Five years had passed since the last destruction of the key. Deimos sat at the edge of a cliff, gazing at the sky. Scattered clouds drifted at varied paces, vanishing into the horizon without ever wondering where they would one day bring rain. In the same way, he tried not to think about where his search for the key would lead him. After all, why suffer today for the pains of tomorrow?
With his right hand, he formed a circle, as if trying to focus his vision on the land below. Far beneath him, a rocky and uneven field stretched far beyond what his eyes could reach.
Now standing, the young man's heterochromatic eyes reflected the infinity the sky promised. The wind whispered in his ears like an invitation to dance, while the clouds seemed to watch him—silent witnesses to what was about to happen.
Without warning, Deimos hurled himself off the cliff. He twisted his body in the air, adjusting until he was lying flat, arms open, as if embracing the void. During the fall, he felt the world disappear. His body and mind had never felt so light. He closed his eyes, allowing himself to be filled only by the serenity of the wind cutting around him.
For an instant, there was only peace.
Then, his heart began to race. The adrenaline of the fall, mixed with the thrill and the fear of imminent impact, made sweat bead on his skin. The Atramentum took advantage of the moment, escaping from his body as if it were an extension of his emotions.
From his hands and legs, black, viscous tendrils formed, instinctively grasping onto the rocky structures around him. These shadowy limbs were more honest about Deimos' will to survive than he himself was. They knew what he refused to admit: the fear of pain and death.
As the tendrils held him, he continued swinging from side to side, alternating between bursts of acceleration and sudden pauses until, at last, he touched the ground. The sound of his boots echoed through the vast expanse of the colossal canyon.
Now with his feet firmly on the ground, Deimos lifted his gaze. The sky, once infinite, now seemed small—trapped by the towering canyon walls that stole all attention for themselves. He framed a square with his fingers, as if trying to capture that image perfectly in his mind.
After a moment of contemplation, he took a deep breath and pressed forward, crossing the vast, desolate terrain until he reached a desert.
After three months of travel, Deimos finally encountered other people: a small tribe of about twenty-seven individuals, composed of children, adults, and a few elders, their features worn by time and experience.
He spent some time trying to approach the tribe, but most remained distant, reluctant to interact with this strange being who had appeared in their lives. Deimos, with his unusual presence, persisted, but his efforts seemed to echo into the void. Then, Noesha—a curious little girl unburdened by the conventions of adults—decided to approach. Her genuine curiosity toward the outsider, so different from the world she knew, allowed a connection to form.
Slowly, the two spent more time together. Noesha became a bridge between Deimos and the tribe, while he gradually learned their language and, in turn, was tentatively accepted by some. Even so, the young man remained an anomaly: his clothing, his mannerisms, and especially his heterochromatic eyes were constant reminders that he did not belong.
As he mastered the language, Deimos began sharing stories of his travels, narrating with a melancholic tone the memories of a hazy past. He taught Noesha childhood games—memories so distant they almost felt like they belonged to someone else. In return, the little girl trusted him in a unique way: she gave him a handmade necklace and taught him the customs of her people, repaying his kindness with her own.
Over time, however, the scorching heat intensified, and the scarcity of resources became unsustainable. The tribe's frailest members began to succumb, one by one. For Deimos, his immortality created an insurmountable barrier to understanding the severity of the situation. Since he did not need food or water, he was incapable of feeling the physical deterioration the others suffered. Moreover, his perception of time—distorted by centuries—caused him to underestimate the impact of each day without resources.
Noesha was among the victims. By the time Deimos realized what was happening, it was already too late. The necklace she had given him became a sorrowful reminder of his failure to see the signs.
The sight of her small, lifeless body devastated him in a way he had nearly forgotten was possible. And then, something he had believed to be impossible happened. Heavy, salty tears slid down his face, as if all the suffering accumulated over the years was finally finding an escape.
These tears, laden with grief and guilt, became a feast for the Atramentum, which began to flow from within him. At first, only a few dark, viscous drops mixed with his tears as they fell onto the sand. But slowly, the flow increased, until a long black river began to form.
The riverbed was as dark as the Atramentum, yet the water itself was clear and pure, reflecting Deimos' untainted sorrow. This unusual phenomenon began to irrigate the parched ground, bringing life to a once-barren land.
Deimos, however, did not perceive the magnitude of what he had done. He was empty. There was no sadness, no guilt, no empathy or kindness. No pride, no malice, no frustration. Everything had vanished, leaving only absolute void in his heart.
As the tribe watched the miracle before them, their expressions shifted: some wept with relief, others smiled with hope, while some knelt in reverence, believing it to be a divine gift.
Two days after the river's formation and the tribe's celebration, their peace was shattered. During the night, men from another tribe arrived, drawn by the miraculous waters and the growing legend surrounding them. To them, the river was not a blessing but a threat—a gift bestowed upon their rivals.
With eyes filled with greed and fear, they did not hesitate. With torches and blades in hand, they massacred the small tribe. Screams tore through the silence of the night. Yet Deimos only watched from afar, his physical distance insignificant compared to the vast chasm between him and his emotions—for he no longer had any.
Some of the attacked people noticed Deimos' presence, but his empty, apathetic gaze made them hesitate. How could someone who had lived among them, who had created the river, simply watch their suffering? When they finally understood, it was too late. They realized he was not as special as they had believed. At the same time, Deimos would never comprehend that even if his kindness and emotions were enough to create an ocean, it still wouldn't be enough. It wouldn't scratch the surface of what human greed and cruelty were capable of.
The boy might have been called good, but alone, he could never change the world.
In the end, some survivors were taken captive by the invaders, while Deimos remained untouched. They did not dare harm him—either fearing he would retaliate or believing he was untouchable. To a people who had never witnessed magic, Deimos was divine, a being sent from the heavens. This event would forever mark their culture and history.
Without a farewell, Deimos disappeared. He left along with the screams and joy that had once echoed in that place, now replaced by silence and pain. He wandered the desert for two days, and on the third, his emotions returned like a violent storm. The memory of that night would never leave him. He knew the power of the Atramentum was not without cost, but he had never imagined the price could be so steep. His inaction, his lack of response, had doomed an entire people.
To him, kindness left unrealized weighed heavier than evil committed.
Bearing this burden, Deimos collapsed to the ground, eyes heavy and hands trembling. He had no strength left to go on. His throat felt tight, and his chest—heavier than a mountain—made even breathing a struggle. Tears streamed down his face, but this time, there was no magic, only pain. The Atramentum, once a reflection of his emotions, remained still—as if there was no space for it anymore.
After what felt like centuries, he managed to stand. For six days, he walked without rest, unable to sleep. Guilt consumed him, his mind caught in an endless cycle of regret and self-punishment. On the sixth day, Deimos' body finally gave in. He collapsed onto the desert sand, swallowed by the darkness of night.
And so, the seventh day was spent resting. Sleep came as a relief—a rare moment of peace amid the storm that was his life. Unbeknownst to him, those few hours of slumber would be one of the only respites he would ever have.