Vale lay sprawled across the cold stone floor of the library, his body utterly still.
His eyes were closed, lost deep within sleep. Strands of his hair had fallen loose, partially veiling his face as his chest rose and fell in slow, steady breaths. Around him, towering shelves stretched endlessly in every direction, packed with ancient tomes that belonged to the strange, forgotten temple he now occupied.
For a long time, longer than Vale could have guessed, he did not move.
His exhaustion ran deeper than simple fatigue. It clung to his bones, born not only from the journey across scorched sands but from the weight of everything he had learned, everything he had not learned, and everything that had been left deliberately unanswered.
Eventually, his eyelids twitched.
A faint movement followed, fingertips flexing weakly against the stone floor.
Vale let out a low groan as consciousness returned, the sound rough and unrefined, like something dragged up from deep within him. He lifted his metallic arm and pressed it against his face, grounding himself in the sensation of cold metal against warm skin.
Slowly, carefully, he pushed himself upright and leaned back against a nearby shelf. He squeezed his eyes shut for a moment, then opened them again, blinking hard as his vision adjusted.
The library greeted him exactly as he had left it.
The shelves stood unmoved.
The books remained beside him, stacked neatly where he had placed them.
The air was still.
Vale glanced down at his hand, then around the room, confusion briefly crossing his face.
"…Was it a dream?" he muttered.
The question carried caution rather than hope.
Ali's words still echoed in his mind too clearly, too sharply, to be dismissed as imagination. Slowly, Vale turned his head and spotted the final book from the pile resting nearby.
Divine Beasts.
He stared at it for a moment, curiosity stirring faintly, then he shook his head.
"No," he told himself quietly. "I need to think first."
His thoughts drifted back to something that had troubled him since days earlier.
The cave.
The one where he had first encountered the carvings and texts that spoke of the Father of Flaws and the so-called false angels.
Vale shifted his posture, one knee raised while the other rested lower, arms crossing as his pale eyes stared into nothing in particular. His mind ignited with motion.
'With everything I know now…'
From what he could piece together, a theory began to take shape.
"I think it's safe to assume a false angel made its way into that cave," Vale murmured to himself. "Slowly hunting the people inside… killing them one by one."
The brutality made sense now. The desperation. The fear etched into the stone.
"…Until the last survivors fought back," he continued quietly. "And maybe, just maybe, they managed to kill it?"
His eyes narrowed.
But that theory wasn't complete.
"What if it survived?" Vale whispered. "What if it's still out there?"
False angels grew stronger the longer they existed. The longer they killed.
"How strong would it be by now?"
That still didn't answer the most unsettling question of all.
It didn't explain how those people knew about the Father of Flaws.
They had spoken of him not as a myth, but as something real. Something revered. Almost… saved by him.
Vale clenched his jaw.
"There's no record of him anywhere," he muttered. "No books. No inscriptions. Nothing."
So how did they know?
For a long time, Vale considered the possibility that they had been a special tribe, keepers of forbidden knowledge passed down through generations.
That explanation almost worked.
Almost.
But it fell apart under scrutiny.
If the Father of Flaws was truly forbidden knowledge, as Vale now strongly suspected, how could such information have existed in the first place, even as ancient tradition?
His eyes narrowed further as the thought refused to settle.
Finally, Vale exhaled slowly and leaned back, accepting the truth he didn't want to face.
"I can't know yet," he admitted. "Not with what I have."
There was a third possibility.
And it disturbed him more than the others.
What if the Father of Flaws was one of the old gods?
What if he had somehow seized control of those people, driving them mad, turning them against one another?
But that theory fractured just as quickly.
Why would they carve warnings to kill false angels… when false angels served the old gods?
Vale shook his head sharply, pushing the thought aside.
Enough.
He reached down and gathered the books from the floor, stacking all five in his arms. None were particularly thick, but each carried knowledge that could shape his understanding of the world, and of himself.
With a short sigh, Vale rose to his feet and began walking toward the library's exit.
As he walked, a faint flicker of hope stirred in his chest.
His steps slowed.
