The Last Step-Chapter 213: Days of Twilight

Date: January 11, 2018 | Time: 3:12 AM | Location: The Mother’s Layer — Chasm Interior

Perspective: Lucas

The level up hit was better than the victory.

I felt the sudden, violent surge of mana stitching my muscle fibers back together. My vision sharpened, the red haze of the crater losing its blur as the numbers ticked upward in the corner of my eye.

Level 36.

I exhaled a cloud of frosted steam, my hands still trembling from the Celestial Wellspring output. Next to me, the Mother of Despair was a ruin of grey gore, crawling through the slush like a broken insect. She wasn’t an S-Rank nightmare anymore.

I looked at the silver fluid leaking from the ’Baby’ core. It felt wrong to watch, but then again, everything in this world felt wrong.

「 Congratulations, Sorcerer. You’ve reached Level 36. You are now officially a slightly more durable speed-bump in the path of destiny. Truly, a monumental achievement for a thinking primate. 」

"Shut up," I whispered, wiping a smear of blood from my cheek. "We won."

「 Did we? Nature is a zero-sum game, Hero. It won’t let you keep what isn’t yours without a debt. The price of this life is always paid in the currency of the next. 」

I looked at the Mother’s trembling fingers. "Yeah. I guess nature’s a bitch that way."

「 98.7% accurate, actually. 」

The air changed.

It wasn’t a sound. It was the sudden, absolute absence of it. The wind, the hissing steam, the grinding of distant corpses—it all vanished. The only thing left was the sound of the Baby’s tears.

Plip. Plip. Plip.

The droplets of silver blood hitting the slush sounded like thunderclaps in the silence.

"What is that?" Cid’s voice was a tattered rasp. He was backed against an obsidian spire, his shadow-golems looking like statues.

Celia didn’t answer. She stood with her scythe lowered, her black eyes wide and strangely glazed. Even Alina, the less reactive one, had stopped her calculations. Her blade was still smoking, but she wasn’t looking at the Mother. She was looking at nothing.

"Something’s coming," Navina whispered, her arch-flingers prepared...

「 Warning: Atmospheric density is no longer measurable via standard mana-metrics. You are currently entering a state of Psychonosis. Estimated survival time: 0.00 seconds. You’re about to be aged into a fossil, Tarzan. 」

Stop joking around, you piece of junk!

Then, the world shattered.

I didn’t hear a shriek. I heard war.

One moment I was in a bleeding crater; the next, I was standing in a street I didn’t recognize. It was nighttime. Colorful lanterns hung from wooden eaves, swaying in a warm, jasmine-scented breeze. People were laughing.

A small girl, no older than five, skipped past me. She was holding her papa’s hand and her mama’s hand, her face lit up with the pure, uncomplicated joy of a festival. In her other hand, she clutched a plushie—a round, fluffy thing with large, glass eyes.

It was beautiful. It was peaceful.

"Papa... What is that?" the little girl asked, pointing at the sky.

Then the sky turned red.

It wasn’t the red of the crater. It was the red of fire. A black shape, silent and heavy, drifted through the clouds. I watched as a small, metallic cylinder fell. It looked like a seed.

The explosion didn’t have a sound. It just had heat.

The lanterns vaporized. The jasmine scent turned into the smell of burning hair and ozone. I watched the girl’s parents disappear into a wall of white light. The girl didn’t even have time to scream.

When the smoke cleared, there was nothing left but a smoldering crater where the town used to be. And there, lying in a bed of hot ash, was the plushie. Its fur was gone, its filling scattered like snow. Only one glass eye remained, reflecting the orange light of the fire.

Why... does war have to happen?

「 All war is a symptom of man’s failure as a thinking species, Lucas. It never brings lasting peace, only lasting death. It is a never-ending tragedy—and as a wise man once said, only the dead have seen the end of war. 」

My chest tightened. The grief was so heavy I couldn’t breathe. I wanted to reach for that glass eye, to apologize for a world that would do this—

[ Divine Protection: Anti-False Reality Activated. ]

The fire flickered. The jasmine smell was replaced by the sharp, metallic tang of blood and cold slush.

