Another day had passed, but the unsettling feeling lingered in Damian's mind. Ever since that strange silence in the library, something felt off. It was as if an invisible wall had been set up around the Archbishop's existence, keeping people at a distance from even the thought of him. Determined to get answers, Damian had approached some of the Deacons and priests, hoping they might know something. Yet each one of them seemed clueless or indifferent, as though the Archbishop's background was irrelevant to their lives.
It baffled Damian. How could the people of this church devote themselves so completely to the Sun God without ever questioning the authority they served under? Did they only care about their worship and rituals? Why didn't anyone question things that felt so obvious to him?
Damian wondered if he was the problem. Maybe he was just overthinking all of this. Understanding people's motivations was difficult, he reminded himself; human psychology wasn't straightforward. Even with history's greatest figures, those whose lives had been documented in textbooks and online, motives were often murky, their inner thoughts forever out of reach.
Still, he couldn't let it go. He'd even considered asking one of the Bishops, hoping they'd offer more insight. But his fellow disciples, along with some of the superiors, quickly put a stop to that idea, making it clear he was not to pursue the matter any further.
Yet, if the church held no answers, then maybe the townspeople might. There had to be someone who knew more about the Shadow Dragon. His thoughts drifted to the half-naked preacher he'd seen before. Odd as he was, perhaps that man could provide some insight. Damian didn't care how bizarre his sources seemed; he was willing to do whatever it took to escape this place.
Damian descended the stone steps that led toward the city's center, each footfall echoing off the narrow alley walls. The air was thick with silence, broken only by his steady, yet contemplative breaths. People here walked with blank expressions, shoulders hunched, eyes hollow as if the weight of years trapped in this place had carved into their souls. Damian's gaze hardened, his thoughts drifting to the preacher, the one man who seemed so unfazed by the despair gripping everyone else.
The preacher stood in his usual spot, arms raised, calling out with that same unwavering voice, his words lost to the wind. Day after day, he repeated his ritual without fail, like a broken record that refused to stop. Damian watched from a distance, his eyes narrowed in quiet scrutiny. What drives him? Who is he trying to reach in a city that barely listens?
Hours passed as Damian observed from the shadows, following the preacher's slow path through the winding streets. When the preacher finally drifted toward a more secluded corner of the city, Damian tailed him, slipping between alleyways, his footsteps as light as he could manage.
Suddenly, the preacher stopped, mid-stride, his back still turned. Damian's breath hitched, and he quickly ducked behind the edge of a building, pressing himself flat against the cool, rough stone. His heart pounded against his ribcage, each beat seeming to echo louder and louder until it was all he could hear. He clenched his hand against his chest, feeling the thrum of his pulse under his fingers.
Calm down, calm down, he told himself, forcing his breaths to slow.
But then, a low voice sliced through the silence, smooth and unwavering. "You are quite interesting, boy."
Damian jolted, instinctively stepping back into the open, his eyes widening. The preacher turned to him, stroking his curly beard, eyes gleaming with a knowing look that seemed to pierce straight through him.
"Did you really think I wouldn't notice you, lurking at the city center all day?" the preacher continued, his tone almost amused. ""To think someone watched me the entire day, don't think I didn't sense your presence boy, it was quite obvious."
Damian's mind raced, panic bubbling under the surface. 'Who is this man?' He'd thought the preacher was just some eccentric, a rambling figure lost in his own madness. But now, face-to-face with him, Damian felt as if he was the one who'd misjudged everything. 'How did I miss this?' he thought, inwardly cursing himself. 'How did I let my guard down so completely?'
The weight of the preacher's stare was almost suffocating, and for a brief moment, Damian felt the world around him shift, unfamiliar and strange. It was like nothing here
Damian's instincts screamed at him to bolt, his body tensed, ready to turn and flee. But before he could move, the preacher raised a hand, his eyes narrowing slightly. "Running isn't the best choice, boy," he said calmly, though his voice carried an undeniable authority. "You've been watching me all day—don't you think it's time we had a little chat about that?"
Damian froze, his thoughts scrambling. How does he know? I blended in, I made sure not to stand out. He swallowed, steadying himself. The preacher's insight unsettled him, like a spider sensing the slightest tremor in its web. Damian's gaze hardened. "Sir, are you perhaps able to sense a person's intentions?"
The preacher smiled, a glint of amusement in his eyes. "Sharp, aren't you? But there's more to it than that, boy. You're barely scratching the surface." Without warning, the preacher reached out and grasped Damian's wrist with surprising strength, guiding him into a shadowed alley.
Damian was led deeper into the alleyway until they reached a dead end surrounded by towering stone walls. The preacher's "home" was nothing more than a shabby setup—a cloth spread over a rough patch of ground, a barrel filled with water, and a well-worn wooden tankard beside it.
With a sweeping gesture, the preacher said, "Welcome to my humble abode. Make yourself at home."
He let go of Damian's wrist and settled down on the cloth, as if this bleak corner of the city were as grand as any palace. A sly grin spread across his face as he looked Damian over. "The name's Damian. Quite the beautiful name, wouldn't you say?"
Damian blinked, a flicker of surprise crossing his face. "My name is Damian, too," he replied, voice calm yet guarded. He kept his breathing steady, willing his heart to slow down, wary that this strange man might sense his tension.
