Chapter 115 The Womb that Saves the World
On a windy night, Iris remembered Fitran's warm smile as they sat side by side beneath the radiant full moon. A gentle breeze carried the salty freshness of the sea while distant waves rhythmically crashed, composing a tranquil lullaby. As their fingers intertwined, the noisy world around them seemed to dissolve into silence, leaving only their synchronized heartbeats filling the calm. Their laughter danced softly in the stillness, weaving through shared dreams and whispered hopes, as if that precious moment was all that truly mattered. Fitran's voice, tender and unwavering, once murmured, "I will always be here for you, Iris. In every part of this life." In those fleeting hours, their love and hope entwined tightly, forging an invisible bridge that linked their souls across any distance.
Yet, when silence settled after Fitran's departure, Iris found the world swallowed by a shadowy darkness, stripped of any comforting glow. The days crawled endlessly as she replayed their final moments, etched deeply in her memory. Before vanishing, Fitran had held her in a fierce embrace—a touch that radiated safety and fortified Iris's fragile heart. Amidst soft, steady breaths, Fitran vowed not to stray far. Their eyes locked with profound intensity, binding Iris to a sacred promise—one that, in time, slipped away into the engulfing night.
The hundred and first night since Fitran disappeared.
Gaia's vast sky stretched endlessly overhead, studded with stars that flickered faintly, their light wavering as if struggling against the overwhelming darkness to remain alight in the biting cold of night.
Within the quiet solitude of her private chamber, Iris awoke, a shiver tracing down her spine as she sensed a presence breathing just beyond the thin veil of reality.
It was no gentle clatter of servants preparing drinks, nor the measured footsteps of palace guards on patrol. It was not even the soft, rhythmic thrum of the child awakening within her womb. Instead, a faint whisper drifted through her soul—ancient, unyielding words carved into her essence, words absent from the hallowed pages of the Book of Man:
"O progeny of the unnamable light... You do not belong here."
A cold wind slithered through a window that should not have existed,
its icy fingers crawling beneath her skin, sinking deep into her very bones.
In that instant, the solitary candle flame trembled violently before snapping out, plunging the room into a suffocating darkness that swallowed every glimmer of hope.
From the trembling shadow cast by a heavy curtain, silent footsteps materialized—ethereal and ghostlike—as though the fabric itself had taken breath and stirred to life amid the oppressive stillness of night.
Azazel emerged from the depths of the shadows, his skin as pale and brittle as ancient bone. Seven glowing eyes, each radiating a haunting, otherworldly light, scanned the room with relentless intensity. His forked tongue flickered in and out, as if siphoning the surrounding darkness into himself. Breaking the suffocating silence, his presence was undeniable and chilling. A supernatural aura, thick and suffused like a creeping black mist, flowed from him, engulfing the space and warping the very air. The flickering points of light quivered in response, trembling with fear beneath his oppressive gaze. Every deliberate step Azazel took shattered the stillness, sending ripples through the heavy atmosphere, saturating the room with a deep-seated, vibrating tension that felt alive with eerie, palpable power.