Thorns of Chaos

The ritual began.

The sky split apart without a sound. The ground faded not because it was destroyed, but because it had forgotten its own existence. The colors shrank to two: black and white, and slowly disappeared too.

Veyrn stood tall, staff raised high, the symbols on his body glowing and melting into light.

"With this, I tear this place from the body of the world," he murmured. "And let it never be remembered again."

Zeo still stood in the center of the crack, silent. He did not resist. He did not fight.

He knew: he had won.

Because when the world must choose to erase a place for the sake of safety, it means the world has lost the fight against chaos.

But suddenly—

TIME FLEXED.

And in one second that was as long as a thousand years, Rivan was pulled out of the path of time.

He stood in an empty space.

No sky. No land.

Just a reflection of choice.

One version of himself: destroyed along with the village. All was over. The world remained intact, but there was a hole in its history.

Another version: he replaced Zeo. Became the cover. Became the wall between the world and Darzel. But to do that, he had to let go of who he was. Not die. But be forgotten. By the world. By himself.

And in the midst of it all… a voice came.

Not from Darzel. Not from Veyrn. Not from Zeo.

But from the World Itself.

"Choose, Rivan."

"End… or Replace."

Rivan fell to his knees. His head was hot. His breath hitched. The symbol on his chest burned wildly. The book he used to use burned from within his mind.

And in the midst of it all, he saw Zeo's face.

Calm.

Surrender.

Not as an enemy. But as someone who wanted the world to choose something… anything.

Rivan stood up. Slowly. His eyes were cold.

"If something must be locked, let me be the key."

And he stepped toward the center of the light.

Prepared…

…to become the new cover.

Morning should have come.

But the sky was empty. Not dark. Not bright. Like someone forgot to write "sun" on the world page.

The villagers woke up—if that could be called waking up. There was no morning breath. There was no smell of wet earth. The air was still.

One of the mothers screamed—but her voice didn't come out.

The children tried to speak—but the words had no sound. Only the empty movement of lips.

People ran out of their houses. But the ground beneath them felt like rubber. The houses began to fade in the distance, as if painted with too much water.

A man tried to write. But the ink disappeared before it touched the paper.

Someone tried to pray. But when they closed their eyes, they didn't see darkness. They saw… their own reflection without eyes.

And one by one, they began to forget.

Not forgetting ordinary things. But forgetting who they were.

The names of their children. The voices of their mothers. The shape of their houses.

As if the world was scribbling on their timelines with a rough finger.

In the center of the village, where the meeting hall used to be, there was now a hole.

Not a chasm. But an empty space. Indefinable.

Several people approached. But the closer they got, the more transparent their bodies became. Until finally… they disappeared like a dream that had been forced to close.

Among all of them, a small child—the only one who had not spoken since the beginning—stood in the middle of the village road.

He looked up at the sky, and saw two blurry figures—like silhouettes.

One stood. One sank.

Then he smiled.

And said, in a small voice that should not have been audible:

"You are not a dream. You are chosen."

Then everything was silent.

And the village began… to disappear.

Not in an explosion. Not in a scream. But in a very complete silence.