After some time Amukelo pushed himself to his feet, his body moving on instinct rather than will. His limbs felt lighter than they should have, his muscles no longer weighed down by the agony that had nearly consumed him before he lost consciousness. He expected his ribs to burn with every breath, for his arm to hang lifelessly at his side, for the poison to still be eating away at his flesh, but none of that happened.
He looked down at his hands once more, turning them over slowly. His skin, which had been bruised and torn, was clean. The cracks in his ribs were gone. He clenched his fist and felt no sharp sting, no warning from his body that he was on the brink of death. It was as if someone had taken him apart and put him back together again, as if he had never suffered at all.
Amukelo's gaze lifted to the statues standing before the massive doors. He swallowed hard, his voice barely more than a breath as he asked, "Did you do this?"
The silence of the chamber answered him.
He took a slow step forward, staring up at the towering figure before him. At the base of the statue, ancient writings curled along the stone, deep and weathered with age. He crouched slightly, running his fingers along the carvings, but they meant nothing to him. The symbols were unfamiliar, their meaning lost to time. Maybe if he had the energy, the desire, he would try to understand them, to search for an answer. But he didn't care. Not really.
His mind was still trapped in the dream. The image of his mother, her darkened face, her voice filled with pain and accusation, refused to leave him. Every word she had spoken echoed in his head like a curse. "Why did you leave me?" "Why didn't you protect me?" "I'm ashamed to have a son like you."
Amukelo shuddered, closing his eyes as if that would erase the memory. But it wouldn't. Nothing would.
He knew the words weren't real. He knew that his mother had been gone for years, that the woman in his dream wasn't truly her. But what if she was?
What if she had truly felt that way in her final moments? What if her soul had carried those same thoughts into death? What if she had been watching him all this time, disappointed, disgusted, ashamed?
His throat tightened. He took a step back from the statue, suddenly feeling smaller beneath its shadow. His legs felt weak, not from exhaustion, but from the overwhelming weight pressing on his chest. He was standing, breathing, alive—but he felt empty. Nothing about this moment felt like survival.
If he had been healed, if his body had been restored, then what was the purpose of it? The entrance to the chamber was sealed. The only path he had taken had collapsed behind him. He had no food, no water, no escape. What did it matter if he had been saved from the poison, only to die here anyway?
His hands balled into fists, but there was no strength behind them. He wasn't even angry. He wasn't afraid. He was just… tired.
Slowly, he walked to the far end of the chamber and slumped against the wall. He let his head fall back against the surface and let out a long, heavy sigh.
"Is there really nothing here?" His voice barely echoed. There was no one to answer him.
His gaze drifted back to the statues, to the unyielding doors, to the lifeless stone. Was this how it ended? Was this the final chapter of his story? A forgotten corpse in a lost chamber, buried beneath the weight of the mountain? "Will this be my end?"
His stomach growled, the sudden noise startling in the quiet. He glanced down at his belt and, to his surprise, found that he still had the dried meat he had packed for his journey. The moment he saw it, he laughed. Not a true laugh, not something filled with humor or relief, but something hollow.
He turned the dried meat in his hands, examining it as if it were a relic. His last possession. His final comfort. He shook his head and let out another breathless, emotionless chuckle.
"This is my last meal…"
The thought was strange. He had fought so hard to survive, through the mountains, through the cold, through the hunger, and now—now it would all end with a piece of dried meat in an empty chamber.
He took a bite, chewing slowly. It was tough, dry, tasteless. He barely noticed the flavor. He swallowed, feeling the food settle in his stomach, but it brought him no satisfaction, no relief.
As he ate, his mind drifted. His entire life flashed before him in fragments—his childhood in the village, the way his mother used to hold him when he was afraid, the stories she told him, the scent of home-cooked meals, her warm smile, his mischievous adventures with Eagor. Then the struggles—the endless battles, the hunger, the pain, the loneliness, the betrayal, the feeling of being unwanted, abandoned, forgotten.
What had it all been for?
His fingers tightened around the food, his appetite fading.
"Ahh… how worthless." His voice was barely above a whisper.
Everything he had done, everything he had suffered—was it all meaningless? Had he fought only to end up here, sitting alone in a tomb, waiting for death?
A sudden, sharp breath escaped him. His hands trembled.
Tears spilled down his face before he could stop them.
He bit into the meat again, chewing as if the act alone would force the emotions down. But it didn't work. Nothing worked.
The tears fell freely now, rolling down his cheeks, dripping onto his hands, onto the stone floor. He tried to ignore them, tried to push them aside, but the weight in his chest was unbearable. He wiped at his face, but it didn't stop. The ache was too deep.
His breath shuddered, and then, finally, the words broke free.
"I don't… I don't want to die."
His voice cracked, raw and fragile. His hands gripped at his knees as his shoulders shook. The reality of his situation had been lingering in the back of his mind, but now it crashed over him all at once, suffocating him.
"It can't be it…" His breath hitched, his vision blurred by the tears that refused to stop. He pressed his palms against his face, forcing himself to breathe, to hold himself together, but it wasn't enough.
"Ahh… Mother."
Her face—**her real face, the one from before the sickness, before death—**flashed in his mind, and the pain in his chest tightened.
"Do you think I'm worthless?" He wasn't sure who he was asking.
The mother he had once known? Or the one from his nightmare?
He pressed his forehead against his knees, his body trembling. "Were you ashamed of me?" But no answer came.
