Chapter 105: Farewell, Ignatius

The plan had succeeded.

But there was just a slight flaw.

Ignatius extinguished the intricate alchemical matrix beneath his feet and, expressionless, walked toward the window on the third floor of the Western-style building, surrounded by a cluster of gray-robed figures. He gazed down upon the ever-spreading fog of the Nameless, and the masses of people scurrying about like ants before a calamity.

Naturally, no smile graced his face.

He was watching—forcing himself to watch—the sins he had committed.

Many would die.

He had known this outcome from the very beginning.

Yet if he did not act, even more would perish in the future. Entire human civilization, perhaps even humanity itself, could vanish in the not-so-distant days ahead.

The Third Millennium—the world lost its light.

So the prophecy read. But it had already been over nine hundred years since the tide of darkness swallowed the Eternal Night Wall, since hope and light disappeared into the depths of chaos. The prophesied Third Millennium was drawing to a close, and humanity stood on the brink of the unknown, yet inevitably bleak and despair-filled... Fourth Millennium.

Time left for humanity was scarce. They must adapt swiftly to this harsh world.

To that end, even if it meant forsaking one’s own glory, bearing the weight of thousands of innocent lives, and seeking coexistence with demons, it was a price they were willing to pay.

The aging Luminary gazed upon all before him, forcing himself to see everything. The blood of his ancestors and the demonic chakra within him granted him extraordinary vision, allowing him to perceive events unfolding even in the yet-thin Nameless Fog—within the obscured mist, cannibalistic demons hunted, blood stained the lapis-lazuli earth, and piercing cries rose and fell amid the haze. Yet more numerous were the humans who had abandoned ethics and morality—stripped of the last shred of decency, they cloaked their depravity in the name of darkness: murder, plunder, torture, and assault—all these atrocities unfolded beneath his eyes.

But in those clouded, aged eyes, there was no anger, no blame—only profound sorrow and guilt.

He... was the root cause of it all.

All the calamities and suffering before him sprung from his doing.

He could not help but grieve, could not help but reproach himself. The only hope he clung to was that when his soul descended into the nonexistent Ninth Circle of Hell, he could tell those who died because of him: your sacrifice was not in vain.

That was all.

He only wished to walk the righteous path.

The House of the Lost—the organization rooted deep within the darkest night—is, as the name suggests, a sanctuary for those who have lost their way. Nearly every traveler who narrowly escaped the Black Zone, glimpsed a corner of the world’s harsh reality, yet retained their sanity, would find themselves drawn here by fate. They joined together to seek humanity’s future.

Where are we... headed?

No one knows.

All are explorers, seekers, searching for a way forward for order and civilization. Yet no one holds the answer; no one can say for certain if they tread the correct path.

Hence, the necessity of experimentation—using thousands of people, along with their social relations and organizations, as test subjects—committing countless bloody acts in the few remaining cities of humanity.

Perhaps this very course was a mistake.

Every traveler acknowledged this, yet compared to the vague ambiguity of that possibility, succumbing to the impending destruction was far less conceivable.

Even if it was a fate set by the ancestors, even if they were but a group of powerless mortals—

Even if it meant betraying the glory they once bore, even if their hands were stained with innocent blood—

They would accept it without hesitation!

Because there was no other way. Humanity’s fate must be in humanity’s own hands!

This belief was rooted deeply in everyone’s heart.

What kind of beings had made covenant with the ancestors? What destiny had the ancestors ordained for the Fourth Millennium? What was the great disaster hinted at in the prophecy, and what was the true nature of the world? None of these were known, but none mattered. For love of this world, ravaged by calamity, was the original impetus.

They did not want her to die, did not want her to vanish. Like a young cub desperately clinging to its mother, all stubbornly wished to rescue her from the shadow of death.

They had all gone mad... perhaps.

Upon emerging from the deepest night’s Black Zone, every traveler would not deny this possibility. Even they themselves could not tell if it was the whisper of demons or the last blessing—or curse—left by the ancestors to their descendants.

If possible, they wished it were all but a delusion born from their confusion. They hoped they had merely gone mad within the deepest night, defeated by hysterical frenzy, becoming part of it.

But none—certainly including him—dared to gamble.

To wager the fate of all humanity, the fate of the entire world, on a fleeting possibility.

They—no one—could afford to lose.