"…Maybe he can help me," Vale said quietly.
The name surfaced again in his thoughts.
"Leo Lionheart."
Whoever, or whatever, he truly was.
Vale knew the man was only a shade now. Or perhaps the shade merely wore his form. Either way, he was capable of fighting.
And maybe, just maybe, through combat, Vale could learn something.
About Leo.
About himself.
There was a connection between them. That much Vale was certain of.
But the last time they had clashed, Vale had been utterly destroyed.
His grip tightened around the books.
"What would even let me survive this time?" he asked himself.
The answer didn't come.
Vale let out a defeated sigh, his eyes narrowing as he continued toward the exit.
"…Am I really going to try it?"
Slowly, Vale continued his walk, his footsteps echoing softly through the vast, silent space as he drew closer and closer to the door.
Until, at last, he stood before it.
He hesitated.
Then, carefully, he reached out and wrapped his fingers around the knob.
'She said to just think about my destination,' Vale reminded himself. 'That it would respond to intent.'
He closed his eyes briefly and pictured his room, not that he truly knew what it looked like, but the idea of it. A place meant for him. A place to rest.
With a quiet exhale, he opened the door.
Vale stepped through, and froze.
His eyes widened slightly as he took in his surroundings.
It was… nice.
The walls were formed of smooth sandstone, warm in tone, carrying an earthy calm that immediately set him at ease. Light filled the room, soft and ambient, yet there was no visible source, no torches, no windows, no lamps. It simply was, as if the room itself breathed illumination.
Two wooden desks occupied opposite corners, both sturdy and well-crafted. The room was simple, but intentional. Purposeful.
Vale slowly crossed the space and placed the books atop one of the desks with careful precision, as though setting down something fragile and sacred. He stepped back and surveyed the room once more, taking it all in.
Then his eyes caught something else.
A second door.
Vale raised a brow.
"…Is that another one that teleports?" he muttered.
Curiosity tugged at him as he approached, his pace slow and deliberate. He rested one hand on the handle and the other near his blade, habit overriding reason. He took a steady breath, swallowed, and pushed the door open.
The wood creaked softly in protest as it swung inward.
Vale peered inside.
And blinked.
"…A bathroom?"
He stepped in cautiously, eyes widening as he took in the sight. A shower. A toilet. Shelves neatly arranged. Everything one would expect, everything so mundane that it felt almost surreal after everything he'd been through.
Then he noticed the mirror.
Vale sighed.
As expected, his reflection did not appear. The mirror showed only the room behind him, empty space where he should have been.
He let out a quiet chuckle.
"Figures."
His gaze drifted downward as his armor shifted slightly, almost moving of its own accord. His attention settled on the shower.
"…I could use a wash," he said softly.
He turned the water on and waited for it to warm, steam slowly filling the room. As he undressed, Vale's eyes traced his own body, scarred, marked, mapped with reminders of battles both remembered and forgotten.
Some scars were deep. Others faint. All of them told stories he could no longer hear.
His pale skin looked even paler where the scars cut across it.
Vale let out a slow breath.
"I survived it," he murmured, Ali's words echoing in his mind.
His fingers brushed one of the larger scars.
"…Is this what it cost me?"
His gaze drifted to his mechanical arm.
His expression hardened.
"And what took my arm?"
The shower steamed heavily now, the warm air enveloping the room like a veil. Vale stepped beneath the water and allowed it to cascade over him, washing away dust, sweat, and dried blood. He scrubbed himself thoroughly, letting the heat seep into aching muscles and frayed nerves.
For once, nothing happened.
No visions.
No voices.
No revelations.
Just warmth.
Just silence.
Just peace.
When he finally stepped out, he dried himself with a towel and dressed once more, donning his armor and securing his weapons at his sides. He exited the bathroom and returned to the main room.
Then he stopped.
Vale turned slowly and looked back at the door, the one that would lead him out.
His thoughts drifted again, unbidden.
To the shade.
To Leo.
A stupid idea formed.
He swallowed, fully aware of how reckless it was. Of how badly it could end. And yet…
"…Am I really going to do it?" he whispered.