(A/N: Fujimoto, who is the riel Chainsaw Man in chap 200? Don't mess with me!)
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When surrounded by nothing but darkness, it was easy to lose track of time. The same went for Makima and Veilhem, as they had nothing to do but chat to keep themselves occupied, but even that had its limit.
Veilhem's breathing slowed as he fell asleep, his body slack against the cold ground. The tension that always lingered in his posture faded, leaving him defenseless.
Makima watched him in the dim light, her expression as flat as always. There was something curious about him beyond the rough edges he had shown her. It intrigued her, but curiosity alone was never enough for her.
She needed to know more to understand this paradox.
Without hesitation, she shot out a chain with the concept of conquest to his head. The air around them seemed to still as her presence seeped into his mind, peeling back the layers that guarded his thoughts.
A flicker of memory.
Makima stood in silence, watching the unfolding memory with keen interest.
She knew she was merely an observer in Veilhem's mind, yet the weight of what she was witnessing felt almost tangible. It was as if she were reliving it in his mindscape.
There, she saw the First Flame burned bright, illuminating the primitive creatures as they scrambled toward its warmth, each varied in their shape and form.
She watched as three figures reached into the Flame, claiming the powerful Lord Souls and ascending beyond what they once were.
The surge of power reshaped them, transforming them into the Gods of this world. And without hesitation, they departed, leaving behind only the dying embers of their former existence.
Then, from the shadows, something else stirred.
A furtive creature crawled forward, emerging from the darkness that had concealed it. Unlike the others, it was small and scrawny in its form.
It bore no divine radiance or overwhelming presence. And yet, as it gazed upon the last remaining soul hidden beneath the blinding light, something ancient called out to it.
[̷̠̻̌ͅP̴͔͍̭͕̀ǐ̶̟͙̣͒̿̚c̴̼̖̲̯͈̀͋k̷̡̯͈̻̖̋̄ ̵̯̓m̶̙̣̺̈͗́̃̒͜͠e̵̦̲͓͘.̷̢̨̥̝̗̱̂̆]̸̥͈̒͛̋
From the remnants of the flame, the Dark Soul whispered.
Makima's gaze settled on the creature as it hesitated, its trembling fingers reaching toward the ember of power left behind.
A faint, broken sound rasped from its throat.
"…Pyg…my."
Its voice was raw and unformed due to an undeveloped vocal cord attempting speech for the first time. It was a crude imitation of the High Gothic language in its primitive phase.
Though undoubtedly, it was the first mark of the Furtive Pygmy, who was known as the ancestor of humankind.
Unlike the others, he did not seek dominion, nor did he wage war upon the land. Instead, the father of mankind chose to divide his power, sharing his soul with those who would become human, shredding their hollow form.
Veilhem was the first to receive a shard of the Dark Soul.
____
The scene shifted, and Makima found herself amidst an endless battlefield.
The ground was scarred and littered with broken weapons, shattered armor, and the remnants of those who had fallen. Ash and dust swirled in the air like a mourning veil.
And there he was.
Veilhem stood at the center of it all, sword in hand, his armor barely holding together. His grey eyes, once filled with curiosity, were now dulled by an exhaustion that had long since settled into his bones.
Then, the fighting began again.
Undead like him, cursed to fight and fall, only to rise once more at the will of the flame.
Over and over again, they clashed in the fight with the Everlasting Dragons. Each time, they perished in the face of hopelessness. And yet, they continued.
A war without end, a cycle without mercy.
…A meat grinder.
Makima watched as Veilhem was cut down. His body crumpled, his blade slipping from his grasp.
And then, the fire reignited in his chest.
He gasped back to life, crawling to his feet once more.
The struggle resumed once again.
And again…
…a…gain…
_____
The centuries blurred together. The faces of his comrades changed, replaced by new warriors destined to share his fate. One by one, they fell and never rose again.
Until, at last, there was only one left.
Veilhem.
Alone.
Makima took a step forward, watching him kneel in the ruins of his fallen legion.
His sword now rested limply in his grasp. He no longer reacted to the silence left in the wake of his endless battles. The fire inside him still burned, but it no longer roared.
It simply smoldered.
Makima stood amidst the shifting echoes of memory, watching Veilhem in his final moments at the end of the world, with a greatsword plunged straight into his heart by the knight with a red hood.
The fire before him barely flickered, its embers struggling against the inevitable dark.
He knelt in the heap of ashes, his armor charred and brittle, his sword planted in the ground like a gravestone.
He had done this before.
…Countless times at that…
Not just him—many others had taken up the burden, linking the fire over and over again, prolonging an age that had long lost its meaning.
The Age of Fire.
They threw themselves into the flame, hoping to keep the light alive just a little longer. But the fire was never meant to last. The cycle continued, unbroken, a cruel illusion of purpose.
And still, Veilhem endured it all.
Makima took a slow step forward. The scent of cinders and decay filled the air. The oppressive weight of time pressed down on this place, but she remained unmoved.