So, they acted. Perhaps it was all blind folly, a chaotic dream, but wasn’t that better? The despairing, tragic future prophesied would not come to pass; Prometheus’s flame of order would rekindle, the ageless, immortal king ruling all humanity would be born through the rite of firebearers, the Watchman Legions would reclaim the long night, and the beacon of the Eternal Night Wall would shine once more. The world would return to peace, and the happy future where all lived in harmony would become reality—not so far away.

And they, as a band of madmen, would be nailed to the pillory of history’s shame.

But so what?

Humanity had finally glimpsed hope, glimpsed the future.

As long as that was true, even if they fell into the Ninth Circle of Hell, what did it matter?

There was nothing left to fear.

The old man’s thoughts blurred. He looked down at his pale blue, now translucent body, a faint, unsettling smile of purity curling at the corners of his lips.

It seemed they would never meet again, Amy Ulysses.

—He was about to vanish.

In truth, he should have died long ago—within Obadiah’s body.

Yet the contingency he had prepared, his power, had prolonged his inevitably fatal life once more.

—Twin Shadows.

Few knew that after demonization, a Luminary could possess multiple abilities: one innate from the ancestor’s blood, symbolizing order, and another gifted by the chakra awakened through demonization. Ignatius possessed a most peculiar power.

His shadow could materialize like himself and move freely until its designated time expired.

Thus, he had two lives, one of which could be reborn infinitely.

But this time... very unfortunately, the one killed was the original residing in Obadiah’s body. Yet there was little regret—becoming a stepping stone for younger Luminaries to ascend higher was not a bitter fate for him. On the contrary, the excellence of the youth brought him joy, for in a world bereft of light and hope, these vigorous, even ambitious young people were humanity’s true future.

Dying in honorable combat, nourishing the growth of the next generation—perhaps this was the best and most comforting death for those whose bodies and souls had fallen into darkness without redemption.

Alas... he could no longer witness your growth.

Amy Ulysses.

His body began to disintegrate. Pale blue particles of light scattered from every part, drifting like fireflies—beautiful from afar.

The flame of life long extinguished, the old man extended his hand, smiling as he watched the translucent, powerless particles in his palm. Detaching from his body, this near-death experience conducted purely by consciousness allowed him to perceive the world from a higher perspective. He saw the chains of fate extending from the Stone of Destiny, weaving through the entire void. As death drew closer, his consciousness soared further, looking down from lofty heights upon the domain of order veiled in darkness. He beheld the Order Codex above the sacred city of Hammurabi—existing only as a concept—and the destiny of humanity inscribed upon it.

“Thus—” The words barely left his lips when he heard a voice.

From above him, the very pinnacle of the world, a voice resounded.

“Another Ascendant.”

Like thunder, a majestic voice echoed across the world. Yet strangely, the physical realm—the body not fully vanished—heard no sound.

“Counting carefully... this is the second, right?” a second voice interjected. “Speaking of which, it’s where Jasu is—could she be involved?”

“No, not Jasu,” a third voice said—a mature, gentle female voice unlike the first two. “Without ‘fire,’ his failure was inevitable.”

“Fate? I hate that word,” the first voice said, suddenly uncertain, even panicked. “Wait, he’s not ascending—he’s burning! What drives him to this level is none other than his soul!”

Silence followed, brief but eternal in feeling.

“We cannot save him, you know that. We cannot save him.” The mature woman’s voice carried compassion. “We are not gods, never were. We are only powerless humans before fate. The only thing truly commendable is the will to pursue freedom—we can do nothing, change nothing, from the beginning until now.”

Then silence.

No further sound came from the heights above.

Were they the ancestors?

Or something else entirely?

Ignatius could not say. Nor did he have the strength to try.

Because—

With Death’s footsteps nearing, his consciousness finally climbed to its utmost height, revealing the truth hidden by the ancestors—the cruel truth of the world.

“This... is impossible!”

His pupils dilated wildly. Horror, despair, and madness flashed across his face simultaneously.

“We... we... how could we be—”

Then abruptly, he fell silent.

The pale blue particles composing Ignatius’s being completely dispersed into the air, drifting away with the restless wind.

Meanwhile, at the Dice House headquarters.

The little girl imprisoned in the crystal coffin suddenly opened her eyes; her large, stark black-and-white eyes glistened with tears.

Following her gaze, a pale blue particle of light drifted down atop the crystal coffin.

Then it gradually dimmed.

Finally, it vanished into nothingness.

Farewell, Ignatius—