In the dreamy light of the setting sun, Name stood once again.
Confused. Afraid. Dizzy.
But more than any of those... he was in pain.
It crawled under his skin, wrapped around his ribs, and sat heavy in his lungs. The phantom sensation of an invisible, godlike hand crushing his body...tearing it apart...still lingered in his nerves like poison.
He couldn't stand any longer. His legs trembled beneath him.
He dropped to the ground.
The dirt was dry, cracked like old glass. His breath came in ragged gasps. He wanted to vomit, but his body wouldn't allow it. His insides had already been destroyed once. Maybe they didn't know how to respond anymore.
In front of him...
The army of white cloaks still stood.
Silent. Still. Like nothing had happened.
"What... the hell is this?" he whispered.
Name stared at them. His mind churned, trying to piece together what just happened. A part of him was beginning to understand. Maybe... maybe he really did have to fight them.
But how?
He was just a boy with a broken body.
How do you fight an army of thousands?
How do you fight people who can turn your blood into crystal with a single touch?
How do you fight people who can crush you like a bug... by pointing a finger?
He looked up.
The sun was setting again.
A strange, nameless fear gripped his spine.
Will it begin again?
Will I die again?
Will this go on forever?
The fear of uncertainty curled around his heart like a serpent.
Then...an idea.
He stared hard at the sun, his breath steadying just slightly.
There was still time. The sun hadn't vanished yet. The moons hadn't risen.
Maybe… just maybe, he could act before the ritual resumed.
Without hesitation, Name pushed himself to his feet. Every part of his body screamed in protest. But he moved.
One step.
Then another.
He approached the army.
The cloaked figures didn't react.
Their hoods remained low. Their hands stayed still.
And at the front stood the same man.
The Previous Zenith.
Name stared at him. That expressionless face. Those lifeless eyes.
That yellow hair, waving gently... despite there being no wind.
It made his skin crawl.
Still, he stepped closer.
He scanned the ground for something. A stick. A rock. Anything.
There was nothing.
Only sand.
So he clenched his fist.
He drew in a shaky breath, gathered every ounce of energy he had left...
...and punched the Zenith directly in the face.
The blow landed.
But it did nothing.
Name's fist met skin that might as well have been steel.
A jolt of pain ran through his arm like lightning. He let out a moan.
He tried to look at his hand...but something was wrong.
The light had changed.
The field was no longer golden.
The moons were back.
Three glowing orbs now hung in the sky.
The violet moon, chained and wounded.
The black moon, rimmed with divine gold.
And the third...cracked, flickering, bleeding mist.
The same mechanical voice echoed again:
"Certain action triggered the ritual earlier in time."
Name froze.
His chest tightened with dread.
He hadn't expected this.
All he wanted was to try something...anything...before the ritual resumed.
He thought maybe if he struck first… if he moved while they were still… he could prevent it from happening again.
But now... the ritual had begun anyway.
And he had triggered it himself.
He stood, paralyzed.
Too afraid to look behind him.
But stillness meant nothing here.
And just because he wasn't moving…
…didn't mean they wouldn't.
In the next moment, he felt it:
A hand.
Cold fingers wrapping around the back of his skull.
And then...
CRACK.
The Zenith slammed his head forward with impossible strength.
Name's skull shattered like glass.
There was no scream. No resistance.
Just the sickening sound of bone becoming shards.
His headless body collapsed onto the field, blood bursting from the ragged stump of his neck...
...and even that blood began to crystallize.
The crimson liquid shimmered in the light of the moons, slowly turning into jagged, ruby-like glass.
And as his body fell, lifeless once again…
…it glittered.
Beautiful.
Horrifying.
Eternal.