I blinked. The chasm rushed back into focus.

"—ucas?! Lucas, do you hear me?! Answer me!"

Sylvia’s voice was screaming through the Aether-Vox. It was clean, loud, and panicked.

"I... I’m here," I managed, my throat feeling like it was filled with dry ash. "Sylvia? What happened?"

"Oh thank god! You were gone for two minutes! Everyone was! The whole Vanguard just... stopped! I’ve been calling and nobody responded! What is the status?!"

I looked around. My heart stopped.

Cid was frozen in a half-lunge, his eyes open but unseeing. Celia was a statue, her breath shallow and rhythmic. Navina and Alina were standing side-by-side, their weapons still drawn, but their faces were masks of distant, peaceful dreams.

They weren’t moving.

"They’re... they’re like statues," I said, stepping toward Celia. "They look like they’re dreaming."

"Wake them up!" Sylvia barked. "Lucas, if the Mother is still alive, you have to wake them up now!"

I reached out to grab Celia’s shoulder, my hand shaking.

"DO NOT."

The voice on the comms wasn’t Sylvia. It was X.

His tone wasn’t bored anymore. It was a cold, surgical directive that made me freeze mid-reach.

"Huh?!"

"If you wake them up now, they won’t be able to tell the difference between fiction and reality," X replied, his voice a low hum. "Listen to me, Hero. The human brain is a biological processor with a fatal flaw. The same neural networks used for perception are often activated during imagination. There’s no distinct ’off switch’."

"What do you mean? We can’t just leave them like this!"

X continued, ignoring Sylvia’s confused shouting. "Specifically, the fusiform gyrus is currently red-lining in their scans. When its activity is this strong during vivid imagination, it mimics the signal strength of real perception. Their brains are mistaking those false memories for reality."

"They’re being manipulated through Psychonosis," X concluded. "If you wake them mid-cycle, their neural maps will collapse. You’ll be waking up empty shells."

"We can’t just stand here!" I roared, my eyes darting to the Mother. She was still crawling, her silver blood puddling around her.

"Let me think," X muttered.

"Lucas, what else do you see?" Sylvia’s voice was desperate now. "Is there any movement?"

I looked at Alina. The Saint of Technique was shivering. Her fingers twitched, her hand slowly, mechanically rising toward her own face.

Her palm hit her cheek with a sharp, echoing SLAP.

Perspective: Alina

Time: 1:35 AM - 5 Years ago...

Location: Northern District Orphanage

SLAP.

I didn’t fall. I couldn’t. His hand was a cold, immovable anchor on my shoulder, rooting me to the floorboards of my small room. My cheek burned with pain, a vibrating pulse that mapped the exact width of his palm.

SLAP.

My head snapped to the side. I kept my eyes on the floor, watching the moonlight pool around the legs of my tiny desk. The books were stacked neatly. My violin case was closed. Everything was in its place, except for me.

"Why the hell did you go out alone?"

His voice was cold, devoid of the anger I was begging for. Anger would have been human.

"Master... I—I just wanted to—"

SLAP.

The third one was heavier, catching me before I could finish the sentence. My teeth clicked together, the impact vibrating through my jaw and into the base of my skull.

"I told you to stay safe inside. Not go out risking your life."

He stood in the center of the room, his shadow stretching across the dolls on my bed and the small, unmade cot.

"I... I c-could have... handled them," I whispered, my voice tattered.

He didn’t answer with words. He slapped me again. Each strike was a lesson in failure, a physical manifestation of the fact that I had broken the only rule that mattered. I stood still, my mouth clenched so tight my jaw muscles ached. My cheek felt thick and swollen, a red mask of shame that I couldn’t take off.

He stepped back, his shadow retreating from the desk. He pointed a long, steady finger toward the ceramic washbasin in the corner.

"Wash your face. Then sleep."

My eyes widened. I looked up, catching the cold, violet depths of his gaze. He wasn’t looking at my injuries.

"Where... where are you going?"

He didn’t hesitate. "I’m leaving."

