The forest behind their quiet home was silent, yet unnervingly alive.
Birds stopped mid-flight.
Leaves curled inward as if bracing against a storm that hadn't yet arrived.
And deep beneath the roots, something whispered in a voice no mortal ear should have heard.
"You are the key."
She stood at the edge of the pond—barefoot, motionless, her reflection staring up with eyes not entirely hers.
His daughter had always been… different.
Quiet, but not shy.
Bright, but not loud.
Since birth, the wind seemed to lean in when she spoke, and fire refused to burn too close. When she cried as a child, rain followed. Not storms. Just… soft, grieving rain.
But now, that sadness had form.
Something within her had cracked.
And through that crack, Guilt was beginning to awaken.
Back inside the home, he arrived with a single breath, stepping through the shadow between seconds.
His wife looked up from the kitchen, her expression unreadable. She'd always known the weight he carried, and by extension, she knew their children might one day carry pieces of it too.
But the feeling in her chest today?
It was different.
He said nothing.
He didn't need to.
They both knew.
He crossed the room and placed a hand over hers.
She held his palm tighter than usual.
"Do you feel it?" he asked quietly.
She nodded.
"Guilt," she whispered.
In the garden, the son trained with brutal focus. Sweat soaked through his robes as he performed the Hundred-Breath Sword Form, again and again.
He didn't notice the ripples in the air. The sudden shift in temperature. Or the flicker of something impossible watching from behind the tree line.
But the shadows did.
One stepped forward.
"Master's daughter is becoming a conduit," it said to the son.
He stopped mid-form, sword still raised.
"What does that mean?"
"She may soon awaken… or collapse."
He frowned. "Awaken what?"
The shadow was silent.
But its silence was the answer.
Outside, the trees bent.
Not from wind, but from presence.
She remained by the pond, eyes still locked to her own reflection. But now, it looked back at her differently.
Her own face began to shimmer. Her features blurred, twisting slightly—just for a second.
The face in the water… wasn't hers.
It was older.
Sadder.
And tired in a way no child should ever look.
She leaned closer.
"Do you know what he did?" the voice in the water asked.
She didn't answer.
"Do you know how many died so you could be born clean?"
The reflection smiled.
"You carry all of them."
She flinched as if struck.
He arrived a moment later, not walking—just there. One second the space beside her was empty, and the next, it was filled with warmth and shadow.
She didn't look up. Her eyes were glued to the pond.
"They're inside me," she whispered.
"I know."
"They're loud."
"I can make them quiet."
She shook her head. "No. I don't want them gone. I want to understand."
His eyes flickered, golden irises narrowing.
"You're not ready for what they are."
"But I have to be."
He crouched beside her, his hand hovering just above her shoulder. Not touching.
"Why?"
She turned to him, voice trembling but firm.
"Because I feel them. And I know I'm not supposed to. Not like this. Not this young."
He swallowed.
There it was.
The truth he'd hoped he'd never see.
She wasn't just his daughter.
She was a vessel.
And now, Guilt had chosen her.
That night, the sky cracked again—this time, not across the world, but within a dream.
She was asleep in her room, body peaceful, but her soul…
Her soul stood before a mirror.
Not the Mirror of Aethrin he had seen.
This one was smaller. Personal.
It showed her face, but not her thoughts.
Instead, it showed every soul that had ever perished in his wake.
Thousands upon thousands.
Some with names.
Some without.
And then—
One stepped forward.
A girl.
No older than her.
Eyes hollow.
Skin grey.
Mouth sewn shut.
The child's hand reached out, trembling, and touched her chest.
Her heart thudded.
"You remember me?"
She did not.
But her soul did.
And that was enough.
She woke gasping, heart racing, cold sweat plastered to her back.
He was already by her side, holding her hand.
She clutched his fingers.
"Am I broken?" she whispered.
"No."
"Then why do I feel like I've lived through a war I never fought?"
His voice was soft.
"Because I did."
She stared at him.
And he saw it in her eyes.
She understood.
Not everything.
But enough.
Enough to be afraid.
Enough to ask.
"Dad… are we monsters?"
He didn't speak for a long time.
Then—
"We're what comes after monsters die."
In the Heavenly World, the archangels gathered in silence.
One knelt in front of the cracked Mirror of Aethrin.
"She carries Guilt," the eldest said.
"She's just a child."
"Children are the most vulnerable."
"What will he do?"
"He will protect her."
"And if she breaks?"
The eldest closed their eyes.
"Then the Hollow Star will awaken through sorrow, not hunger."
At the edge of the world, in the place between shadows and stars, something stirred again.
A second concept blinked.
Rage.
It, too, was looking for a vessel.
And this time?
It wasn't coming for the daughter.
