BOOK II
A PROPHET, A CRIPPLE, AND A KING
Chapter 84
Sounds of Silence
"AAAAAGGGHHHH!!!!!" how many times has he heard that scream now? Innumerable, he was certain. And it hurt just as much as every other time. It cut directly through his heart like a sword, causing tears to swell into his eyes.
He tried to stop it from happening every time--tried to toss his body in front of hers... but he never could. He was too slow. By the time he could move, she was already riddled with splinters like bullet holes, bleeding, crying, screaming, terrorized. He tried saving others, but couldn't. Every single time, he watched them bleed and scream in horror.
You have died.
Save point 'Death' has been initialized.
Regrets poured, but he was numb. What horrified every fiber of his soul was that even amidst the despair and anguish and the sheer dread of the moment... he was... relieved. He'd moved past the hell. He escaped the inferno that haunted his soul for what felt like infinity. And yet, juxtaposed with that relief was the ever-growing guilt. It started as a molehill, grew into a mountain, and was now a ladder reaching toward the stars.
"AAAAAGGGHHHH!!!!" once again, the scream cut through him like a blade. But he didn't bleed. They were the ones bleeding.
"Why?" he mumbled at the sky, beyond which he suspected the cruel and sadistic Gods lived. He posed the question that haunted his soul--why was he fine? Why was he entirely unharmed? Why was it that everyone else was bleeding, dying, haunted by pains beyond pains... and he was fine? There wasn't a spec of blood on him--not his own, anyway. There was no wound he could point to and scream it hurts. All his wounds, all his scars... were invisible.
"S-S-Sylas?!! I--I can't see!! I CAN'T SEE!!" Ryne screamed out, her voice cracking like thunder. The bolt pierced Sylas' mind and bent him. He knelt, surrendering to the cruelty. The dust swirled, kicked up by the still-raging winds. The hand had just disappeared, leaving in the wake chaos that had neither rhyme nor reason to it. It was all akin to random acts of sadistic barbarity, inhumane malice stemming from the cosmic venom.
He escaped one hell into another, one arguably even worse than the last. In the last one, at the very least, it was only him who was suffering, painful though it may have been. But now... now his hell was watching others suffer while he had no wound to show for the pandemonium they experienced. He reached into the belt, pulled out the dagger, and slit his throat.
Not wanting to accept the reality, he continued killing himself--hoping that if he did it enough times, he'd force the Gods to grant him a reprieve, to pull him further back into the past before he pushed the button. Before he condemned everyone he loved in this world into a cruel, unbending reality. And if not that, he hoped he'd eventually run out of lives--he didn't want to continue. Not from here. Not knowing what he had done. Not seeing what his stupidity, his sheer inability to think past the immediate future, had caused.
It was all his fault--that much was evident. Beyond the hand that showed up out of nowhere, it was his fault. He could have waited. Two seconds--literally two seconds. He could have settled. Waited for a while to see whether there were more surprises. But he didn't. He never did. Not in his life on Earth, and not here. Not once. He convinced his mind to trust the 'system'--the system wanted him to succeed, after all. It granted him immortality. It wanted him to do the tasks. It would never fail him.
However, the 'system' wasn't a mind of its own--and it certainly didn't account for those around him. He was not alone in his journey. And his success... he didn't want it to hinge on the suffering, pain, and death of others.
He could have waited. Stood still for a brief moment. At least until the dust settled. Until the night fell. Until he was certain. But he didn't. A single choice condemned him to a new reality. A reality that caused a rift within the depths of his soul--he was happy to have escaped the hell... yet beyond broken with what his choice had caused.
The dualities fought within him like the raging storms--all while he continued killing himself. He didn't even feel the cold edge of the knife ripping through his flesh anymore. Not in the abstracts, anyway. If anything, the gush of blood from his jugular was a relief--like an act of bloodletting healing his burdened soul. The clearest he became was in that split moment of haziness before darkness took over him. He chased the moment like an addict seeking the high that will never come. For how many times? He didn't know.
Eventually, however, he knew he'd have to stop. He'd have to face the consequences of his actions. He'd have to face the young, teenage girl with a whole life ahead of her and tell her she'd never seen the rising sun or the glowing moon ever again. Her whole life would, forever and ever, be baked in darkness.
He'd have to face a Knight who spent his whole life training to fight and tell him he'd never fight the same again--he'd have to put down the blade and withdraw.
He'd have to face a young Prince, a boy with the future as bright as the sun in front of him, and tell him he'll likely never walk again.
