Zero didn't turn the page immediately.
The torchlight in the records room flickered with a rhythm too steady, too deliberate, like the flames themselves were breathing in time with his thoughts. The chronicle lay open before him, the words etched in that timeless, flowing script, recounting the endless duel—the clash of blades, the shadow and starlight that cut against the Devil King for seven unrelenting days.
He should have turned the page, hungered for what came next. But instead, he just stared.
The silence around him pressed close, almost suffocating. Lilith stood nearby, her own presence quiet but perceptible, watching without interruption. She had grown accustomed to his silences by now, perhaps understanding that when Zero's eyes went distant , it wasn't just reading—it was unraveling.
His fingers traced the edge of the parchment, not quite touching the ink. Two swordsmen, he thought. One shadow, one starlight. A balance.
His mind recoiled from the simplicity of it, because he could feel the echo hammering deeper. Yin and yang. Light and darkness. One and the other, never separate.
He thought of Hiro. Carefree, fearless Hiro, who always seemed to stand where the light struck brightest. The boy who laughed even in the face of despair, who threw himself forward without hesitation, as if fate would never dare betray him. Starlight.
And then he thought of himself. Silent. Shadowed. A presence that was overlooked until it needed to cut, until it needed to survive. Always lingering where eyes didn't fall. Shadow.
His chest tightened. The chronicle didn't name them, not outright. But the parallels whispered to him with a voice louder than ink could bear.
Could it really be us?
Xalvar's words surged up again, cruel as always. Because of you, their blood stained the cave floor.
Zero shut his eyes tight, but that only made it worse—the images behind his eyelids sharpened, his friends screaming, blood spilling across stone, and that mocking laughter ringing against the cave walls. He forced his hand against his forehead until his nails bit skin, trying to ground himself against the rising tide.
This wasn't the first time his memories had done this. But here, in the presence of the chronicle, with fate etched in words older than kingdoms, the weight felt unbearable.
His lips parted, breath shaky. "If it was always meant to be…" His voice was low, almost a whisper, not meant for Lilith but for himself. "…then why did they have to die?"
There was no answer. The records room gave nothing but silence, its air heavy with dust and forgotten time.
Lilith's eyes softened, but she said nothing. She must have known—pressing him now would only deepen the wound. Instead, she lingered close, like a presence against the dark.
Zero forced himself to look back at the page. The battle described here had been one of endurance, one of sacrifice, each side refusing to break even as exhaustion carved lines into the very bones of the world. He could almost see it: the swords of shadow and starlight striking again and again against the Devil King, sparks exploding like stars, until even the throne room itself must have trembled.
And still—seven days. Seven nights. Neither side yielding.
Was that the kind of destiny awaiting him and Hiro? A fight so long, so consuming, that it would strip away everything until nothing remained but will?
He swallowed hard, but the thought refused to pass.
If this is fate, then is it already written how it ends? Will Hiro die? Will I? Will both of us?
The idea made his hands tremble again. Not because he feared death—he had long ago made peace with the thought of his own end—but because of the possibility that Hiro might be the one sacrificed. Hiro, who had never hesitated to reach for others, who had smiled even when the odds were unbearable. Hiro, who had always burned like the sun Zero could never touch.
Would fate demand his friend's light in exchange for victory?
Zero lowered his gaze, unable to bear the chronicle's script for another moment.
He thought back to Earth, to the novel he had once read, where none of this existed. No prophecy. No ancient record. The heroes had risen not because they were chosen, but because they had chosen themselves. That was what had made the story matter to him—ordinary people defying impossible odds.
But here? Here it all felt preordained. Lines written before his birth, shaping every step he took, mocking every choice with the illusion of freedom.
"Is destiny just another chain?" he whispered again.
His hand hovered over the page, hesitant.
The chronicle had revealed what he wanted—what it thought he needed. Lilith had said the records room was like a living being, bending itself to the hearts of those who entered. Was that why it showed him this? Because somewhere deep within, he had already known?
A bitter laugh nearly slipped from his lips. "Then it's cruel," he murmured. "To show me only enough to bind me tighter, never enough to free me."
Lilith shifted at that, finally speaking, her tone careful. "The records… they do not give freedom. They only reveal what already is. My father used to say they strip away the lies we tell ourselves."
Her words landed heavier than she might have intended.
Zero clenched his fist. Lies. Was that what his belief in choice had been all along? A fragile story he told himself to survive?
The silence stretched, heavy with the weight of questions that had no answers.
And yet, beneath it all, that ember in him refused to go out. Even now, with fate's noose tightening, it glowed stubbornly in his chest.
He thought of the SS-rank skill he had seized. That had not been written. That had been his.
Perhaps destiny carved paths—but had he not already proven he could step outside the lines, even if only briefly?
His eyes lowered again to the chronicle, and this time, instead of fear, there was something else. Defiance.
"If you're going to show me fate," he muttered, voice quiet but firm, "then I'll wring every secret from you. And if you've written me into this cycle… then I'll find a way to tear it apart."
The words didn't shake the room, didn't make the torches flare. But inside him, they struck like steel.
He steadied his breathing, forcing the trembling to subside. For more chapters visit novᴇlfire.net
Only then did he let his hand fall back to the page. The parchment seemed almost expectant, as though waiting for him to acknowledge it. Slowly, carefully, he prepared to turn, to step into the next revelation.
But not yet. Not until he was ready.
For now, he lingered. He needed this pause, this fragile space to gather himself, before the chronicle dragged him deeper into truths that might shatter him again.
And in that fragile silence, he realized something else: perhaps fate was not the only one watching.
Because when he lifted his eyes, just briefly, he thought he saw the torchlight flicker in a way that was not random at all.
Almost like the room itself was listening.
Almost like it was waiting to see if he would yield—or resist.