Damián stood in silence, his thoughts drifting like ash in a dead wind.
"True meaning… power… identity."
The words repeated within him like a quiet chant—no louder than breath, but no weaker than fate.
That was what he sought.
That was what he would bleed for.
He moved toward the left wall of Axir's wooden sanctuary, where a crooked shelf slouched under the weight of timeworn tomes. Their spines bore symbols, not titles—spirals, blades, sunbursts, and broken circles.
They weren't mere books. They were bibles—the kind written not by priests, but by witnesses.
Witnesses of gods.
As Damián's fingers brushed the leather bindings, he could almost hear whispers—faint, patient things—etched into the paper with ink that looked like dried blood or spilled starlight. Each volume recounted the rise of so-called deities: how they walked the world as men, then twisted its future as divine forces.
From igniting revolutions in language and logic, to reinventing the rituals of fire and food, every deity left behind a scar or blessing on humanity.
And yet…
Despite all that change… the world still looked like an exhausted pipe system—twisting metal veins, rusted and choked, struggling to hold on.
A decaying relic.
But beneath the soot and sorrow, there was… beauty. A strange, stubborn kind. The kind that refused to die.
Damián reached for a thick tome engraved with a seven-eyed symbol when a voice yanked him out of his trance.
"Kid."
Axir's voice was a soft growl.
Damián blinked, snapping out of his wandering mind.
"Oh, sorry… Axir."
The old man sighed, folding his arms.
"You keep getting lost in your own head. Why is that?"
Damián looked at the floor.
"I don't really know."
Axir raised an eyebrow. "That's not good enough."
"I… really don't know." Damián repeated, this time quieter—like a confession muttered before a silent god.
A long pause. Then Axir exhaled through his nose, the sigh of a man who'd seen far too many repeat the same cycle.
"Sit."
The word was not a suggestion.
Damián obeyed, lowering himself onto the old oak chair. The way he sat carried echoes of the wealthy boy he once was—posture straight, clean, almost princely—but it lacked pride.
It was a shell of mannerism with no throne left to protect.
Axir sat opposite him, eyes half-lidded like someone watching fate tighten its noose.
"You and I," he said, "are going out."
Damián tilted his head.
"Why?"
"Because we need certain ingredients."
"Ingredients… for what?"
Axir leaned forward, his hands laced before him like a man offering both prayer and threat.
"A potion."
Damián blinked. "A potion of what?"
A smirk danced on the old man's lips. It was neither warm nor cold—it simply was.
"A potion of Ecliptica."
He paused.
"And I will choose which one."
"Why not me?" Damián asked, voice hollow with hesitation.
"Because you know nothing," Axir said bluntly, "and Ecliptica is not a toy. It's not a choice—it's a mirror. A curse. A crown. All in one."
Damián stared at him, his body frozen but his mind unraveling. His expression… it was the look of a child who had wandered too far from home and just now realized the stars do not guide—they watch.
Axir saw it. He let the silence sit for a while.
Outside, wind kissed the wooden walls. Somewhere distant, a wolf howled once—and then no more.
The room grew colder, but not from temperature.
From revelation.
And so… the journey to Ecliptica begins—not with triumph, but with confusion.
Not with clarity, but with the echo of ancient choices made by hands long turned to dust.