The preacher let out an uncontrollable laugh, a sound that echoed off the walls around them. "Two Damains, hmm? Well, that's inconvenient, isn't it? But no harm in sharing a beautiful name." He chuckled again, a warmth in his eyes that contrasted with the roughness of his surroundings.
As the preacher settled back, his eyes glinted with a knowing look. Damian stood there, his thoughts racing, piecing together fragments of what little he understood about this strange figure. In this hidden corner of the city, the lines between mystery and truth felt thin, as if just one question could peel back the surface and reveal everything he sought—or perhaps plunge him deeper into confusion.
The older Damian took a long gulp from his wooden tankard, the water sloshing as he drank deeply. He lowered it with a satisfied sigh, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. "Relax, boy," he said, eyes twinkling with amusement. "Look at me—do I look like I could harm anyone?" He spread his arms, gesturing to his ragged clothes and weathered frame.
Young Damian remained wary, his gaze steady. "Maybe not, but it never hurts to be cautious," he replied, his tone firm. "Especially in a place like this, where I barely know anyone."
The man chuckled, shaking his head. "What do you mean by that? Everyone here is as harmless as sheep. Have you seen a single soul causing trouble?"
Damian thought back to his days wandering the city. It was strange—he hadn't witnessed any arguments, no one acting out of line, and no signs of conflict. The city was almost unnaturally peaceful, its streets quiet and subdued. There was a kind of stillness here that felt unnatural, like a painting with all the life drained from it. Except, of course, for the preacher in front of him.
The man's voice snapped him out of his thoughts. "You don't seem like you're from around here," he observed, peering at Damian with a sharp, appraising look. Then, as if something clicked in his mind, he rummaged beneath the cloth on the ground, pulling out a worn piece of paper covered in strange symbols and writing that Damian couldn't understand.
A grin broke across the preacher's face as he held the paper up in triumphant. "Would you look at that!" he exclaimed. "It's you!"
Damian frowned, his curiosity piqued. "What do you mean? What does it say?"
The preacher's eyes gleamed with an almost reverent light as he read aloud, his voice low and solemn. "In an age when darkness engulfs the earth, years will pass before the rise of a Light Seeker. With great benevolence, as the Sun God's messenger, they will restore light to the world once more."
He looked up, his gaze intense as he pointed a finger at the young man before him. "And," he continued, his voice softening to a whisper, "before the last diviner breathed his final breath, he said the Light Seeker would come from somewhere far away, foreign to this land."
Damian's chest tightened as the man's finger rested squarely on him. "It may be you, Young Damian," the preacher murmured, a solemn certainty in his tone. "You are the Light Seeker we've been waiting for."
The preacher's words hung in the air, pressing down on Damian like an invisible weight. He shifted, the supposed title of Light Seeker swirling through his mind with a mix of awe and disbelief. Could it really be him? The idea felt surreal, like something out of a fable. Yet, given everything that had happened since he arrived, maybe he shouldn't be so quick to dismiss it.
Still, he needed answers. "What makes you say that I'm the one you are looking for, sir?" Damian kept his tone respectful, though his curiosity was tinged with caution.
The old man's stomach let out an exaggerated growl. "Ugh, I'm hungry. I need something to eat," he mumbled, rubbing his belly with a forlorn look.
Damian's hand instinctively went to his satchel. He pulled out a small, slightly stale piece of bread—a leftover from the previous night's meal—and tossed it over. The older man snatched it midair, nearly fumbling but managing to keep it off the ground.
"Well, thank you very much." The preacher bit into the bread eagerly, chewing with noisy appreciation.
Damian waited, his gaze steady, until the man finished. "So, back to the topic. What makes you think I'm the Light Seeker?" he asked, trying to keep his tone steady.
The preacher's gaze turned thoughtful, his eyes gleaming with an almost unsettling insight. "The way you act, out of everyone here. I sense that you are someone full of awareness of his surroundings, trying to assess the situation as much as he can to protect himself."
Damian furrowed his brow. "Isn't self-preservation natural, sir?" he replied, his voice calm but questioning.
The preacher chuckled softly, shaking his head. "Not in this city, boy. Here, people are different. They walk around like they're asleep, oblivious to everything around them. They've accepted their situation, like puppets bound by invisible strings, or prisoners who have long abandoned hope."
Damian felt a shiver crawl down his spine. "But why though?" The question left his lips almost unconsciously, laced with confusion.
A shadow passed over the old man's face. "That is something I don't know," he said, his voice carrying a faint tremor of sadness. "It's been like this ever since the city was sealed off from the outside world."
Younger Damian stood there for a while, looking at the preacher. The preacher didn't move— he huddled himself in a sitting position.
The silence was intense. Younger Damian couldn't find the words he needed.
Finally, Older Damian spoke up, looking at his younger self. "I want you to convince the people. I'll help you, but it's up to you to choose how to say it."
"What—? Huh?" Younger Damian stammered, stumbling back and falling to the ground. "But why me? You're just giving me the spotlight, just like that?"
"If the preacher can't even convince them, then how could someone like me—a stranger to this place—convince these people to start a revolution?" Younger Damian kept his voice low, not wanting to stir the surrounding crowd.
"I don't know how either." The preacher stood up and patted Damian's shoulder, offering a comforting look. "But I do know that the Light Seeker will release us from this nightmare."