Chapter 53 Arkanum Veritas (14)
The next target is Rinn,
The night hangs over the ruins of the Hall of Sigils like a death knell, etching a tone of emptiness into the soul. Smoke and ash swirl, carrying the whispers of shattered magic, as if the secrets of ancient times are struggling to reveal themselves. Amidst the blackened debris and the piercing light of the full moon, Rinn stands tightly clutching an ancient scroll—a genuine copy of the forbidden manuscript that unravels the boundaries between reality and illusion, which should have been destroyed a century ago by the hands of history's guardians.
His footsteps are slow yet resolute, each step on the cracked ground signaling a brewing tension. He knows that every second counts; time is his greatest enemy. However, he also realizes—he is not alone.
"I wish you were wiser than this, Rinn."
The voice does not come from the dark sky, nor from the smoldering ground. It emerges from the very rift of reality itself—cold, clear, and absolute. Fitran. Standing atop the ruins of once-majestic stone arches, his cloak billows without wind, resembling a shadow that has taken form. Those eyes—two empty voids that reflect no light, only absorb it with arrogance.
Rinn bit her lip, feeling the tension between two worlds. "You understand what is inscribed here. This world is built on lies, and the truth has the power to shatter everything we comprehend."
"I understand," Fitran replied softly, his voice firm and resonant amidst the ruins. "But that is exactly why it must not touch this world."
A silent flash of lightning swept behind him, casting menacing shadows on the crumbling walls. The air thickened with tension, and the ground began to crack slowly beneath Rinn's feet.
"I will not give in to you," Rinn declared, her gaze ignited with determination, her spirit far surpassing any fear that might gnaw at her heart. "Arkanum Veritas cannot be silenced any longer. If this world is an illusion, I would rather witness its burning than live in a deceptive facade."
Fitran lowered his head, as if hearing a whispered echo beyond human perception. With slow, deliberate motion, he raised his right hand, and ancient magic began to trace itself in the air—a sacred symbol even the Archmages had long forgotten how to decipher.
"Forgive me, Rinn," he spoke softly, each word sharp like a blade piercing flesh. "You know I do not protect this world out of love. My duty is merely to ensure that reality remains intact."