Rain followed Vale through the archive district.
Not literal rain this time.
Memory.
The entire city felt saturated with it lately.
Old footage resurfaced hourly. Fractured witness testimonies spread through public networks faster than the Guild could suppress them. People argued endlessly online about Uialon, Malachai, monsters, heroes, and whether the past had been buried for good reasons or convenient ones.
The uncertainty was becoming corrosive.
And Vale hated uncertainty.
Which was exactly why she was standing inside one of the oldest surviving Guild archive facilities instead of sleeping like a reasonable person.
The lower archive levels smelled faintly of dust, machine oil, and old paper records that somehow survived three catastrophic wars and several attempts at digitization.
An elderly archivist glanced up from a terminal as she entered.
"You're here late."
"So are you."
The old man snorted softly.
"I stopped making good life choices decades ago."
Reasonable.
Vale approached slowly.
"I need access to pre-Uialon incident records."
The archivist became still for half a second.
Not fearful.
Tired.
"That request's becoming popular."
That immediately sharpened her attention.
"Who else asked?"
The archivist looked at her carefully.
"…People who concern me."
Not reassuring.
He sighed eventually before activating older storage systems manually.
Ancient holographic projectors flickered to life around the room.
Records appeared slowly.
Old mission reports.
Civilian recovery operations.
Disaster relief deployments.
Infrastructure reconstruction summaries.
And one name repeating across hundreds of files:
Malachai.
Not Lord Malachai the Dread.
Not Uialon.
Just Malachai.
Vale frowned faintly.
"These aren't combat records."
"No," the archivist replied quietly. "They usually weren't."
That answer bothered her immediately.
Another file opened automatically.
> Volunteer Reconstruction Assistance — Casualty Zone Fourteen
Another:
> Emergency Evacuation Coordination
Another:
> Civilian Stabilization Initiative
Vale stared at the reports.
"…Why was he involved in this much relief work?"
The archivist gave a humorless laugh.
"Because he kept showing up."
The room remained quiet except for the hum of ancient systems.
Vale activated another file.
This one contained images.
Most were damaged.
Blurry.
Incomplete.
But the man appearing within them looked painfully familiar.
Younger.
Tired.
Calm.
In one image, Malachai sat beside exhausted civilians handing out supplies while still wearing bloodstained gloves from an earlier battle.
In another, he repaired collapsed structures beside rescue workers.
One photograph showed him asleep sitting upright against a wall while civilians nearby rested safely.
Vale stared at that image longer than she meant to.
"…This doesn't make sense."
"It didn't then either," the archivist admitted.
She looked toward him sharply.
"You knew him."
The old man leaned back slowly.
"Not well."
That was not the answer of someone emotionally detached from the topic.
Vale noticed immediately.
The archivist studied one of the old photographs quietly.
"Younger heroes," he said eventually, "always think the frightening part was what he became."
The room felt colder suddenly.
The old man continued staring at the image.
"But older survivors know better."
Vale waited silently.
Finally, the archivist looked directly at her.
"The frightening part was how hard he tried not to become it."
Silence settled heavily afterward.
No dramatic music.
No revelation.
Just exhaustion.
Human exhaustion.
Vale looked back toward the photographs again.
Something inside her worldview shifted painfully.
Not enough to trust him.
Never that.
But enough to complicate hatred.
And complications were dangerous.
---
Elsewhere, Elara sat quietly inside the same bakery as before while the owner aggressively fought dough with emotional commitment.
"You're back," the woman said casually.
"Yes."
"You still wear the hood indoors like you're in a tragic novel."
Elara paused.
"…I am uncertain if that was criticism."
"It was affection."
That somehow confused her more.
The television above the counter replayed more discussions about Uialon.
Again.
Always again.
The owner sighed heavily.
"People get obsessed with tragedy."
Elara looked toward the screen quietly.
"…Why?"
The woman shrugged while preparing pastries.
"Because it's easier than dealing with people while they're still suffering."
That answer lingered unpleasantly.
A customer nearby scoffed at the television.
"They're acting like Lord Malachai personally eats babies."
The owner snorted.
"If he did, the city council would probably tax it."
Several customers laughed.
Elara remained quiet.
The owner finally glanced toward her.
"You know what I think?"
"What?"
"I think people become monsters when nobody lets them stay human."
The room suddenly felt very still.
Elara thought about:
the old photograph,
the exhaustion in Malachai's eyes,
the endless restraint,
the careful control,
the way he looked at the city like something fragile.
Warmth and discomfort settled together in her chest.
Because for the first time—
she thought she finally understood what he was actually afraid of.
---
Far away from the city, hidden within dim forgotten ruins filled with stolen archives and fractured memory records, several older survivors sat restrained beneath pale artificial light.
Not tortured.
Observed.
Studied.
One elderly former hero glared toward the shadows.
"You're making a mistake."
Soft laughter echoed quietly.
"No," the unseen figure replied gently. "I'm reconstructing context."
Dozens of old photographs drifted slowly through the darkness.
Malachai before Uialon.
Smiling.
Helping.
Living.
The old hero's expression darkened.
"You don't understand what happened to him."
"No," the voice agreed pleasantly. "But I intend to."
A pause followed.
Then:
"I want to know whether the Angel was born from power…"
Another photograph appeared.
Malachai carrying a sleeping child away from burning ruins.
"…or from grief."
Far away, thunder rolled softly across the capital.
And somewhere high above District Nine, Malachai stood alone near the windows of his office while the city lights reflected faintly in tired eyes that had once belonged to a man long before wings ever touched the sky.