The words were a death sentence. The air left my lungs instantly, leaving me hollowed out and frantic. I saw him turn, the hem of his dark coat whispering against the doorframe of my room.

"Why are you leaving?" I reached out, my fingers snagging his sleeve, then his hand. I held it with everything I had, the small, calloused palm of a 10-year-old girl.

"I’m sorry. P-please... please don’t leave."

He turned back.

SLAP.

The force of it sent me stumbling back toward the desk, my hip hitting the wood with a dull thud. Tears finally broke the surface—hot and uncontrollable, tracing the path of the bruises on my face. My throat felt like it was closing with every sob I tried to swallow.

His mouth opened slightly, a flicker of surprise crossing his features as he saw the wet tracks on my cheeks. He didn’t look angry. He looked... puzzled.

"You’re crying, Alina."

"N-no... I’m n-not..."

I reached for my face, trying to wipe them away with the back of my hand, but they kept coming—a silent, heavy flood of everything I had been trying to hide. Even then, I didn’t let go of his hand.

"You’re bad at lying."

"N-no I’m n-not... stop..."

He didn’t pull away. Instead, he knelt, the wood of the floor creaking under his weight until his eyes were level with mine. I turned my head, trying to hide the wetness of my face behind a curtain of my purple hair, but his presence was a magnetic force I couldn’t escape.

"I’m sorry, Alina," he said, his voice dropping quiet. "For hurting you."

I shook my head, my shoulders trembling. "I-I’m... s-sorry. I’m sorry for g-going out. I didn’t m-mean to..."

He reached out, his hand finally losing its clinical grip and softening as he touched my bruised cheek. His palm was calloused and warm, an anchor in the middle of my storm. I didn’t flinch. I just leaned into the touch, my breath hitching as I tried to swallow the next sob.

"I wanted to... s-see how strong I was."

"Liar."

"I’m n-not lying," I whispered, my voice cracked and small. "I wanted to... I wanted to try the t-technique you showed me. The one w-with the reflections."

"People who hide their feelings usually care the most, Alina," he said, his gaze deepening until it felt like he was sifting through the layers of my soul. "They just don’t want to burden others with their own weight."

No... he’s reading me. He’s reading me like one of the books on my desk.

"Master... please..."

"Why did you go out this late, Alina? Tell me the truth."

I looked at him—really looked at him—and the words finally spilled out, a flood I could no longer contain.

"F-for the past few days, Master... you’ve been s-sleeping less and less. You’ve been... eating less, too. You look p-paler every morning." I gripped his hand, my tears hot against his skin. "It started after the n-news about the war in the Asura Empire. I saw you looking at the papers. I saw how you acted ever since it was reported that a ’Specter’ had s-started to help them... you started acting weirdly."

His eyes remained neutral—two cold, violet voids that gave away nothing. But he didn’t pull back. He just listened.

"I d-don’t understand, Master. In the beginning, you said the w-war was impossible to win. The Elves, the Demons, the Beastkin, Celestine and Valerion... everyone allied against Asura. Thousands of b-bodies. Millions. You said no one would survive."

"Is it about the war? I w-want to know what’s on your m-mind."

He was quiet for a long time, the silence of the room heavy with the weight of things unsaid. Eventually, he sighed and reached out, patting my head with a slow rhythm.

"You shouldn’t worry about that, Alina. I just have a lot on my mind. Whether the Asura will try to invade Celestine, or if the calamity-level disputes will reach the borders. It’s just... work."

I shook my head, pressing my face into his palm. "You’re h-hiding it. You’re h-hurt, but you don’t want to s-say it."

The tears came faster now, a violent release of the fear I’d been carrying for weeks. "You can’t s-sleep. You can’t eat. But you’re s-still kind to me. You still smile. You still hear me p-play my music and you help me t-train. I want to h-help you too! But you w-won’t tell me anything!"

I gasped for air, my chest aching.

"That’s w-why... tonight, when I heard the f-footsteps of that monster... I didn’t w-want to wake you up. I wanted you to sleep easily, just for once. I went out to t-take it out myself... let you s-sleep."

