CHAPTER 1585: STORY 1585: THE FACELESS HOST

The figures loomed above them, their bodies rippling like glass about to crack. Their faces—or the absence of them—shifted with every flicker of light, sometimes smooth as stone, sometimes warped with half-formed mouths that gasped soundlessly. They advanced without footsteps, gliding from the fissures as though birthed directly from the land’s wounds.

Kael raised his shard of blade high. Its glow sputtered but held, casting jagged light across the faceless host. He set his stance, scars pulsing like fire in his veins. “They’re not alive,” he growled. “They’re the land remembering us—testing us.”

Elara pulled the boy behind her, shielding him with her body. The child’s glow flared brighter as the faceless closed in, their empty sockets turning toward him as if he were their anchor. She whispered fiercely, “Stay with me. Don’t answer them.”

The widow staggered to her feet, her bloody palms trembling. She reached toward one faceless figure, her silence aching in her throat. The figure leaned closer, mirroring her gesture. When her fingers brushed its surface, she felt nothing—no warmth, no cold—only a hollow reflection of her own despair. She jerked her hand back, shaking her head violently. Not mine.

The scarred woman bared her teeth, snapping her broken spear into a stabbing thrust. The jagged tip pierced one faceless chest. Instead of bleeding, the creature fractured—shards of light spiraling outward before knitting back together. She snarled in frustration, yanking her spear free. “They break, but they don’t die.”

The farmer struck his drum, hard. The ripple of vibration spread into the nearest figure. Its body stuttered, glitching like cracked glass, fragments blinking in and out of place. He struck again, changing rhythm, and this time the faceless stumbled back, its form unraveling slightly. His eyes widened. “They listen to mistakes.”

Kael roared, charging forward. His glowing shard cut through one faceless torso, scattering pieces like shattered mirror fragments. But before he could catch his breath, the pieces surged back together, reforming into a taller, sharper version of itself. “They feed on the strike!” he cursed, staggering back.

The boy stepped forward suddenly, his glow pulsing in jagged rhythm. The faceless froze, their heads twitching toward him, bodies quivering as though caught between shattering and solidifying. Elara clutched him tighter, terror flooding her voice. “Don’t! They’ll take you into themselves!”

But the boy screamed—not words, not chant, just raw fracture. His glow burst outward in uneven pulses. The faceless convulsed, cracks racing across their forms. For the first time, they did not reform. They shattered completely, dissolving into dust and streams of broken light that sank back into the fissures.

The widow fell to her knees, eyes wide with awe. She mouthed silently: He unravels them.

The scarred woman grinned through blood. “The boy is their ruin.”

The Unborn’s whisper bled from the fractured sky, strained and faint:

“You wield my cradle’s children against me. But every shatter deepens the wound. The land breaks with them... and so will you.”

The towers groaned louder, tilting dangerously as more faceless shapes rose from the fissures, countless this time, filling the horizon with hollow forms.

Kael planted his feet, raising his shard high. “Then we break the whole world if we have to.”

And the faceless host advanced.