown of the dead, within the realm of a silent throne—

A Lich heard it, too.