Behind them, the Veil of Thorns begins to wither. The twisted trees, once watching, now crack and splinter from within. Their sickly limbs degenerate, collapsing into themselves like dying embers starved of air.

  Roots shrivel. The ground quakes.

  The forest does not burn. Darkness swallows it. It was as if the land itself was waiting. As if the path behind them was never meant to remain.

  The air here is heavy—not with rot or dust, but with something akin to grand design.

  Ahead, the land opens into ruin—left behind by vestiges of a capital that remembers.

  The Faceless City, Lirian reckons.

  Towering ruins stretch toward a tainted, golden sky, their edges jagged and broken, as if gnawed by time itself. Sunken streets carve through the landscape like forgotten scars, their stonework shattered, bridges collapsing into mist-choked chasms. Once-grand cathedrals stand out against the devastation, their spires cracked and crumbling, stained glass shattered into a thousand fractured prayers. A great clock, frozen mid-toll, clings to the husk of an ancient tower, its rusted hands locked in defiance of time.

  They walk into the heart of The Faceless City.

  It is a graveyard of empires.

  The wind does not howl. It does not wail.

  It whispers.

  Thin voices coil through the air, a chorus of the nameless. The walls weep dust, the bones of the city itself shifting beneath unseen weight.

  Statues line the streets—figures of kings, warriors, scholars—all faceless. Their features worn smooth, as if history itself refused to remember them. Some lie toppled, buried beneath the ruins. Others remain standing, watching with empty gazes. A bridge arches over a dry riverbed, its stones black, scorched—as if fire once consumed everything that dared cross. What remains of banners, now little more than a drab, tattered canvas, clings desperately to rusted metal—their symbols and meanings annulled.

  At the city's center, a gate stands.

  Colossal, ironbound, rusted with time and neglect. Chains wrap around it, thick as a man's torso, layered as though to ensure it never opens.

  But it was never meant to be opened.

  Lirian steps closer, tracing their fingers across the worn stone at the base of a pillar.

  An inscription, nearly lost to time.

  "This is the Gate of the Faceless. Those who pass through do not pass beyond."

  Their gaze drifts to the carvings beside it—figures etched into the ancient stone.

  Once, there were two.

  Now, there is only one.

  The final soul stands alone before the gate.

  Lirian exhales slowly, their fingers lingering over the empty space where the others had once been.

  Then, they look up.

  Aedric stands unmoving—chin raised, eyes closed, fists clenched, and knuckles pressed together in orison.

  But, beyond him—beyond The Faceless City—far in the distance, the horizon writhes—The End inexorably unfolding.

  The sky splits with silent lightning, jagged cracks spreading like veins through a dying world. Mountains tremble, their peaks crumbling as if dragged into the earth by unseen hands. Cities dissolve into dust, swallowed by the wind—the world perpetually being effaced.

  Lirian watches, their expression unreadable. Aedric remains in prayer.

  "We are the only living souls to witness such a sight," they murmur. Their voice is quieter now, almost thoughtful.

  The gate stands before them, an iron monolith bound in rust and time.

  They glance toward the Dead One, awe still dancing behind their eyes.

  "Why does the Door beckon you, corpse?"

  The Dead One does not respond.

  It does not look at them.

  It only stares at the gate, its umbra sockets fixed, as if trapped in a long-forgotten recall.

  A wall surrounds whatever lies beyond, stretching high, seamless, and unbroken.

  No castle rises beyond it. No spire pierces the sky.

  From this side, there is nothing.

  There is only the gate.

  The chains are impossibly thick, layered atop one another in a tangle of decayed metal—a sealing, not a lock. The entire wall bears numerous layers of wrapping.

  On approach, a breeze washes over Aerdic—a gentle zephyr crossing his path, as if purposefully, but bearing an unsettling chill of antiquity.

  A hulk of iron and steel kneels before the gate.

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  Unmoving.

  Unnatural.

  It towers over them, taller than any man, its sheer presence enough to make the air feel heavier.

  Its armor is immense—thick, plated, corroded by time yet unbroken. The weight is crushing, yet the knight does not waver. It has knelt for an eternity, its imposing armor layered with dust; it will kneel for another.

  A greatsword—taller than four men and broader than a tombstone—is driven deep into the ground before it. Both hands rest upon the hilt, fingers locked, gauntlets weathered, and archaic.

  Its head tilts downward, bowed, as if in silent prayer. But its helmet is smooth.

  Blank.

  Featureless.

  A sentinel without a name. Without a face.

  The wind stirs the dust around it.

  The metal emits a soft groan, seemingly recalling the burden of battle.

  But it does not breathe.

  It does not shift.

  It simply waits.

  Aedric steps closer. His grip tightens around his blade.

  The sight before him is one he has longed for. It is not a gate. It's not a passage. A test.

  "At last!"

  Lirian glances at him; for a brief second, Aerdic could almost see an afterimage when they turned their head.

  "Hmm?"

  Aedric exhales slowly.

  A warrior's breath. It is a breath that steadies the hands.

  A breath that knows the weight of steel and the silence before battle.

  His fingers flex, rolling against the leather of his hilt, drawing his longsword with reverence.

  The steel shrieks. A tool long denied its purpose.

  "This is what I seek."

  Lirian watches him for a long moment, then shifts their gaze toward the knight.

  "You would challenge a Zemi—a Guardian?"

  Aedric does not look at them.

  "I would challenge the foe that waits."

  The knight does not react.

  The wind howls against its armor, but it remains still.

  Unshaken.

  Aedric lifts his longsword, the edge catching the tainted sunlight.

  "Take the carcass and stand aside, scholar."

  His voice is low and measured. Not a request.

