The night air hit hard.

Cold, gritty, too quiet. The kind of quiet that didn't last long in places like this. Rathan, Merlin, stumbled forward, dragging the chain still loosely shackled to one wrist.

The village ahead looked asleep. Lanterns dimmed, windows shuttered, no signs of soldiers or warnings.

Just normal people.

Too normal.

Merlin's pulse ticked fast behind his teeth. His breath burned like he hadn't used it in years. He blinked, once, then again.

'They don't know what's coming.'

His feet kept moving, boots scraping uneven stone. His head still rang from the shackles, from the years, from the sound of Cas and Arlen screaming while they died.

He reached the first house.

A boy stood outside it. Small. Shirt too big. Dirt on his cheek, hands behind his back, just… standing there. Watching.

"Who're you?" the boy asked.

Merlin froze.

'Don't answer. Don't—'

Rathan answered.

"Move."

The boy blinked. "You okay?"

"I said move."

The kid did. Slowly. Not from fear. From confusion.

'He doesn't get it,' Merlin thought. 'He thinks I'm just lost.'

Rathan's hand lifted. A flick of his wrist. Mana surged, not bright, not flashy. A low hum of heat.

The fence behind the boy caught fire. It didn't explode. Just burned. Steady and consuming.

The boy turned, screamed, and ran.

The rest of the village started waking up.

Doors opened.

Voices rose.

Then the first scream came.

A real one.

High. Choked.

Rathan had stepped toward the second house. A man, maybe a farmer, stood in the doorway, holding a pan.

Not a weapon. Just the first thing he'd grabbed.

"Get back!" the man yelled. "Who are you?"

Rathan didn't stop walking.

The man stepped forward. "I said back!"

Rathan's hand didn't tremble. The mana was already there.

He raised it.

The bolt didn't blast, it pierced. Clean. Through the chest.

The man dropped.

His wife ran out next. Her hands smeared with flour. She knelt beside him, sobbing, not looking at Rathan.

Rathan didn't stop.

He walked past.

'Stop,' Merlin thought, chest clenching. 'You're done. You got out. They're not soldiers. Just—stop.'

But Rathan didn't.

He kicked in the next door.

Three inside. A couple and their teenage daughter. The father reached for a blade above the mantle.

He never made it halfway.

The ceiling split open with the second blast. Wood rained down.

The mother crawled. The girl screamed.

The chain around Rathan's wrist swung wide as he raised his arm again. Blood sprayed the wall.

The fire from the fence had caught the corner of the barn now.

Smoke rolled in. Animals screeched from their pens. Some bolted into the street.

Merlin's breath stuck in his throat. His vision blurred, not from tears. From disbelief.

'You're not killing soldiers,' he thought. 'You're not making a point. You're tearing the world down because it let you suffer.'

The fourth house didn't open fast enough.

Rathan hit it with a full blast of pressure. The door exploded inward.

The child inside ran.

The mother followed.

The father tried to shield them with his body.

It didn't help.

Not from the heat. Not from the weight of one man who had waited years for someone to scream the way he once had.

The whole street was burning now.

Voices mixed, shouting, crying, begging.

Some ran. Some fought.

None succeeded.

Rathan moved like he had nothing left to lose. Because he didn't.

Merlin followed him step by step, trapped in the motion, in the memory.

'You wanted vengeance,' he thought. 'You got it. This is what it looks like when there's no one left to forgive you.'

Rathan slowed as the bell tower collapsed. A beam cracked, tumbled through the roof, and sent stone scattering across the square.

He stood in the wreckage. No expression. No hesitation.

Just breath.

Finally, he spoke.

"Too late."

His voice was low. Empty.

"You should've left the doors open."

The air was ash now. Everything smelled like the end of a fire, wet wood, burned skin, blood cooked too long.

Rathan turned toward the hill outside the village.

And walked away.

Not proud.

Not slow.

Just done.

Merlin followed him in silence.

The flames behind them didn't ask for anything.

They already had enough.

—

It didn't stop with the village.

It never did.

The next town was bigger. Brick walls. Actual guards. Banners hanging from street lamps, half torn, half faded. None of it mattered.

The guards died first.

Fast.

Rathan didn't give speeches. He didn't yell. No declarations. Just one step at a time, one pulse of mana after another. Like a craftsman, not a warrior. Like he'd done this so many times he'd stopped counting.