He'd have to face the cold and forever-frozen faces of Tenner and Cyrs and beg them to forgive him.
He'd have to face every man and woman and child of the castle, dead and alive, and pool their burdens together and bear them.
Could he even do it? No. Not the way he was. Not the way he etched his actions into the tomes of history since coming to this world. He'd taken it all for granted, speeding through every point and part, allowing basic boredom to shake him. He was like a child in school, always wanting to see more, even after seeing more. It was never enough--leaping from one thing to another, never focused, never bolted into a singular path.
The one time he was, the one time he truly dedicated himself wholly to a singular thing was when he trained his sword, when he finally earned the Heart's Ripple. The one time he was even remotely smart about something, he was rewarded. Every other time, he realized, he was forced to put out fires left and right due to his stupidity and short-term thinking.
Could someone like that shoulder the burdens of hundreds? No. He'd keel and bend and break like a wooden pencil. Someone entrenched in woe and self-pity couldn't do anything.
"AAAAAGGGHHHH!!!!" the bloodcurdling scream shook him up once again, forcing him to look to the side and face the horror once more. "S-S-Sylas?!! I--I can't see!! I CAN'T SEE!!"
"I'm here, I'm here," fighting back the feeling of self-pity and horror, numbing his soul forcibly, he crouched next to her and grabbed her as gently as he could. He felt her tiny hands grasp at him, shaking and trembling like a leaf in the wind. "I'm right here."
"It hurts! It hurts... it hurts so much..." her voice was cracked, full of pain, shock, and horror. "And I can't see. I can't see anything."
"..." Sylas bit his lower lip. What could he say? Was there anything to even say? He was uncertain. "I... I'm not sure what happened either. An explosion of sorts, I think. It... it destroyed a lot of the castle and... and some rubble came flying toward us. I... I couldn't react in time. I... I couldn't do anything..."
"W-w-what do you... what do you mean?" she mumbled. She was crying, even just through her voice. "What do you mean?! I... I can't see... is... my eyes. What--no, no, no, no, no..." her cries and soft pleas further broke him. She knelt, ignoring the bleeding knees, her arms turning limp, resting at her sides.
From the corner of his eyes, he could see the rest of the castle finally awaken, with shouts, screams, and a whole assortment of throat-burning sounds forming a symphony. Derrek stood up, his gaze moving about until he landed on Sylas and Ryne. The two men looked at each other for a moment before Derrek focused more on the little girl, shaken.
"E-everyone who can move, look for survivors!!!!" he screamed immediately, taking charge of the situation. "You, go find the Prince!!! You, get the Master and everyone from within the castle out here immediately!! Hurry, hurry!!!"
"T-t-the Prince? E-everyone?" Ryne mumbled suddenly. "Is--is everyone fine? What happened, Sylas? What happened?"
"... don't worry about the others," he said as Derrek approached the two of them.
"What the--"
"Could you... put her to sleep?" Sylas asked Derrek directly.
"W-what? Put me--no! No, I don't want--"
"Yes," Derrek replied immediately, understanding Sylas' intentions.
"No, don't put me--"
"It's for the best," Sylas whispered as gently as he could, caressing the top of her head. "Rest for a little while."
"Nooo--" Ryne's protest, however, was in vain. Derrek put his hand gently against the girl's forehead and put her to sleep. Sylas caught her and kept her in place, glancing at Derrek's arm--to his shock, the bloody, gored hole wasn't... bleeding.
"... I'm sorry, Derrek," he said.
"Nothing you could have done," the man responded, forcing a smile. "Nothing any of us could have done, really. That hand... was beyond us."
"..." Sylas bit his lip once more until it bled, lowering his head in shame. "I'm sorry. I'm so, so, sorry. I'm sorry. I'm sorry..." he was slipping back once more.
"Hey, don't worry about it!" Derrek clamored. "No prophet ever foresaw everything. Come on, now. We don't have time to sit around. We need to help the others. I'll have some men carry Ryne off into the ward immediately. And since you seem to be relatively fine, I'll need you to work for ten men. Do you understand me?"
"Yeah," Sylas mumbled, his voice void of emotion as he handed Ryne over to Derrek to keep her still. "You should go rest as well. You've still lost a lot of blood."
"Hey," Derrek, realizing something was off, called for Sylas, forcing the latter to turn and face him. Derrek, a man who was ready to fight the Thrall, winced and nearly pulled back. The eyes that stared back at him... were dead. A pair of emotionless husks. "Are you... are you alright?"
"... take care of her," Sylas said, turning forward and walking away. "We'll chat later."