# 11
Four years after Ghei.
Sylvain was no longer a transitional city—it had become a center of free thought across all strata of Nyania. People came from afar: philosophers, former god-worshippers, even several curious Aetheria spirits. They all wanted to see the place where humans had taken control of their own fate.
But beneath that progress lingered an unanswered question, like a wound that had never healed:
What really happened in the final meeting between Ghei and Devaros?
No one knew for certain. Ghei left no record. Devaros was dead. Only Aelia had witnessed fragments of it from a distance—and even those were vague.
Until one day, a strange guest arrived.
He called himself Echo—a pure Aetheria being made of condensed sound and light. His form shifted constantly, sometimes human, sometimes animal, sometimes nothing more than a mass of light.
"I store memories," he told Aelia in the city hall, his voice echoing like a cavern. "Memories of places. The Garden of False Dawn. The Bridge of Reluctance. And… Devaros's throne."
Kael, present at the meeting, narrowed his eyes. "Why come now?"
"Because only now is it safe. When Devaros lived, those memories were locked. When he died, they were unstable. Now… they've settled." Echo shifted into a small firebird perched on the table. "And I believe you need to know."
"Know what?" Aelia asked.
"Their final conversation. Not as legend tells it. More… human."
Aelia and Kael exchanged glances.
"Show us," Aelia said.
Echo led them to the Echo Chamber—a subterranean room beneath city hall that once stored Devaros's artifacts, now emptied.
At the center of the room, Echo drew something out of himself: a sound crystal, a clear object containing ripples of light like disturbed water.
"This is the last memory from Devaros's throne," Echo whispered. "Taken before the throne was destroyed. Preserved in Aetheria. Now… listen."
He released the crystal. It floated, emitting light that formed a hologram—a faint image of the Garden of False Dawn, with Devaros on his throne and Ghei standing before him.
Sound followed—first unclear, like a badly tuned radio, then gradually sharpening.
HOLOGRAM: THE FINAL AUDIENCE
Devaros: "You came."
His voice was not grand as in the legends. It was tired. Like an old man who had been awake too long.
Ghei: "Did you expect me?"
Devaros: "Expect? No. But… hope. There is a difference."
He rose from the throne. In the hologram, cracks were visible across his marble body—like old porcelain about to shatter. "You were my most interesting experiment. A soul that truly wanted nothing."
Ghei: "That's not a compliment."
Devaros: "I didn't mean it as one. I was just… curious. How can someone be so certain they want not to exist?"
Ghei: "As easily as someone can be certain they want to exist. It's just the inverse."
Devaros laughed—a short, bitter sound.
"Once, when I was still Davian, I was terrified of death. Terrified enough to do anything to avoid it. And in the end… I became this."
He spread his hands. "Immortality. But look—cracked. Lonely. Trapped in the role of a god."
Ghei: "And you thought reviving others would make you feel less trapped?"
Devaros: "I thought… by giving others a second chance, I might understand why life is precious. But those I revived… they weren't grateful. They suffered. Like you."
Ghei: "You didn't ask whether we wanted it."
Devaros: "I know! But…"
He stopped, shoulders slumping. "I didn't know any other way. I'd forgotten how to be human. Forgotten how to ask."
Silence. In the hologram, Ghei looked at Devaros—not with hatred, but with… understanding.
Ghei: "You want me to kill you."
Not a question. A statement.
Devaros nodded slowly. "Yes. Because only your Null Echo can do it. Only pure rejection can end this trapped desire of mine."
Ghei: "And you think dying will free you?"
Devaros: "I don't know. But it's better than this."
He gestured to himself. "Being a god is like a chronic illness. You can't stop being what you are. You must keep giving life, even when you know it's wrong."
Ghei: "Ironic. You feared death, and ended up trapped in a life you never wanted."
Devaros: "Deeply ironic."
He smiled bitterly. "So… will you? Kill me? Not for revenge. But… as mercy."
Ghei was silent for a long time. In the hologram, black dust—the Null Echo—began to scatter from his skin. Not from anger, but from acceptance.
Ghei: "I will kill you. But not for you. For myself. Because by killing you, I can die as well."
Devaros: "Fair."
Ghei: "But before that… answer one question."
Devaros: "What is it?"
Ghei: "Do you regret becoming a god?"
Devaros looked at his cracked hands. "Every day. But regret changes nothing. It only makes the cracks feel deeper."
Ghei nodded. "Then we are the same. I also regret being born. And that regret led me here."
Ghei raised his hand. The black dust gathered.
Devaros: "Thank you."
Ghei: "Don't thank me. I'm not doing this for you."
Devaros: "Still… thank you. Because at last… someone understands."
A blinding light—and the hologram ended.
The room fell silent. Echo drew the sound crystal back into himself.
"That is all," he whispered.
Aelia sat down, her knees weak. She had always imagined an epic confrontation—god versus man. But this… was a conversation between two beings equally exhausted.
Kael broke the silence. "He… asked to be killed."
