The morning in Gurren came with warm light and sore muscles.
Vaelion sat up on his bed, his body aching from head to toe. The bandages around his ribs had loosened during sleep, and his back still throbbed from yesterday's "training" session with Miora.
He muttered something under his breath about women and combat boots, then reached for his shirt—
The door burst open.
"Vaelion!"
Miora's voice came before her face. She stepped into the room, breath ragged, her silver braids disheveled. She held something tightly in her hand—an envelope soaked in dried blood.
"What happened?" he asked, rising instantly.
"It's Valtros." Her voice was steady now, but her eyes betrayed panic. "Someone took him. This was left outside the sanctuary gate."
She handed him the envelope.
It wasn't signed. The parchment smelled of rust and death.
"Bring the Scar. No followers.
He forged your fate. Now watch him break."
— H.S.
"Who the hell is H.S.?" Miora whispered.
Vaelion's jaw tightened. He turned toward his daggers and paused.
No. This wasn't a battle he could win with blades.
"I'll go," he said. "Stay here."
"Vaelion, this could be a trap—"
"I know."
And still, he left.
The location scrawled in ancient tongue led him to a floating ruin far beyond Gurren what remained of a forgotten temple, suspended between two mountain spires, caught in the arms of eternal stormclouds.
The air was thick. Unmoving. As though the world was holding its breath.
Inside the cracked marble hall, beneath shattered angelic statues, Valtros hung in midair chained by golden resonance threads, blood dripping from his arms.
Vaelion rushed forward, calling out but the moment his foot touched the glyph-etched floor, everything around him… shifted.
A low hum filled the chamber.
Off-key. Out of rhythm.
A figure emerged from behind the broken altar.
Draped in layered ash-gray robes, barefoot, and blindfolded. His skin pale like snow burned by time. He moved with a stillness that made the world seem louder.
Vaelion's breath caught.
"You came," the figure said. "How harmonious."
His voice was soft… and wrong. Every word felt slightly bent, like it had been whispered through broken glass.
"Where's Valtros?" Vaelion demanded, stepping forward.
"Already broken," the man replied. "But you may have what remains."
Vaelion activated Echo Mind, readying a strike only to lurch sideways as his footing betrayed him. His body felt delayed. Sluggish. His perception skewed.
"What... is this?" he gasped.
The man took one step forward.
"You do not yet need to know my name.
Just remember this note: Even divinity can be dissonant."
And then darkness surged.
A single word was whispered
"Sleep."
The world shattered.
Vaelion awoke in silence.
He was no longer in the skybound temple. The air was cold. Damp. A cavern lit by flickering lamps made from melted timeglass. Dozens of clocks floated in the air each ticking to a different rhythm.
He was bound to a throne of jagged obsidian and cracked bone. His arms restrained, legs too. He couldn't scream—his jaw was wrapped in rune-steel wire.
Footsteps echoed.
The blindfolded man entered, still humming.
"Do you know why you're here?"
Vaelion glared, breathing heavy through his nose.
"Because the world sings too sweetly about you," the man whispered.
"Let's fix that."
He raised a curved blade.
"One finger for each lie told in your name."
Slice.
The first came clean off
"Another for each god that favors you."
Second.
Third.
Blood painted the stone below him.
No words. No sounds. Just the low hum of disharmony.
"And this... so you stop hearing their praise."
The man traced the blade behind Vaelion's ear, cutting into the nerve. His vision sparked. Pain, raw and consuming, coursed through him.
Then came the branding iron.
"The Scar is not a gift," the voice said, pressing the searing rune into Vaelion's shoulder.
"It's a melody out of place."
Vaelion's screams echoed through the chamber—though no one above would hear them.
Not Kurumi.
Not Mai.
Not Lunaria.
Not even the gods.
Only the clocks heard.
And none of them ticked for him.
To be continued…