CHAPTER 67: NYXARIS

Lucy’s mind began to spiral.

"Eternal Darkness... Nyxaris wants to plunge the entire universe into it. How the hell did I not see it sooner?"

He stared at the stained glass as Bruma’s lantern cast its flickering light higher along the wall. The glass shimmered like the surface of black water, catching slivers of light and warping them into twisted shapes.

The figure of Nyxaris loomed in the center. She was carved from deep obsidian tones, her many arms outstretched like a spider weaving shadow across existence. Around her flowed rivers of darkness, consuming entire cities—each depicted as brittle towers of bone, flame, and blindfolded statues.

"This whole zone... this Dark Zone—it’s not just a place. It’s a legacy. Her legacy."

A chill tightened around his spine.

"No, it’s more than that. It’s her domain. Her ideology in physical form. All this—the silence, the shadows, even the damn fog—it screams Nyxaris."

He narrowed his eyes at the scene. Behind Nyxaris, hidden in the tapestry of night, were faint faces. Twisted, skeletal, like the creatures that had burst from the church. Worshippers? Sacrifices? He couldn’t tell.

"But the Hollow... that thing isn’t hers. That much I know. It’s Seraphine’s now. She said as much. But what if—"

He cut himself off, shaking his head.

"No. The Hollow’s under her domain now. If it were still Nyxaris’, we wouldn’t have made it this far without being swallowed by shadows. But maybe... maybe it didn’t used to be hers."

The lantern rose again, casting light over a second stained glass panel.

Another portrait emerged—this one even more detailed than the last.

Two goddesses locked in battle. Nyxaris, veiled in shadows, her arms extending like ink in water. And facing her, a figure of radiant crimson and silver—Seraphine. Her silver hair flared like fire, crowned by two blood-red horns. Her wings were torn, her expression fierce, defiant.

Lucy’s breath caught.

"So that’s it. Before Seraphine took over this place, it must have belonged to Nyxaris. That’s why Seraphine’s depicted like a demon here. The red horns. The posture. They saw her as the invader, the usurper."

He stepped closer to the glass, his eyes darting across the image. Every detail seemed to pulse with hidden meaning—the way Nyxaris’ followers bowed at her feet, the way Seraphine stood alone, bleeding.

But something didn’t sit right.

There was a question that refused to leave him alone. It echoed louder with every step forward, every breath in the cold, death-stained air.

"Why are there humans here?"

He looked back toward the main hall—toward the bones and the pentagram he couldnt see.

"The gods supposedly created themselves to cast the humans to earth after they were deemed corrupted. So what the hell were human bodies doing in this church? The timeline doesn’t make sense."

His hands curled into fists.

"Is history wrong? Or is someone lying? Because either way... this place doesn’t add up. Not with what we’ve been told."

The stained glass offered no answers. Just silence. Mocking, eternal.

But Lucy couldn’t shake the feeling that he was close—so damn close—to something that would shatter everything.

Something the gods didn’t want him to know.

"Damn it!"

Lucy tore his gaze away from the stained glass, anger bubbling in his chest like acid. His fists clenched at his sides as he looked up at Bruma. She stood frozen beneath the violet glow, her expression locked in a kind of stunned silence. Her brows furrowed, tusks grinding together.

She looked like someone watching their entire worldview shatter piece by piece.

The others weren’t faring much better. Llarm’s lips were slightly parted, his eyes darting between the two goddesses like he was trying to rewrite a history book in real-time. Gindu remained stoic, but his gaze was tight, calculating, and unnerved.

Fenric looked amused, the bastard. But even he didn’t joke.

Then there was Eri.

Her eyes were wide—not with confusion, but with pure, visceral fear. She wasn’t just seeing a piece of forgotten history. She was remembering something.

Lucy didn’t need Soulreading to tell. Her terror radiated from her like a scream that didn’t need sound.

Carlos barked sharply from Fenric’s arms, jaws snapping in silent fury. No sound left his muzzle, but Lucy could feel the intent. It wasn’t fear. It was hate. Rabid, primal, protective hate.

’That statue... it must’ve shown Eri something. Something about Nyxaris.’

He turned toward Carlos, watching the little shadow-wolf thrash slightly in Fenric’s hold, growling at the stained glass.

