CHAPTER FIVE: RETURN TO THE HOLLOW CITY
Eden welcomed him like a prodigal son.
The massive gates hissed open on their pneumatic rails, parting with an almost reverent sigh as they recognized his divine signature. The biometric runes embedded along the threshold flared gold as he stepped through, whispering approval in a dead language only machines could speak.
The sacred halls glowed faintly as they always did — their living silver inlays shimmering, the godsteel archways humming faintly, the air perfumed with lavender and the faint antiseptic tang of sterilization. From unseen speakers, the hidden choirs began to sing a hymn as he walked, though the words felt hollow now, like wind through an abandoned church.
Home.
Worship.
And all the while, he was breaking, Shaking as is this how hero should feel.
Luther's boots clicked softly on the polished floor of the Hall of Deliverance, his steps deliberate but slower than usual. His armor was still dusted with the ash of Zone 0, a faint trail of gray falling behind him like a shadow made visible.
On either side of the hall, soldiers stood at attention, bowing stiffly as he passed. Behind observation glass, children pressed their hands to the panes, their faces bright with awe and curiosity. Priests in flowing white robes clutched their data-slates closer when his eyes brushed over them.
This time, there were no fanfares.
No cheering.
Just silence.
A silence that followed him all the way to the sanctum where Mr. P had summoned him.
The sanctum was chaos.
It always was.
Wires coiled through the room like living things. Blueprints floated midair, rotating and rearranging themselves in unreadable patterns. A dozen clones shuffled about, bumping into each other, muttering apologies and tripping over their own feet. On one wall, an AI repeated itself in an exasperated monotone: "Error: coffee dispenser not found. Error: coffee dispenser not found…"
And in the center of it all, Mr. P sat backwards in a floating chair, his long lab coat draped over him like a king's mantle... though someone had scrawled across the back of it in black marker: "I Regret Everything (Except This Coat)."
He didn't look up when Luther entered.
"Well, here is the prodigal... Son of Eden" he called out, voice light and careless, "you didn't die. That's progress."
Luther stepped forward, each word weighted like stone.
"There was nothing there."
Mr. P finally glanced at him, one eyebrow raised. "Oh? Shocking right"
"No Akuma," Luther said. "No Geki-class resonance. Just… a corpse. And…" His voice caught, just for a fraction of a second. "And a version of me."
That finally made Mr. P set down his stylus. He swiveled in his chair to face Luther fully, his grin faint and sharp.
"A version of you?" he asked. "What are we talking here? Your moody teenage phase? The version that spends all night brooding at the window and writing sad poetry please do tell?"
Luther didn't smile.
"It knew things," he said quietly. "About Naomi. About… what I am."
Mr. P sighed and stood, brushing crumbs from his coat. His gaze was different now ... sharper. He walked slowly toward Luther, hands clasped behind his back, his posture loose but his expression unreadable.
"Luther," he said softly, "your brain is half divine code and half trauma sponge. Sometimes it screams nonsense boy."
"It wasn't nonsense."
"No," Mr. P admitted after a long beat. "No, it wasn't."
The clones froze where they stood. Even the AI stopped mid-sentence.
Luther took a step closer, his eyes colder now.
"You sent me there to fight it.... Why"
Mr. P didn't flinch.
"I sent you there," he said, "to see it."
"So it was real."
Mr. P tilted his head slightly.
"Mmmmm.. Define 'real,'" he said lightly. "Was it physical? Yes. Was it alive? …Possibly. Was it you? Only the part of you that's bleeding through the lies we both built."
Luther's jaw tightened.
"You keep saying 'we,'" he growled. "Like I had a choice."
"You do now," Mr. P said, so softly it almost didn't carry.
Luther's hands curled into fists.
"Don't," he hissed. "Don't pretend this was about my choice."
Mr. P stopped just in front of him now, his own voice lowering to a quiet, lethal calm.
"You think I wanted to create you?"
Luther didn't answer.
"You think I woke up one morning," Mr. P continued, "and thought,Hmm... 'Let me forge a being from the divine soul of a stolen god fucking saint or child and graft it into a bloody mortal weapon, so I can pretend I'm saving the world.'"
His voice cracked there.
Just for a second.
"I made you," he said, "because I had no other way to fight back."
"Against what?"
Mr. P stared at him.
Then, finally: "Against fate. Against bastard who took what I bloody... loved the most."
Luther's eyes narrowed to slits.
"Zero."
Mr. P didn't reply.
But the silence was answer enough.
For a long, taut moment, neither of them moved.
Then Luther said, his voice lower now, almost breaking:
"The doppelganger said Naomi begged you not to finish me."
There it was... the faintest twitch in Mr. P's eyes.
Then he smiled. Hollow.
"You know," he said, "in some cultures the dead lie. In others, the living do."
"Which one are you?"
"Does it matter?"
Luther's voice cut like a blade.
"If I said I wanted to kill you… would you blame me?"
Mr. P's grin faltered just enough to show the hurt beneath.
Then he nodded faintly.
"Touche."
Luther turned to leave. But before he reached the door, his voice softened, brittle and quiet.
"Was she afraid of me?"
Mr. P didn't answer immediately. He looked past Luther, to the empty stasis pod glowing faintly in the corner. To the old photo half-buried under a nest of cables. To the unlit cigarette waiting on the table.
Then, softly:
"No."
"She was afraid for you."
Luther didn't look back.
He just walked out, the silence closing behind him.
Later that night, he stood alone in his quarters.
The armor slid from his shoulders and hit the floor with a muted clang. He didn't bother turning on the lights.
In the faint glow of the spear leaning against the wall, he stared down at its blade... polished to a mirror's edge.
He could see himself there now.
And he hated what he saw.
He didn't need a mirror anymore to know what he was.
His voice cracked as he whispered into the dark.
"Who did you make me to kill, Paku?"
The blade didn't answer.
But somewhere far below the city, something stirred in the deep.
In his private sanctum, Zero sat cross-legged on the floor, surrounded by broken prophecy tablets and ancient holy texts.
A screen hovered before him, showing Luther's figure alone in his room, silent and shaken.
Zero's lips curved faintly.
"Good," he murmured.
"Cracks make room for light."
Behind him, the Source Spark flared hotter, the shadows deepening.
"Or for fire."
And his eyes glowed faintly as he watched the cracks widen.
END OF CHAPTER FIVE