"Why?" she finally asked, her voice cutting through the silence.
Veilhem, though only a memory in this world, turned his head ever so slightly, as if he had heard her. His grey eyes, now dull and weathered, gazed at the dying flame.
"Because what else is left for me?"
His voice was distant, hollow.
Makima frowned.
This was a man who had been used, cast aside, and deceived for generations. And yet, even after seeing through the lie, after knowing the truth—that there was no honor, no glory, only the endless burden of sacrifice. He still chose to carry it.
Why?
She couldn't understand it. She thought back to herself, to her own purpose.
Was she not the same? Had she not pursued her goal, no matter how many times she failed, no matter what it cost her? Did she not also chain herself to a cause, seeking something beyond her grasp?
For the first time, she felt something unfamiliar creep into her heart.
Doubt.
She had believed she understood everything, that all beings could be manipulated, bound by their desires.
And yet, here stood a man who had lost everything, been betrayed by everything, and still, he walked forward.
Makima looked down at her hand. It was steady and unwavering. But that could not be more in contrast to the turmoil inside her chest.
The flames flickered one last time before fading into embers.
Even at the very end, he had not faltered.
Makima stared at him for a long moment, something changed in her gaze.
Then, ever so gently, she reached out and placed a hand over his.
For the first time, she did not know why she did such useless action to a mere illusion crafted by a man's memory. But she did it because it felt right to her at this instance.
Then the scene shifted again.
____
The weight of this stagnant Age bore down on Makima as she stood amid Veilhem's memories. Kingdoms had risen and crumbled to dust, countless undead had tried and failed in their journeys to link the Fire, yet one thing remained unbroken.
Humanity.
Even as the Gods who once ruled had perished, and the Lords had shied away from their duties. Even as the world withered into ruin, the indomitable will of humanity remained. And at the center of it all, he stood there as the last to uphold the duty that had long since lost its meaning.
But even he could not defy time.
His soul had been burned, reshaped, and burned again. Over and over, until all that remained was a hollow echo of the man he once was.
Not even the Fire he had wholeheartedly sacrificed himself to had been enough to cleanse the sorrow and despair that clung to his entire being.
Makima watched as fragments of his past flickered before her, ghostly reminders of the burdens he carried.
Stories of the Forgotten.
Greirat, a petty thief full of noble ideals, believed that one could live without chains. He died trying to prove himself right, clutching his broken blade with trembling hands.
Hawkwood, a cowardly knight, who could not part from his shield, unlike his brothers in the Abyss Watchers Legion. In the end, he deserted, forsaking his home. A mere human, yet one who longed to be like the ancient dragon, seeking their strength even as he knew he would never attain it, a fleeting dream for a coward such as himself.
Yhorm, a giant who only wished to be recognized as a leader by his people. He had given them the [Storm Ruler], the one weapon that could bring him to his knees as a sign of trust. Yet, that same trust was repaid in betrayal, and he was felled by the very weapon he had given them.
....
And so they vanished, leaving behind nothing but memories that only Veilhem could remember.
He had witnessed the deaths of himself and many others. And yet, he had never stopped moving forward.
Was it stubbornness? Greed? Or something else entirely?
Makima tilted her head, lost in the sight before her eyes. She lingered in the depths of Veilhem's mind, standing amidst the ruins of his past.
The battlefield stretched endlessly before her, corpses lost to time sinking into the ashen earth. The scent of iron and fire filled the air, thick with the weight of forgotten struggles.
Veilhem stood at the edge of it all, his ash-like eyes fixed on the dimming fire before him. His armor, once pristine in black, was now battered and cracked, barely clinging to his worn body.
He did not move, nor did he speak. He only stared into the First Flame with an unknown meaning behind those dull gaze, as if waiting for something that would never come.
His salvation.
Yet she knew what would happen next.
"You're a fool." She spoke, but her cold tone remained.
Because it had happened before.
…And countless times at that.
