The road was silent.

Too silent.

Only the dull rhythm of the wheels grinding through wet soil dared to break the stillness. The horses snorted every now and then, hooves splashing into deep puddles as rainwater collected in the grooves of the muddy road. The sky above sagged under the weight of swollen gray clouds—like bruises waiting to split open.

Inside the merchant's carriage, the air was heavy with damp and the scent of rotting fruit.

Luther sat near the back, elbow braced against the small window frame, his chin resting on his hand. His eyes were half-lidded—neither tired nor awake, just… empty. Wind slipped through the cracks, biting cold and smelling faintly of pine and wet bark. He didn't mind. The chill at least made him feel something.

The silence stretched on, longer than comfort should allow.

He could hear the faint groan of the carriage with every rock in the path and could almost count the seconds between each creak. His gaze drifted lazily to the fogged glass. Outside, raindrops began to form—slow, deliberate, as if the sky was hesitating—before suddenly breaking into a furious downpour.

Thunder cracked overhead.

The storm's rhythm drowned every other sound in the world.

Luther exhaled a long, quiet breath and muttered under it,

"Just like the gods. Always waiting for the world to break before pretending to care."

Across from him, Alina sat with her hood drawn low, the shadow covering most of her pale face. Her fingers twisted together—the restless, nervous habit of someone trying to keep herself from falling apart. Every so often, her shoulders trembled, and Luther didn't need to see her eyes to know she was crying.

Not loud tears—no sobs or shaking breaths. Just quiet, hopeless tears that sank inward, that didn't stop even after they dried.

He didn't say anything.

What was there to say?

Words didn't help when the world itself had gone silent.

The space between them was filled with the sickly-sweet scent of crushed fruit—apples and pears packed tightly in crates. It almost mocked the mood: a scent too cheerful for the grief sitting between them.

The merchant up front hummed occasionally, perhaps to chase away the oppressive quiet. His off-key tune blended with the rain like a fading memory of something warm.

A bolt of lightning tore through the clouds. The thunder's growl followed, rolling across the sky like something alive. Water streamed down the window, turning the outside world into a blur of gray and silver.

Luther's reflection blinked back at him—pale skin, dark hair sticking slightly to his face, and gold eyes dimmed to bronze. He didn't recognize the man staring back. He looked older, worn, like someone who had seen too much and felt too little.

He sighed, the sound drowned out by the storm.

His gaze dropped to his lap—to the black crystal resting there.

Its surface pulsed faintly, irregularly.

Like a dying heartbeat.

Every flicker drew something sour into his chest—guilt, anger, regret—all tangled together until they were indistinguishable.

He clenched his jaw.

Why did you have to follow me too?

His thoughts pulled him back to Noia Town—the silence after the screams, the ashes that refused to settle. When it was over, when the air had cleared and the blood had stopped steaming, the sky had returned to its calm, perfect blue. The birds had sung again.

As if nothing had happened.

As if the gods had simply decided to turn the page.

Luther's knuckles went white around the crystal.

When the world dies, they look away. But when they're praised, they smile.

He chuckled under his breath—humorless, bitter.

"Disgusting."

The demonic sword lying beside him under a sheet of cloth gave a faint hum but didn't speak. Even it knew better than to interrupt him when he sounded like that.

He turned his gaze to the rain again, and for a moment—just a moment—he let himself imagine.

Noia Town, not as it ended, but as it might have been.

He pictured children running between narrow streets, the smell of baked bread spilling from open windows, and laughter echoing through stone walls. He could almost hear the vendors shouting prices at each other, arguing over whose vegetables looked fresher.

A girl with ribbons in her hair ran past, balancing a tray of pastries too large for her arms.

The little girl who came to give him the rose.

She had smiled once.

At him.

What was her name again?

The image flickered, then shattered.

The laughter was gone. The streets were mud and ash now.

The air stank of smoke and death.

Noia Town was silent—hollow.

He pressed his fingers to his temple. The ache behind his eyes throbbed in rhythm with the crystal's pulse.

Then, slowly, another vision formed—not from memory, but from the present.

