CHAPTER 68: IS THERE AN ABYSS IN THE ABYSS ? - 3

Azareel stepped back slightly, his bare feet cold on the polished surface, his torn white tunic fluttering in the stale air, an unspoken urge to shield the women rising in his chest, though their monstrous strength dwarfed his own.

Then—

A pair of eyes bloomed into view, twin stars igniting in the darkness, glowing with a milky blue light that shimmered with unnatural calm—not hostile, not kind, but empty, a gaze that pierced the void like a judgment from a forgotten god.

The women tensed, Nyxsha’s claws flexing with a metallic shink, Virelya’s coils tightening, her blades glinting, Sylvara’s vines creeping forward, their tips trembling as they brushed against something unseen.

"Don’t," Virelya hissed, her voice a sharp whisper, her golden eyes locked on the glowing orbs. "Wait."

But Sylvara didn’t stop, her face pale but resolute, her jaw tight, her amber eyes blazing with a mix of fear and determination.

Her vines brushed against something—tall, cold, still—and the glow spread, revealing the figure in fragments, like a nightmare piecing itself together under the berry’s fragile light.

It had been a man, once, but now it was a grotesque parody of humanity.

Its gaunt frame draped in tattered remnants of a white robe that clung like whispers of lost grace, frayed and stained with the ash of centuries.

Its skin was pale, moon-bleached and stretched tight over brittle bones, black veins webbing beneath like cracked ink frozen mid-flow, pulsing faintly with a sickly rhythm.

One wing extended from its back—pure, pristine, feathery and white, angelic in its radiance, catching the berry’s light like a beacon of forgotten divinity.

The other was a jagged limb of bone and abyssal flesh, twisted into a mockery of a wing, pulsing with pustules and writhing tendrils that dripped a viscous fluid, steaming as it hit the cold floor with a faint, acrid hiss.

Its face was half-covered by a broken helm, cracked down the center like a shattered mirror. The exposed side was beautiful—sharp, sculpted, divine, a visage that could have belonged to a seraph in the High Atrium.

The other half was warped, melted, as if divine radiance had tried to burn away corruption and failed, fusing holiness with horror in a grotesque union, the skin sagging like wax, one eye blind and milky, the other glowing with that same milky blue light, unblinking and empty.

It stood unmoving as Sylvara’s vines wrapped cautiously around its leg, their tips trembling, the figure’s presence a weight that pressed on the soul, a silent condemnation that made the air feel too thin, too tight.

It didn’t react, didn’t speak, didn’t breathe, its stillness more terrifying than any movement.

The wailing stopped, replaced by a deafening silence that drowned out even the faint crackle of Sylvara’s vines, their roots pulling back as if scorched by proximity alone, the glowberries dimming, flickering like frightened fireflies under the weight of the figure’s gaze.

Then—

The angel’s lips parted, and a sigh escaped.

A sound that echoed with centuries of silence, not relief, not sadness, but resignation—a chilling finality that wrapped around them like a shroud, freezing the air with its weight.

It was a sound that carried the ache of a broken eternity, a hymn of despair that lingered in the bones, haunting and hollow.

Azareel stepped forward slowly, his bare feet silent on the smooth, unnatural surface, his torn white tunic fluttering in the stale air, his silver eyes, steady but filled with quiet empathy.

The others tensed behind him, their forms still for once—not from laziness or arrogance, but a deep, visceral unease that pulsed through the void.

Nyxsha’s black fur bristled, her golden eyes blazing, her massive form coiled like a spring ready to snap.

Virelya held her breath, her golden, slit-pupiled eyes narrowed behind her cracked porcelain mask, her fingers hovering over her blades.

Sylvara’s vines coiled tightly against her chest, as if shielding her core, her amber eyes wide with a fear she didn’t voice, her flowering hair drooping, petals trembling.

The being wasn’t attacking.

It wasn’t speaking.

It was weeping—not with tears, but with that hollow, mournful noise, now softer, quieter, a prayer turned inside out, echoing like a hymn stripped of hope.

Azareel tilted his head gently, his voice a soft whisper in the oppressive dark. "...Why are you crying?"

The figure stirred, as if the question had taken centuries to reach it, its single good eye shifting toward Azareel—glassy, distant, not quite focused, shimmering with a milky blue light that felt like a star on the verge of collapse.

"...I want to go home," it rasped, its voice brittle, dry, like old paper brushed by wind, carrying a crumbling sorrow that made the air feel colder, heavier.

The women froze, the glowberries flickering as if the words had dimmed their light.

Virelya spoke first, her voice unusually quiet, a breathy whisper laced with unease. "...That voice. It’s not fresh."

Sylvara nodded slowly, her amber eyes narrowing as she studied the figure. "He’s been here... a long time," she murmured, her vines retreating slightly, their tips trembling.

Nyxsha’s golden eyes narrowed to slits, her claws flexing against the ground.

"Too long. That much decay doesn’t come in years. That’s centuries," she growled, her voice low, her tail lashing once, stirring the air.

Azareel’s gaze didn’t waver, his silver eyes steady as he stepped closer, the glow from the berry vines casting eerie shadows across the angel’s twisted form—half-sculpted and noble, half-melted and raw, the divine wing arching in quiet dignity, the corrupted one sagging, dripping threads of rot that hissed faintly on the floor.

"Where is your home?" he asked, his voice calm, carrying a warmth that cut through the void’s chill.

The angel didn’t hesitate, its voice a whisper that hung like frost in the air. "...Heaven."

The answer pierced the silence, a single word heavy with longing and loss, the glowberries dimming as if the void itself recoiled.

Azareel’s brow furrowed slightly, his silver eyes softening with empathy.

"And... how can I help you return there?" he asked, his voice gentle, unwavering.