  Lirian does not argue. They step back with the Dead One, uncertain if he can face such a hulking opponent.

  Aedric grins. "Let's see if you can die."

  The world pauses to catch its breath.

  For a long moment, nothing moves.

  The Faceless City seems to shrink around them, the walls pressing inward, the silence stretching thinner—a string pulled taut before the snap.

  But the knight does not rise.

  Aedric grips his hilt, stepping close.

  Another breath.

  Still, the knight does not move.

  Then—it does.

  Its head snaps upward, the blank helm locking onto Aedric in a single, precise motion.

  For the first time, it sees him, as if he passed an invisible threshold.

  Then, with terrifying ease, it rises to its feet—dust and ash falling from its armor—ripping its monstrous greatsword from the earth.

  Steel grinds against stone, the shriek of metal splitting the breeze.

  Then, it drives the blade back down. The impact shatters the ground beneath them. A metallic roar erupts through the city like steel screaming, like something ancient breaking free.

  Dust explodes outward, swallowing the ruins in a veil of fluid darkness.

  The chains on the gate rattle, groaning like dying things.

  The earth splits. The city trembles.

  The knight wrenches its sword free once more, lifting the massive blade over its shoulder.

  Aedric steadies himself, both hands gripping his longsword hard, armor puling from time.

  The Faceless Knight lunges, moving like inevitability.

  Not with anger—rage.

  But with calling.

  The first strike is a ruinous thing.

  Its sword tears through the air, its sheer force fracturing the ground, stones bursting outward like splintered bone.

  Aedric barely sidesteps. The wind of the blow roars past him, rattling his armor. The force alone could have torn a lesser man apart.

  But he is still standing.

  And he does not hesitate.

  He strikes.

  Their blades meet, and the city weeps.

  Sparks scatter like dying stars, flickering in the ash-choked air. The impact sends a shockwave through Aedric's arms, rattling bone and numbing fingers.

  The knight does not falter.

  It does not reel. It does not stagger.

  Aedric moves with the fluidity of a man who has fought wars for a millennium—who has bled time and time again, breathing victory over every conflict through the taste of cruor.

  He parries. He sidesteps. He counters.

  The knight is relentless. Its attacks are unerring, precise, monstrous.

  Aedric pivots away as the knight's sword tunnels into the stone beside him, embedding so deep that the obstruction itself collapses. A slower breath would have cleaved him in two.

  He exhales, steadying his grip, smiling through bloodied teeth.

  "Is that all you've got?"

  The knight does not answer.

  It never does.

  It only continues its relentless assault; no breath to slow, no muscle to weaken.

  The Dead One and Lirian do not move. They do not interfere.

  They observe Aedric as he dances between death and defiance.

  The knight pays them no attention; Lirian wonders if it can even see them.

  Aedric begins to falter, but the Faceless Knight's strikes do not.

  It's a force that has never known weakness.

  Aedric, however—he is slowing.

  The burden of his years weighs heavily on him. He feels the rust in his joints. The fatigue from a lifetime of fighting tugs at him now.

  But he does not stop.

  He cannot.

  Not before he has earned it.

  The knight lifts its greatsword, raising it for the final strike.

  Aedric does not wait for it.

  He runs.

  Boots pound against broken stone, longsword lifting, aiming for the chink beneath the knight's helm.

  A last gambit.

  The final charge.

  Steel gleams. Dust swirls. The Faceless Knight rushes, arm recoiled, hilt gripped in one hand as it prepares to thrust its mammoth blade forward.

  Then—

  They strike.

  Simultaneous.

  Aedric drives his longsword forth.

  The tip slams beneath the knight's helm, piercing through the void where a throat should be. The force of his charge carries it through flesh, through shade, through bone.

  The sword erupts from the back of its head.

  Aedric lands—for a single breath.

  And in that instant—

  The knight's greatsword crashes through his chest; the impact annihilates flesh, pulps organs, and shatters ribs like brittle glass.

  There is no cry of pain.

  There was no sound at all.

  Just a hollow gasp.

  Aedric is dead instantaneously.

  The knight does not move.

  It remains locked in its final position, Aedric's sword still buried through its skull.

  Their bodies sit frozen in time, ready to be swallowed by penumbra.

  Aedric is gone.

  Only the hollow remnants of his battle remain—his blade, the corpse of the knight, and the greatsword still buried through his remains.

  Lirian does not move at first. Their hands tremble at their sides, their fingers curling and uncurling. Their lips part, forming words without voice.

  The Dead One does not linger.

  It turns from Aedric's fallen form, from the Knight, from the weight of what has been lost.

  It walks to the gate.

  Lirian inhales sharply, their voice a whisper swallowed by the wind.

  "By Gia's Grace—Steel sings its final song in the hands of the dead. The blade does not mourn. The war does not grieve. The dust remembers. Only through fire and sin shall you wake."

  They exhale, gaze lingering on the warrior who would fight no more.

  "You have earned your rest, Hollowblade. May you return once more."

  The Dead One places a hand upon the rusted chains.

  Golden runes illuminate along the metal links. The city shudders around them, the remnants of the past recoiling.

  The chains groan.

  Then—it loosens.

  Links unravel, rust flaking away, the magnificent metal bindings unwinding like they had only ever been waiting.

  Lirian gawks, breath shallow, rapid. "How?" they demand, their voice chaotic, echoing more frantically than usual.

  The Dead one does not turn to them.

  "It beckons me."

  It pushes on the gate—the metal shudders, dust spilling from its rusted frame.

  Then—it opens.

  Not forced. Not broken open.

  Yielding—a soundless roar of transforming metal and unraveling time.

  The doors part, revealing what lies ahead—a mighty monolith bathed in brilliant adumbration.

  The Last Door.