Thorns of Chaos

Zeo sat in the middle of a circle of dried blood, beneath a sky whose color could no longer be described. It was night, but not dark. Like the sky had forgotten how to be a sky.

He drew a new symbol on the ground—not from any book, but from a dream that had been coming to him lately: a spiral that turned into a broken line, then shattered like glass.

This symbol was not a spell.

It was a key to unlocking the world's memories.

This ritual was called "The Mouthless Chant"—the only way to speak directly to the roots of reality, and force the world to reveal its past.

Zeo closed his eyes. Let his mind touch a part of the world that had never been mentioned.

And the world… answered.

He was not in the village.

He floated in a colorless space. Around him, abstract shapes moved slowly: unfinished buildings, undecided skies, and the faint voices of the first shapers.

Then, in a flash, fragments appear:

• A child holding a shining stone—not technology, not magic, but "pure intent."

• The first group of humans using fear to "draw energy" from the unstable sky.

• The first crack was not a mistake… but a successful experiment.

• Magic is not a gift. Magic is a leak.

• And Darzel? Not a god. Not a demon. But a reflection of humanity's desire to manipulate the world before its time.

Zeo absorbs it all. But what stops him is one final fragment:

Amidst all that initial chaos, one name… keeps coming up.

Not Darzel. Not a human. But the name of the being who "offered the first magic" to the world with one promise:

"If you want power, let us see."

And the symbol that accompanies it…

It is the symbol that is now embedded in Zeo's body.

Zeo opens his eyes. His breathing is heavy. But his eyes are filled with a strange light.

He finally understands.

Magic is not just power. Magic is surveillance. Magic is a contract. And he… was already too deep in it.

"If the world was born from a contract... then I will be the seal of the contract," he said quietly.

"…or its fulfillment."

Rivan found him in a dead field.

The place was deserted, the ground cracked, the dry trees like broken hands begging for a sky that wouldn't answer.

And in the middle, Zeo sat. Alone. Quiet. As if waiting.

Rivan walked slowly, without magic, without symbols, without a murder plan.

Zeo turned his head. "You came."

"It's time," Rivan replied.

There were no defensive movements. No fire. Only two people who both knew: they had passed the point of return. The world was already wounded. It was a matter of choice—to sew it up or leave it open.

"So," Rivan said. "You know the origin of magic."

Zeo nodded. "Not ours. Not an inheritance. We stole it… from something bigger. And they allowed it. Not because they were kind. But because they wanted to see."

Rivan sat on the ground, two meters away from Zeo. "Darzel?"

"Not a name," Zeo whispered. "Darzel is… a window. It appears in every world that tries to see beyond its own limits."

Silence. The wind died.

Then Rivan asked, softly but firmly:

"Do you want to stop it, or let it open?"

Zeo stared at the sky that looked like an open wound.

"I wonder what would happen… if the world stopped hiding."

"And you're willing to destroy everything to do so?"

Zeo looked at Rivan—and for the first time, there was a hint of doubt in his eyes.

"This world is broken. I'm just… opening its brokenness to the light."

Rivan looked down. He knew a part of him agreed. This world was wrong. Magic is not a right. Power is not a blessing. But…

"Does opening an unhealed wound mean healing… or murder?"

Zeo fell silent. The wind moved again. And something in the ground shook softly.

They both knew: they couldn't talk forever.

But tonight… was a warning.

The only time they would speak as humans. Before one of them… stopped being that.