Back to the present.
I'm here.
Sitting at the center of the Colosseum for the second time.
Same ground. Same silence.
Yet everything feels sharper, colder—like the world itself is holding its breath.
Valie sits in front of me, legs crossed, posture perfectly straight. Her chestnut braid falls over her shoulder like a line drawn with a ruler. Her hazel eyes cut through me, clinical, dissecting, as if she's trying to pin down the exact point where my soul begins to rot.
Nothing soft lives in her gaze. Only precision. Only judgment.
A pointer in her hand. A board behind her.
And then her voice, crisp as a blade hitting stone:
"Very well. You've proven you deserve a reprieve. One day, and already you strike true. Killing didn't cost you anything. Your Word energy stabilized. A little prodigy without a master. Impressive."
The pointer snaps against the board.
"Let's move on to the next test. History."
Of course.
Of course she'd go from blood to textbooks without blinking.
I raise an eyebrow.
Seriously?
Yesterday she ordered me to kill three condemned men.
Today she's giving me a history lesson…
In the same place. On the same dried blood.
She doesn't care about the contradiction.
Why would she? She's all ice. I'm the one burning inside.
She stares at me, waiting.
"Do you know the history of how Words appeared?"
I exhale slowly.
"More or less. The gods found out we had created… something. A system. A language. Words. Useless to them. But fascinating. They appreciated our invention. And to… reward us? They infused a part of their power into those Words."
Tap.
Another strike on the board.
"That's extremely shortened. And insolent. But… yes. More or less. So, what happened next?"
I shrug.
"Humanity evolved?"
"WRONG."
The board trembles under the hit, like it fears her more than I do.
"What followed was War. The War of Words. A hundred years of slaughter. It ended two hundred years ago."
Her voice is cold, factual.
Mine is silent. Because silence is safer.
But her words slice into me.
Not all at once—more like hooks dragging across raw skin.
Families tearing each other apart.
Word bearers aligning not by ideals, not by beliefs…
But by destructive potential.
And then the thought that always catches in my throat:
A bearer of the Word War.
In a world pretending to be peaceful.
How do you live knowing your very existence contradicts the world around you?
How do you not crumble under the weight of what you're meant to embody?
Some of these reflections have been with me since childhood—stories whispered, fragments overheard.
But hearing Valie say them like immutable facts…
It hits harder.
Children born with Words like Tainted, Forgotten, Devoured.
Not blessings.
Condemnations in syllable form.
Marks the gods should never have allowed.
And while some drown in damnation, others open their eyes to Words like Hope, Justice, Light—not earned, just… given.
Luck disguised as divinity.
So I wonder—
Are Words chosen?
Or do they manifest from what we endure?
Did my Word come from me?
Or was I molded for it before I could speak?
If Words are echoes…
Why do some echo heaven—while others echo hell?
This wasn't a war of power.
It was a war of meaning.
Legitimacy.
Identity.
A century spent fighting not to be reduced to a single Word.
Nations collapsed under the weight of definitions.
People classified, forbidden, sanctified.
Some Words declared impossible.
Others proclaimed holy.
Sorting souls like items on a shelf.
And the result?
Hell.
A hundred years of flames, screams, ashes… and then a silence so absolute it felt carved into history.
Valie's voice cuts through my spiraling thoughts like a blade parting smoke.
"And do you know how that war ended?"
I shake my head. My throat is tight.
"No."
She strikes the board again. The sharp crack echoes through the empty Colosseum.
"With the Divine Pact."
Silence.
Then her voice, merciless as ever:
"The gods. And the Six Great Families. They are our saviors."
Saviors.
Right.
That's what they tell us.
What everyone repeats without blinking, without thinking.
That they ended the war.
Stabilized the world.
Restored order.
But when I close my eyes… I don't see order.
I see pressure.
A sealed cauldron shaking under its own heat, ready to burst.
Because Words still appear.
Without warning. Without logic.
In the gutters, in the palaces.
In newborns and in dying breaths.
Every Awakening is a bomb waiting for the wrong moment.
We classify them. Monitor them. Lock them in charts and levels.
But we don't understand them.
Not really.
And that Pact…
How did people accept it so quickly?
Applauding. Bowing their heads.
Was it fear? Faith? Exhaustion?
I breathe slowly. Too much information. Too fast.
And yet…
This is nothing.
Just the beginning.