CHAPTER 485: OLDER THAN GODS

The deeper corridors of the temple were not built, they were grown.

The walls pulsed faintly, as if alive, veins of silver and blue mana threading through dark stone like roots beneath skin. Every step echoed too long, as though the hall itself remembered every sound that had ever passed through it.

Lindarion led, blade drawn but not aflame, its edge humming quietly, the song of restraint. Ashwing perched on his shoulder again, unusually silent, golden eyes flicking nervously from shadow to shadow.

Behind them, Nysha walked with an arrow already notched, her bow drawn halfway though no visible threat lingered.

The air was thick, not just with heat or age, but with something older, a pressure that pressed at their minds rather than their skin.

Ashwing finally broke the silence, his voice hushed. "This place doesn’t feel like stone anymore. It feels like... a lung. Like it’s breathing."

"It is," Lindarion murmured. "The Coil built temples that mimicked life, their sanctums were meant to live, to remember."

Nysha frowned. "Remember what?"

"Their failures," he said simply.

The hall split ahead, two paths winding into opposite darkness. On the walls between them were carvings: one depicting a radiant sun coiling around a tree, the other a serpent devouring its own tail beneath a crescent moon.

"Two paths," Nysha said. "Light or shadow."

Lindarion didn’t move. His eyes flicked between them, his expression unreadable. Then he touched the wall, and the carvings pulsed in answer, shedding faint golden light.

"The Coil didn’t see light and shadow as opposites," he said. "To them, they were cycles. Choice doesn’t matter, both lead to the same place."

Ashwing grumbled. "Great. So whichever we pick, we get eaten by metaphors."

"Not metaphors," Lindarion murmured. "Lessons."

He stepped toward the path of the crescent moon. The other two followed without question.

The corridor narrowed, the light dimming until only faint motes of gold followed them, drawn from Lindarion’s aura. The floor was slick, smooth like obsidian but warm to the touch. And faint whispers, indistinct, genderless, echoed from somewhere ahead, rising and falling like waves against distant cliffs.

Nysha’s voice was little more than breath. "They’re... speaking in Eleniri. Old Eleniri. I can barely make out a word."

Ashwing cocked his head. "What are they saying?"

Nysha hesitated, then whispered, "They’re... reciting names."

"Names?"

She nodded slowly. "Thousands of them. Maybe tens of thousands."

Lindarion stopped. "The lost."

Ashwing blinked. "The what?"

"The souls absorbed when the Coil fell," Lindarion said quietly. "When the Demi-Gods turned on their creators, the Temple of the Heart consumed every life that bore its mark. The names became the echo that holds it together."

The whispers grew louder the deeper they went. Not angry, not mournful, simply persistent, as if asking to be heard after millennia of silence.

And then, without transition, the corridor opened into an impossible space.

It was not a chamber, not truly. It was an expanse, a horizon enclosed by darkness, where the floor was water that reflected stars, and the ceiling was an endless void. Columns of translucent crystal rose from the water’s surface, their forms shifting as if remembering different shapes with every blink.

Ashwing gawked. "Okay, now this is new. Where even are we?"

Lindarion’s voice was soft, almost reverent. "Between realms. The Coil used reflection chambers to test truth, what you see here is shaped by your essence."

Nysha stepped forward, her boots touching the water’s surface without sinking. Her reflection moved slower than she did, delayed by a heartbeat, eyes of crimson turned silver in the mirrored world below.

"This is... wrong," she whispered.

"It’s not wrong," Lindarion said. "It’s honest."

As he entered the chamber, the water beneath his feet rippled, and from its depths rose faint golden strands, threads of memory. Scenes flickered across them: the burning of Sylvarion’s towers, the fall of Maeven’s citadel, his mother’s hand reaching toward him before vanishing in shadow.

Ashwing’s tail flicked nervously. "Lindarion..."

"I see them," he said softly. "They’re only memories."

But even as he said it, the water stirred again, and another reflection rose, this one perfectly his own. It stepped forward, matching his movements precisely, but when it spoke, its voice was distorted, deepened, layered.

"You carry their hopes, their burdens, their failures," it said. "Do you even know which part is still you?"

Ashwing hissed. "Oh, fantastic. Now we’ve got a haunted mirror."

Nysha’s eyes narrowed, her bow half-raised, but Lindarion lifted a hand. "No. This is part of the test."

The reflection smiled faintly. "You claim purpose, to save, to balance. But beneath that, you crave release. From duty. From expectation. From the light itself."

Lindarion didn’t answer. His gaze was steady, but the air around him shifted, golden light dimming slightly.

"You hide it well," the reflection continued. "But the world’s weight is not meant for one spine. Even the Tree cannot bear endless hunger. When you fall, you will not break, you will feed it."

"Enough," Lindarion said quietly.

The reflection tilted its head. "Then show me your truth."

The water exploded upward, not as liquid, but as light. Blades of mirrored energy formed in the reflection’s hands, arcs of gold and black like living dusk. Lindarion drew his own sword in a single motion, meeting the strike mid-swing.

The impact didn’t shatter, it rippled. The chamber distorted, water and stars bending around them like glass under pressure.

Nysha stumbled backward, shielding her eyes from the glare. Ashwing flared his wings, steadying himself midair.

Lindarion’s reflection moved faster than any mortal thing, striking not with strength but inevitability, every motion a mirror of his own. Each parry became a self-inflicted wound, each counter forcing him to face his own flow.

"This is what you are," it whispered between strikes. "A contradiction. Balance and chaos. Light and shadow. Order that devours itself."

Lindarion’s reply came through gritted teeth. "Maybe. But at least I choose it."

His aura flared, gold and shadow entwining, forming a radiant spiral around him. For a heartbeat, his reflection faltered, and in that gap, Lindarion struck.

The mirrored blade shattered, scattering into fragments of light that dissolved into the water below.

Silence fell again. The reflection stared at him, its features softening. Then it smiled, genuinely, for the first time.

"Then perhaps," it murmured, "you are ready to see what the Heart truly is."

It reached forward, pressing a hand to Lindarion’s chest. The water beneath them rippled outward in a perfect circle, and the stars within it aligned, forming a sigil that blazed like dawn.

Nysha squinted. "What’s happening?"

Lindarion’s eyes glowed faintly. "The seal’s responding. It’s opening."

The reflection began to fade. "Go, heir of Eldorath. But remember, truth cuts both ways."

The chamber’s horizon fractured, light spilling through the cracks like veins of gold in glass. The water fell away into nothing, and the world inverted.

When the light dimmed, they stood once more in stone, before an ancient gate of black metal, covered in sigils that pulsed with a deep, rhythmic heartbeat.

The Heart Below.

Ashwing stared up at it, slack-jawed. "You know, every time I think it can’t get worse, it does."

Lindarion’s eyes glowed softly, his voice calm but low. "This isn’t worse. This is where it begins."

Nysha met his gaze, her tone unreadable. "And where it ends."

Neither disagreed.

Because deep beyond that gate, beneath stone, beneath history, something stirred that was not supposed to dream again.

Something older than gods.