Merlin watched from behind his own eyes, throat tight. 'This isn't righteous. It's not vengeance. It's just math now. One plus one equals dead.'

The children didn't scream the way the adults did.

Some didn't scream at all.

Most just stood frozen, too young to understand what dying looked like until it was too late.

A woman grabbed Rathan's arm once. Screaming, sobbing, holding onto his robe with both fists.

He didn't hit her.

He just touched her chest, and she went still.

No wound.

No blood.

Just collapsed.

Merlin's jaw clenched. 'You're not feeling anything, are you? Not even satisfaction.'

And he was right.

Rathan didn't flinch, didn't smile, didn't change pace.

Not once.

The towns started to blend. A farmhouse here, a checkpoint there. Soldiers trying to rally, civilians trying to run. All the same.

The sounds never changed. Screams. Fire. Stone cracking. Wood splitting.

But the looks in their eyes did.

They stopped seeing him as human.

And Rathan didn't argue.

He didn't even acknowledge them anymore.

Merlin felt it burning in his ribs, the exile's memory, the years of torture, the endless restraint. And now? All that rage was just echoing in a body that couldn't forget what it lost.

'You weren't saving yourself. You were proving the world wrong. That it ever thought you could be anything else.'

Another flash.

Different village. Snow on the rooftops. Smoke already in the chimneys. Winter festival banners hung from poles.

Children played in the square.

He burned it anyway.

No difference.

Merlin screamed inside his own skull, but the sound didn't escape. It couldn't. The memory held him tight. No mercy. No breaks.

Another flash.

This time a temple.

A priest begged.

Said Rathan's name.

It didn't help.

Rathan killed him last.

Not out of cruelty.

Out of order.

Like he'd made a list, and the priest was just last.

Merlin's hands trembled. Not Rathan's. His.

Inside.

'When does it stop? When do you let it go?'

But the memory had no answer.

Only more towns.

More fire.

More broken windows.

More people running from a name they never got to learn.

At some point, Rathan walked past a well. Blood pooled beside it. He looked down and saw his reflection.

He didn't recognize it.

Neither did Merlin.

'That's not me. That's not me. That's not—'

[The Crownless Mother watches.]

[The Smiling Witness does not blink.]

[The Judge with No Mouth writes nothing.]

[Observer Count: 66.]

The system pinged.

Merlin staggered inside the memory.

Not physically.

Not externally.

Just soul-deep.

'They're still watching. Still scoring me. Like this is some kind of trial. Is that what you wanted, Rathan? You wanted them to see what you became?'

Rathan stared down at the blood-streaked road in front of him.

Behind, an entire district burned.

Smoke curled into the sky like the only prayer the dead had left.

And ahead?

Another town.

Another set of doors that wouldn't be open fast enough.

Merlin didn't blink.

He couldn't.

Because if he blinked, he'd see himself in Rathan again.

And the worst part was…

He already did.

—

The forest didn't speak anymore.

Even the birds avoided it. No nests. No tracks. Just dead leaves stacked like forgotten time. Trees stood like statues. Gray, motionless. Even the wind didn't bother.

And at the center—

Rathan sat.

Not meditating. Just… sitting. In silence.

A small fire cracked in front of him. Not for warmth. Just habit.

He looked older now. Not just in his body. In the way he moved. The way he didn't. The way his eyes didn't follow anything anymore, like there was nothing left worth tracking.

Merlin felt it in his spine. 'Years. It's been years. This isn't revenge anymore. This is all he knows.'

He sat under a tree. One leg bent. The other stretched out. His coat was worn, covered in soot. His hands were scarred raw. The fingers didn't straighten all the way. One eye had stopped blinking properly.

But he was still alive.

That was the problem.

The fire popped. Something in the branches above shifted.

Then—

A voice.

"You've done enough."

Plain. Tired. But human.

Merlin turned Rathan's head toward it. Slow. Like looking wasn't a decision anymore, just a reflex.

A man stood between the trees. Robes, yes. Old. Simple. No glow. No crown. Just lines in his face and dust on his boots.

Behind him: two more. One woman. One barely visible. They didn't pose. They didn't announce. They just watched.

"You're late," Rathan said. Voice cracked. Unused.

"You didn't want us sooner."

He snorted once. "You didn't try."

The first god stepped closer. Not glowing. Not intimidating. Just there. A presence that didn't demand attention, it just didn't leave space for anything else.

"We did. You killed every one we sent."

Merlin blinked. 'He killed their avatars? Or their priests?'