Amukelo remained against the wall long after he had finished eating, his body still, his mind drowning in the weight of everything that had happened. The silence of the chamber was suffocating, pressing in on him from all sides. The cold stone against his back, the dim light casting long shadows across the statues, the lingering taste of dried meat in his mouth—it all felt distant, as if he weren't truly there. His tears had dried in streaks along his face, but the ache in his chest refused to fade. He had never felt this defeated before. Not when he lost to the werewolves, not when he had been starving in the mountains, not even when he had been poisoned and on the brink of death. This was different. This was something deeper, something that clawed at the very core of who he was.
His mother's voice haunted him. Every time he closed his eyes, he saw her face covered in darkness, heard her words slicing through him like a blade. He could feel himself slipping, his thoughts growing darker, whispering that maybe—just maybe—it wouldn't be so bad to give up. He had tried so hard, suffered so much, and yet, what had it all led to? Worthlessness. Failure.
But then, through the haze of despair, another memory surfaced. It was faint at first, like a small flicker of light in the darkness, but as he focused, it became clearer. He saw her—not the nightmare, not the hollow shadow that had condemned him, but his real mother. She was smiling, genuinely, warmly, lovingly. He could almost feel her touch, hear the softness in her voice as she said, "Amukelo, always remember, a true warrior kneels before he stands."
Something stirred inside him.
The words echoed in his mind, sinking into him in a way that no blade ever could. A true warrior kneels before he stands. The phrase had always been something she would say when he struggled as a child, when he fell, when he failed. It was her way of telling him that defeat was never the end. It wasn't shameful to be brought to your knees. It wasn't weakness to suffer. What mattered was what came after.
For the first time since waking up, something other than despair filled his chest. It was small, fragile, but it was there. Resolve.
He took a slow, deep breath, then another. His fingers dug into the stone beneath him, his muscles tensing as he pushed himself up. His legs felt steady, stronger than they should have been after everything he had endured, but he didn't question it. He wouldn't waste this. He clenched his fists, his breath steadying, and with a quiet determination, he whispered, "Okay. There's no point in sitting here and crying. I need to get my shit together."
He looked down at his hands again—strong, whole, unbroken. He had been healed. He didn't know how, didn't know why, but it didn't matter. Maybe it was the God. Maybe it was something else. But if he had been given this chance, he wouldn't waste it. His fingers flexed, and he exhaled, nodding to himself. "I was healed. I don't know why. Maybe God healed me himself." His lips curved into a small, determined smile as he tilted his head up. "Watch me, Mom. I will make you proud of me."
With that, he turned toward the path he had entered from, leaving the chamber behind.
As he stepped back into the tunnel, he scanned the walls for any sign of another path, any possible way out beyond the entrance he had come through. He ran his fingers along the stone, feeling for any cracks, any openings, but there was nothing. His only hope was the collapsed entrance, though in his mind, he had already resigned himself to the idea that it was impassable. He still had to try.
But when he reached the place where the rocks had once buried the passage, he froze. His breath hitched, his eyes widening slightly. It wasn't collapsed.
The path that had been blocked by a mountain of stone was clear. There was no sign of the destruction he had seen before, no rubble, no dust, no evidence that it had ever been blocked at all. He blinked, stepping forward, his mind struggling to process what he was seeing.
Slowly, he crouched, running his fingers over the ground where the rubble should have been. The stone was smooth, undisturbed. It was as if the collapse had never happened. He whispered under his breath, "Did something… clean the entrance?"
His stomach twisted. If something had the power to move all that stone, then it was strong. Stronger than him. Strong enough to kill him with ease. His body tensed as his hand instinctively moved toward his weapon, but he forced himself to breathe, to stay calm. If something had cleared the way, why hadn't it killed him?
There was no sign of movement, no sound of anything lurking in the shadows. He hesitated for another moment, then slowly stepped forward. His eyes remained sharp, his muscles coiled, ready to react at the first sign of danger. But as he walked through the tunnel, nothing happened. No enemies, no strange creatures, no threats. It was… normal.
When he finally reached the exit, he squinted as the daylight hit his eyes. The warmth of the sun pressed against his skin, the fresh air filling his lungs. He stepped out into the open and took in the valley before him, expecting to see destruction. The battle he had seen before, the monstrous creatures that had collapsed the ground, the Titans—all of it. But there was nothing.
The valley stretched before him, untouched. No shattered stones, no craters, no signs that anything had ever happened.
Confusion settled in his mind. His eyes scanned the landscape again, searching for any sign that could explain it, but there was nothing. Nothing at all.
His gaze drifted upward, toward the cliff he had fallen from. And as he looked at it, he realized something else—it wasn't as high as he had thought. The distance was survivable. It wasn't the death sentence it had seemed to be. His hands curled into fists as a new thought pressed into his mind. What had happened?
The Titans. The collapse. His wounds. His body. The dream. Everything. None of it made sense.
His breath slowed, his heart steady as he tilted his head toward the sky. Was this truly a miracle? Had something—someone—saved him?
He swallowed hard, his voice soft but unwavering as he whispered, "Did you save me, God?"
The wind carried no answer, but for the first time in a long time, he didn't feel alone.
He exhaled, then said with quiet sincerity, "Thank you… and forgive me for being unfaithful."
He didn't know what had happened, didn't know how or why he had survived when everything should have ensured his death. But he wouldn't waste this chance.