"Yes," Echo said. "He wanted to stop long before Ghei arrived. But no one could kill a god except Null Echo. And no one possessed Null Echo as powerfully as Ghei."
"So Ghei wasn't a godslayer," Aelia murmured. "He was… an instrument of mercy."
"In his own way," Echo replied. "Like a scalpel used to end suffering."
Aelia stared at the spot where the crystal had floated. Now she understood why Ghei never spoke of that meeting. It wasn't a victory. Not revenge.
It was a transaction between two beings who both wanted to stop.
That night, Aelia couldn't sleep. She went up to the roof of city hall and looked at the sky. The dust constellation glowed softly.
Lyra arrived, landing beside her.
"You know," Lyra said, "I always thought Ghei was angry. But now… it seems he was just tired."
"Like Devaros."
"Yes." Lyra fluttered her wings once. "And maybe… we're all a little like them. Tired of something. Just on different scales."
Aelia nodded. "But the difference is, we have the choice to stop. Or to continue. And that's what Ghei gave us—the awareness that the choice exists."
"Have you ever wanted to stop? Since being freed from the crystal?"
Aelia thought. "Yes. Several times. But each time, I remember: now it's my choice. And if I choose to stop, it has to be because I truly want to—not out of habit or despair."
"That's wisdom."
"Or a harsh lesson from a hundred years of confinement."
They fell silent, watching the stars.
The next day, Aelia decided to share the recording—not widely, but with those who asked.
In the classroom, she played it for the oldest students. When it ended, Elara—now nearly a teenager—raised her hand.
"So… they helped each other?"
"In a strange way, yes."
"But Ghei still died afterward."
"Yes. That's what he wanted."
Elara was quiet, thinking. "Does that mean… sometimes helping others also helps yourself? Even if it's strange?"
Aelia smiled. "Maybe. But be careful—don't help others just because you want help in return. That isn't sincere."
"I understand." Elara looked out the window. "I'm glad Ghei came here. Even though he left."
"Why?"
"Because if he hadn't, we'd all still be trapped. Unable to choose."
The simplicity of the words struck Aelia. True. Ghei arrived, disrupted everything, then left. And that disruption freed them.
Like a storm that destroys a prison.
A few days later, Echo took his leave.
"I must go," he said. "There are many scattered memories left. They must be gathered."
"For what purpose?" Aelia asked.
"So they aren't lost. Because memories—even painful ones—are proof that we once existed. And sometimes, what we must remember isn't only what's beautiful, but also what's bitter. So we don't repeat it."
Echo departed, leaving behind a small sound crystal—a copy—as a gift to Sylvain.
Aelia placed it in the library, beside the novel Dust Among the Stars.
Two artifacts from two sides of the same story: one about the desire not to exist, the other about the final conversation before nonexistence.
On the last night before the four-year remembrance of Ghei's departure, Aelia sat on a bench near the portal.
No one left that day. But someone always came—people who simply wanted to sit, watch the portal, and think.
An old man—once a healer in his first life—sat beside her.
"I heard the recording," he said. "Interesting."
"What about it?"
"That gods and humans are both afraid. The difference is, gods have the power to make others feel their fear."
He sighed. "I was a healer. Afraid my patients would die. So I did everything to save them—even when it only prolonged their suffering."
"Do you regret it?"
"Yes and no. I regret not asking what they wanted. But I don't regret trying."
He looked at the portal. "Now I understand: what matters isn't saving or not saving. It's giving a choice."
"That's what we try to do here."
He nodded, then left.
Aelia remained seated, looking at the portal, then at the sky, at the dust constellation.
She remembered Devaros's final words: "Because at last… someone understands."
Perhaps that's what we all want—to be understood. Even if that understanding comes just before the end.
And Ghei, in his desire not to be understood, ultimately understood Devaros.
Another irony.
But within that irony was beauty: that even across the greatest divide—god and human, life and death—we can still meet in shared exhaustion, doubt, and the desire to rest.
And perhaps, Aelia thought, that is enough.
Enough to forgive.
Enough to understand.
Enough to let go.
Before going home, Aelia wrote in her notebook:
"Today I learned that the greatest audience is not between enemies,
but between two beings equally trapped.
And sometimes, the greatest help
is helping someone stop—
even if it means we stop as well.
Because in a world that forces us to keep moving,
stopping together is the final form of solidarity."
She closed the book and looked at the portal once more.
Tomorrow someone would arrive. Tomorrow someone would leave.
But tonight, she was simply grateful—to Ghei, to Devaros, to all who were trapped and eventually found a way out.
Even if that way out was nothingness.
Because in the end, what matters is not where we go.
But that we choose to go.
Or choose to stay.
#11
A conversation between two residents of Sylvain after hearing the recording:
"So Ghei killed him at his request?"
"More precisely… they agreed to help each other end their suffering."
"That's… sad."
"But honest. And in a world full of lies, honesty is rare."
"Do we have to be like them?"
"No. But we can learn this: sometimes, stopping is not defeat.
It's just… stopping."