Chapter 18: She Who Carries Guilt
The forest behind their quiet home was silent, yet unnervingly alive.
Birds stopped mid-flight.
Leaves curled inward as if bracing against a storm that hadn't yet arrived.
And deep beneath the roots, something whispered in a voice no mortal ear should have heard.
"You are the key."
She stood at the edge of the pond—barefoot, motionless, her reflection staring up with eyes not entirely hers.
His daughter had always been… different.
Quiet, but not shy.
Bright, but not loud.
Since birth, the wind seemed to lean in when she spoke, and fire refused to burn too close. When she cried as a child, rain followed. Not storms. Just… soft, grieving rain.
But now, that sadness had form.
Something within her had cracked.
And through that crack, Guilt was beginning to awaken.
Back inside the home, he arrived with a single breath, stepping through the shadow between seconds.
His wife looked up from the kitchen, her expression unreadable. She'd always known the weight he carried, and by extension, she knew their children might one day carry pieces of it too.
But the feeling in her chest today?
It was different.
He said nothing.
He didn't need to.
They both knew.
He crossed the room and placed a hand over hers.
She held his palm tighter than usual.
"Do you feel it?" he asked quietly.
She nodded.
"Guilt," she whispered.
In the garden, the son trained with brutal focus. Sweat soaked through his robes as he performed the Hundred-Breath Sword Form, again and again.
He didn't notice the ripples in the air. The sudden shift in temperature. Or the flicker of something impossible watching from behind the tree line.
But the shadows did.
One stepped forward.
"Master's daughter is becoming a conduit," it said to the son.
He stopped mid-form, sword still raised.
"What does that mean?"
"She may soon awaken… or collapse."
He frowned. "Awaken what?"
The shadow was silent.
But its silence was the answer.
Outside, the trees bent.
Not from wind, but from presence.
She remained by the pond, eyes still locked to her own reflection. But now, it looked back at her differently.
Her own face began to shimmer. Her features blurred, twisting slightly—just for a second.
The face in the water… wasn't hers.
It was older.
Sadder.
And tired in a way no child should ever look.
She leaned closer.
"Do you know what he did?" the voice in the water asked.
She didn't answer.
"Do you know how many died so you could be born clean?"
The reflection smiled.
"You carry all of them."
She flinched as if struck.
He arrived a moment later, not walking—just there. One second the space beside her was empty, and the next, it was filled with warmth and shadow.
She didn't look up. Her eyes were glued to the pond.
"They're inside me," she whispered.
"I know."
"They're loud."
"I can make them quiet."
She shook her head. "No. I don't want them gone. I want to understand."
His eyes flickered, golden irises narrowing.
"You're not ready for what they are."
"But I have to be."
He crouched beside her, his hand hovering just above her shoulder. Not touching.
"Why?"
She turned to him, voice trembling but firm.
"Because I feel them. And I know I'm not supposed to. Not like this. Not this young."
He swallowed.
There it was.
The truth he'd hoped he'd never see.
She wasn't just his daughter.
She was a vessel.
And now, Guilt had chosen her.
That night, the sky cracked again—this time, not across the world, but within a dream.
She was asleep in her room, body peaceful, but her soul…
Her soul stood before a mirror.
Not the Mirror of Aethrin he had seen.
This one was smaller. Personal.
It showed her face, but not her thoughts.
Instead, it showed every soul that had ever perished in his wake.
Thousands upon thousands.
Some with names.
Some without.
And then—
One stepped forward.
A girl.
No older than her.
Eyes hollow.
Skin grey.
Mouth sewn shut.
The child's hand reached out, trembling, and touched her chest.
Her heart thudded.
"You remember me?"
She did not.
But her soul did.
And that was enough.
She woke gasping, heart racing, cold sweat plastered to her back.
He was already by her side, holding her hand.
She clutched his fingers.
"Am I broken?" she whispered.
"No."
"Then why do I feel like I've lived through a war I never fought?"
His voice was soft.
"Because I did."
She stared at him.
And he saw it in her eyes.
She understood.
Not everything.
But enough.
Enough to be afraid.
Enough to ask.
"Dad… are we monsters?"
He didn't speak for a long time.
Then—
"We're what comes after monsters die."
In the Heavenly World, the archangels gathered in silence.
One knelt in front of the cracked Mirror of Aethrin.
"She carries Guilt," the eldest said.
"She's just a child."
"Children are the most vulnerable."
"What will he do?"
"He will protect her."
"And if she breaks?"
The eldest closed their eyes.
"Then the Hollow Star will awaken through sorrow, not hunger."
At the edge of the world, in the place between shadows and stars, something stirred again.
A second concept blinked.
Rage.
It, too, was looking for a vessel.
And this time?
It wasn't coming for the daughter.