I stuttered, my voice breaking over the confession.

"I know you told me to a-ask you always. I could even hear your v-voice in my head, telling me to stop. But... but I wanted to do s-something for you! I’m sorry! Please... don’t leave..."

The words were a ragged spill of everything I had been trying to hold back for years.

"I just w-wanted to do something for you, Master. Ever since we m-met... I’ve just been taking. Taking. Taking from you." I gripped the fabric of his coat, my knuckles white. "I used to w-wish for death. For relief from the p-pain. I hated life. It made me lose all my emotions as a child. I... I..."

I couldn’t finish the thought. The memory of that cold, gray emptiness before he found me at the orphanage was too heavy to carry.

"But then you c-came. You said every end has a n-new beginning." I looked up at him through a blurred, watery lens. "Even when I was c-cold, emotionless... you taught me music so I could express myself. You taught me how to d-defend myself. You t-taught me everything I know."

The tears spilled over, hot and relentless.

"I’ve never c-cried before. But you... you acting so c-coldly to me... I would have preferred if you were mad. If you shouted. Slapped me. You being cold feels like you’re going to leave forever because you h-hate me." I choked on a sob, my face buried against his chest. "I’m just... I’m s-scared of losing you."

I broke then. The weight of the world, the war, and my own inadequacy finally crushed the last of my composure. I didn’t care about becoming a Sword Saint. I didn’t care about technique. I just wailed, a jagged, raw sound that filled the small room, my fingers digging into his back.

He didn’t pull away. After a moment, I felt his arms wrap around me—a slow, solid embrace that pulled me into the sanctuary of his chest. He held me as I cried, his silence finally turning from a weapon into a shield.

"I’m sorry, Alina," he whispered near my ear. "For slapping you."

I shook my head against his coat, too drained to speak. "It’s... it’s okay."

"Its because," he said, pulling back just enough to look at me. "But you were in a state of illusion."

I blinked, my eyes stinging and swollen. "Illusion?"

"The monster you fought tonight is known as Phasescream. However, they are known for more than just physical lethality. They specialize in mind-controlling their victims. Even after death, they can possess the capability to trigger persistent illusions, using their killer’s own mana against them. Clinically speaking... it’s a form of Psychonosis."

"P-psychonosis?"

"It’s a symptom, not a diagnosis. A disconnection from reality. It makes it difficult for the brain to recognize what is real. If I were to give you an example... you would see the path to your home look more cheerful and vivid than ever, while in reality, you’re walking off the edge of a cliff."

He touched the corner of my eye, his voice returning to that softer tone.

"You were conscious, which was a good sign. But I needed to be sure. One of the few ways to counter early-stage Psychonosis is to flood the mind with immediate, high-intensity sensation. Pain or intense emotion. I had to do it immediately; if the effect takes root, it can last for weeks and ruin the mind permanently."

I froze. I looked at the hands that had hit me, then back at his face—at the eyes that I had mistaken for hatred.

He wasn’t punishing me... he was saving me.

He hadn’t been cold because he hated me. He had been precise because he was fighting a war for my sanity that I hadn’t even realized was happening.

I didn’t say anything. I couldn’t find the words. I just leaned forward, wrapping my arms around his neck and pulling him back into the hug, holding him with a strength that surprised even me. I didn’t let go. I didn’t want to. I just wanted to be there, in his silence, where it was safe.

He let out a long, slow breath and patted my head, his fingers rubbing the purple strands of my hair.

"I couldn’t tell you before," he said, his voice softer now. "If you knew the slap was a treatment, your mind would have prepared for it. The pain would have been artificial. I needed to reset your neural map with a genuine, uncalculated shock. I wanted to ensure you were safe first."

He paused, a slight, rare trace of sheepishness in his tone. "I would’ve told you about it in the morning. And apologized then. I... I didn’t expect you to cry."

I pulled back, my face still hot and red, and pouted at him. "You’re s-still mean."

He looked at me and suddenly laughed—a short, genuine sound that broke the last of the tension. He reached out and flicked my forehead with a finger.