The sky above Noia Town's ruins was pale, colorless—like it had forgotten how to be blue.

Liliana stood at the edge of what used to be the town's main street, her cloak soaked through, clinging to her armor. The knights behind her moved in silence, their boots sinking into the wet ground. No words were spoken; even their breaths came shallowly, as if they feared to disturb the dead.

The once-beautiful town was gone.

Only fragments remained.

Half-burned doors, shattered roofs, the black skeletons of homes. The wind carried a bitter scent—scorched stone and something faintly metallic.

Liliana knelt beside a broken fountain. The statue at its center, once of a child holding a bird, had melted from heat and the acid rain. Water trickled weakly from the cracks, mixing with soot. She reached down and touched the surface—it was still warm.

Her lips parted, as if she wanted to say something but held back.

Her voice trembled.

Behind her, one of the knights—a young man with trembling hands—muttered, "Count Liliana… should we… gather the remains?"

She didn't look at him. Her eyes stayed on the ruined fountain.

"Leave them. This town doesn't need graves."

The knight lowered his head. "Then… what should we tell the capital?"

Liliana rose slowly, turning her gaze toward the far horizon—the same direction the merchant's carriage was traveling. Her voice was flat, stripped of all softness.

"Tell them Noia Town no longer exists."

The wind blew through the hollow streets, scattering soot into the air.

And in that gray haze, Luther's voice lingered faintly—not as a memory, but as a thought that refused to die.

---

Noia Town.

Soon, they'll just call you a ghost story.

His voice in his head was quiet, bitterly calm.

"A ghost town. A place that once was, but isn't anymore. A warning for travelers… a bedtime story for children."

He could almost hear the voices of passing guards from some distant future, laughing over their campfire:

'That's the place, isn't it? The ghost town?'

'Aye, cursed ground. Best keep clear.'

And that was how the world forgot.

First tragedy, then whispers.

Then nothing.

One day, people would pass by and say, "Oh, there used to be a town here once, didn't there?"

The rain had thinned to a drizzle now, the clouds lightening. Luther's reflection stared back at him from the glass—tired, eyes ringed with gold, lips parted slightly in a grimace.

He looked down at the crystal again. Its pulse had steadied, faint and stubborn.

You're still alive, he thought bitterly. Even when the people you came from aren't.

He wanted to throw it—to hurl it into the mud and never look back.

But he didn't.

He couldn't.

He still didn't know what it was.

And deep down, he knew throwing it away wouldn't wash off the guilt.

The carriage lurched suddenly as it hit a rut. Alina gasped, clutching the seat.

"Sorry," came the merchant's voice from outside. "Didn't see that hole."

Luther muttered, "Figures," under his breath, earning a quick confused glance from Alina.

He ignored it.

He leaned back again, arms crossed, letting his head rest against the wall of the carriage.

His thoughts whispered like ghosts.

The sky rumbled in faint mockery, as if even the heavens found humor in his misery.

He closed his eyes, whispering dryly, "You gods really enjoy watching us suffer, don't you?"

The sword beside him vibrated faintly, finally daring to speak in a hushed tone, "Technically… that's their job."

Luther cracked one eye open, his tone flat.

"Then they're overachieving."

The sword let out a nervous hum, pretending to fall silent again.

Luther exhaled a slow, tired laugh and shook his head.

Even in the dark, the humor helped—a flicker of normal in the chaos.

He turned his gaze upward through the small slit in the roof. The clouds had begun to part slightly, revealing faint traces of dying sunlight. The light caught his face, and for a fleeting second, his sky-blue irises gleamed—sharp, furious, alive.

He hated that he still needed the gods—their games, their answers.

But he wasn't done yet.

Not until he knew why.

The carriage slowed as they reached a fork in the road. The merchant's voice called out, "We'll stop here for a while. Roads are washed ahead."

Luther nodded faintly but didn't move.

He stared out the window once more, watching the rain drip lazily from the leaves.

His reflection looked back at him—tired, bitter, unyielding.

He whispered, more to himself than anyone else.

"I hate this damn world."

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