"Carlos too... He has to be from Nyxaris’ domain. He’s terrified of her. Or worse—he despises her."

Lucy’s mind raced, stitching pieces together.

His gaze flicked back to Eri.

’Whatever Nyxaris did... it left scars deeper than magic.’

The church stood silent, the stained glass towering above them like a witness to truths long buried.

And Lucy was starting to dig them up.

His breathing slowed, not from calm but from a cold, deliberate focus. His thoughts didn’t spiral—they sharpened, honed by pain, confusion, and the growing suspicion that none of the gods were telling the full story.

He stepped forward, toward the glass. He had a feeling something was off about it.

The depiction of Nyxaris loomed above him. She stood in divine battle against Seraphine, her face twisted in cold fury, shadows cascading from her limbs like tendrils of ink. Seraphine—with her crimson horns and silver hair—looked almost monstrous by comparison. Demonized. Vilified.

Lucy didn’t buy it.

He raised a hand and pressed his palm to the stained glass.

The moment his skin met the cold, painted surface—

The world shattered, and he felt his conscious being dragged elsewhere.

He was there.

Not in the church. Not even in a dream.

He was her.

The sky above was a sickly, pale yellow, choked with streaks of gray. He stood—no, she stood—at the edge of a vast canyon that split the earth in two. Thick green smoke oozed from its depths, bubbling like a living thing. It coiled around jagged stone spires and sank into the soil, turning the ground black.

The girl’s chest rose and fell in rapid, nervous breaths.

Nyxaris. Just a child here. No goddess. No shadows. Just a scared girl wrapped in a loose black cloak, her black hair tied into a loose braid.

Then came the voice.

"You have to go, Nyxa. We’re running out of time."

Lucy—Nyxaris—turned to see a figure standing behind her.

She was older and confident, and her voice was like honey laced with something metallic. She smiled, and Lucy’s stomach turned. It wasn’t right. Her body was distorted at the edges, like static on glass—her face warped just enough to blur her identity. But the eyes—those damned eyes—pierced through the fog, twin embers glowing with calculated calm.

Nyxaris stepped back.

"But it’s poisonous..." she whispered. Her voice cracked like glass under pressure.

The older girl laughed. Not cruelly—sweetly. Comfortingly.

"Only if you hesitate. It’s part of the trial, remember? You go first, I’ll be right behind you. Trust me."

Lucy felt Nyxaris’ stomach twist. Felt her knees tremble. Her eyes welled with tears—more from pressure than fear. She wanted to believe. She needed to believe.

And so, she did.

One step. Then another.

Then she leapt.

Pain.

Pain beyond comprehension.

The smoke invaded her lungs like razors dipped in acid. Her skin split open before she even touched the canyon floor. Her vision blurred, then bled red. Blood boiled in her veins. Her scream tore from her throat.

Lucy’s own body seized on the church floor, his mouth open in a silent scream, arms twitching wildly.

Every nerve was a lit fuse. Every heartbeat was a bomb.

He wasn’t watching.

He was burning.

The smoke was alive—sentient. It didn’t just hurt. It judged. And it rejected her.

Nyxaris hit the ground in a convulsing heap, her skin blackened, her breath ragged, and her eyes wild. She looked back up toward the rim of the canyon.

The older girl was still standing there.

Smiling.

She didn’t jump.

She never intended to.

And then the memory snapped—gone like a flame in the wind.

Lucy collapsed against the stone base of the window, chest heaving. His eyes were wild, pupils dilated, skin damp with sweat. He clutched his side, heart pounding so violently it threatened to crack his ribs.

He wanted to scream.

Instead, he thought

’She was betrayed.’

His hand trembled as he pulled it from the glass.

’She trusted someone, and got burned for it.’

His mind raced. That woman—distorted. Wrong. Familiar in all the worst ways. Her words. That smile. That voice that promised salvation and delivered agony.

Lucy wiped his mouth, realizing he’d been drooling, lips twisted in residual pain.

He turned back to the others, stunned by what he had seen.

Lucy had just seen what came before the portrait. Before the divine war. Before the goddess and the monster.

He’d seen the girl.

And the liar who broke her.