"Look at you. You’re a total crybaby, Alina."

"I am n-not! S-stop!" I tried to bat his hand away, but he was already grinning, his eyes dancing with a light I rarely saw.

"The Future Sword Saint, the terror of Technique... is soooooo cute when she’s sniffling," he teased, his voice adopting a playful, exaggerated lilt.

My mouth hung open, my stutter vanishing under the weight of pure, unadulterated shock. "C-cute?! I’m n-not cute! I’m a warrior!"

"Sure you are. A warrior who needs a tissue and a hug," he said, hopping up and sitting on the edge of my desk, swinging his legs like a bored teenager.

"Don’t worry. I won’t tell the other kids that their ’Ice Queen’ makes a squeaky noise when she cries. It’ll be our little secret."

"I d-don’t make squeaky noises!"

"It’s far more adorable than that."

I glared at him, my heart finally slowing down to a normal rhythm. The banter was his way of letting me back into the world, a bridge away from the trauma. I let the silence hang for a moment, then looked at him seriously.

"Master... are you still worried? About the war?"

His grin didn’t vanish, but it turned static. He looked away, his gaze drifting toward the window where the moon was still hung like a silver coin.

"You’re a persistent girl, Alina." He sighed, leaning his head back against the wall. "Yes. I’m worried."

"Why? From what I r-read in the papers... the alliance is winning. The Demon Lord Malphas, the Elvian Queen Asora Aeralurea, even the Dragonic Authority, Meldiz Draconyx... they’ve all joined the Celestial and Valerion empires. They say they’re following the Book of Heaven. That the erasure of Asura’s unruly authority has to come to an end."

I took a breath, watching him. "They said nobody can b-bend the wills of heaven."

He was quiet. Then, a low, rasping sound came from his throat.

"Hehe... haha..."

He started to laugh. It wasn’t the funny laugh from before. It was a cold, jagged sound that made the hair on my neck stand up. He looked at the moon, his eyes narrowing into two sharp slivers of light.

"That’s alright," he whispered. "If I cannot bend heaven, I will raise hell."

"May god have mercy on my enemies, because I won’t."

I let out a small, nervous giggle, trying to break the intensity. "Master... you s-shouldn’t go to the war."

"Why? You fear I’ll be hurt?"

"Noooooo," I said, shaking my head. "I fear the tragedy upon history. Knowing your supreme combat capabilities... the biggest tragedy that can fall onto your enemies is that they are your enemies."

He turned back to me, the darkness in his eyes retreating. He laughed again—his normal, warm laugh—and reached out to pat my head again.

"Yeah, yeah... trust, trust. You’ve got it all figured out, don’t you?"

He stood up, stretching his arms until his bones popped. "For now, go to sleep. We can talk more tomorrow."

"Wait! Master!"

He stopped at the door, glancing back over his shoulder. I took a deep breath, mustering the courage to say what I had been holding back since the day he found me.

"Thank you... for everything. You changed my life."

He winked, a playful, secretive glint in his eyes. "Don’t worry, Alina. Your life has a bright future ahead. Rest for now. This story is bound to continue."

"Yes!" I said, my voice full of a sudden, fierce excitement. "Sleep tight, Master."

"Goodnight, Alina."

The door clicked shut, leaving me alone in the moonlit silence. I fell back onto my bed, staring up at the ceiling, my heart still humming with the residue of his presence.

Master is so cool when he speaks like that, I thought, a small, sleepy smile touching my lips. Usually, he hides everything. He makes himself look weak, he understates his own power... but just then? He looked brutal. Merciless.

I rolled onto my side, clutching my pillow. The thought of him going to war was a bad idea—mostly for the alliance. If he ever stepped onto that battlefield, history wouldn’t be written with ink. It would be written with the blood of his victims.

It was best if he just stayed here. Let asura and the alliance fight their own wars. After all, now that the "Specter" is making moves from the shadows, I highly doubt anyone can surpass its influence.

If I were to label the Specter’s moves so far...

I’d call it a Master Strategist.