[̷͕̺͎̙́̽̒̈́F̵̺̟̏̆̓̄̏o̵͕̪̔͌͌̅͒r̵̢̢͌̓̈ ̶̯̟͖̦̏̓̈̚h̷̝̫̗̋̇o̴̰̣̩͓͒̓͑ͅn̴̝̟̲͗ǒ̶̲̯̮̥̑͘r̴̖͙̮̫̣̼̒̍̔…̴̡̖̦̙̭̗̑̇̈ ̵̱̜̗͔͐̑ḻ̴̟̔͜o̸̫̜̼̊̀̃́̔̉ͅo̷̯̖̐̊̿̓̌̓ͅk̶̫̍̂̊̾ ̸̲͓̫̞̻͖́̓̎a̷̬͉̤͌͌̊t̶͎̫̙͚̀̀́́̃ ̷̨̡̰͚̮̯̈́̀͒̚w̷̨̥̳̅h̶͇̟̒̔̐͗ă̵̺̓ṯ̸̠̔ ̷̧̻͚̫̯͙̉͒̚t̶̠͕̯͔͖̿̊͠h̶̗̪̓̊́ḁ̷͉̭̼̖͙͋̉͋̈́̃͐t̶̤̋̈́ ̴̡̣̮͋̐̒ͅh̶̛̙͕̟̭͓͓͛́̾̿ǫ̷̛͊̒̿̈́n̸͓̟̈̀͝õ̸͇r̷̼̈̊̽́͌̕͜ ̷͇̳̜̗͐̋̊g̶͖̤̈́̈̔̈͑o̸͇͑̍̉͗ţ̸̨̳̞͌̀̅̾̔̚͜ ̷͈̠̈̊̒̂ͅţ̴̙̝̲̮̓̾̈́̓ḥ̴̢̧̺̯͔͆͊̑͌͝e̴̲̽̈́̓́̕m̴̨̨̺̜̋͗́̕.̷͇̭̮̿̇͌̚]̵̛͎̺͙̤̰̜̌̾̅͐́
The voice came from the void, hollow and cold, neither condemning nor pitying.
Veilhem stepped forward. The embers pulsed, hungrily waiting.
And, as always, he chose to burn himself one more time.
Makima watched as he knelt before the dying fire, pressing his hands into the fading warmth. The flames surged to consume him. His body crumbled, reduced to cinders.
Then, the cycle began anew as always.
Each time, he returned with less of himself and a little more hollow. Until, at last, only a dying vessel remained—an undead knight moving forward because that was all he had ever known.
[̶Y̵o̷u̵ ̷w̴i̸l̷l̸ ̸n̵e̷v̷e̴r̷ ̵s̵e̸e̶ ̵t̸h̸e̵ ̴t̵r̷u̷t̶h̸.̴ ̴U̵n̸d̷e̵a̷d̶ ̶w̴r̴e̵t̷c̷h̴,̸ ̵b̷o̷u̸n̷d̴ ̶t̸o̷ ̴t̵h̸e̴ ̷c̵a̷u̶s̸e̴ ̷b̸y̶ ̷a̴n̴ ̵e̵x̷q̸u̴i̷s̶i̸t̴e̸ ̴l̴i̷e̶,̸ ̷n̸o̵ ̸m̵a̴t̴t̷e̴r̸ ̸h̴o̶w̸ ̷f̷l̷e̷e̶t̴i̵n̷g̵ ̶t̷h̴e̷y̵ ̸w̴e̷r̵e̵,̴ ̵t̵h̵r̷o̵w̶i̴n̷g̴ ̷t̷h̵e̶m̵s̶e̶l̶v̴e̵s̴ ̸a̸t̶ ̶t̶h̷e̸ ̶s̴l̸i̶g̵h̴t̸e̷s̴t̶ ̶g̸l̸i̸m̴m̵e̴r̷ ̴o̷f̷ ̵h̶o̷p̷e̸.̴ ̸B̶u̶t̸ ̴i̴n̵ ̵t̶h̷e̶ ̵e̶n̶d̴,̷ ̸a̷ ̸l̸i̸e̴ ̶r̵e̴m̸a̶i̷n̵e̸d̸ ̸a̷s̷ ̶a̴ ̷l̸i̶e̸.̷]̶
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The battlefield faded, shifting into a city at the end of the world.
The last, crumbling relic of a forgotten promise. Silent and empty, save for the one who had been left behind.
Veilhem stood at its center, no longer moving. No longer struggling. He simply watched the last embers flicker, his once-hopeful eyes dulled by centuries of war.
The flames crackled, weak and dying.
[̸̤̩̱̾́B̴̹͛̃̇͌ě̴̘f̴̱̳̤̂o̴̡̦͑͜r̶̨̙͕̺̔͛ĕ̶̛͚̱̐̃ ̷͚̗̱̂̅͘͝ÿ̴̡̲͛͘͜ō̷̳̝u̸̡̫͖̼͐̈́ ̷̱̮͕̉̀k̵̝͈̯̤̍̄́n̵̜̿̕͝ơ̴̘͇̜͂̅̇͜ẅ̷͉͉́͘ ̸͕͍̫̊̐͠w̴̢͚̉̇͐̃h̶̳̺̰̓ą̴̤͙̪̂̉ț̸̰̳͂̽̉ ̷̧͉̗͇̏͊̈́h̸̭͎̽͜o̴͓̭͔̗̿n̸̫̔̌̽̾o̸͔͊́̈́r̴̛̟͔͈̗͛͗ ̶̦̠͉͠i̸̯̘̺͛͒͘͝s̴̻̈̀̅,̸̠̙͕̏̈́̋ ̷̢̘̀͝l̴̝͉͙̇o̸̡̐͘ō̵̱̈́͜k̵̨̛̹͖̗͑ ̷̞̳̆͛̈́̎a̴̡͙̹̼͌̓̑r̴̢̺͇̔͐̈o̸̱̬̝͊u̴̲̠̐n̸̨̳̦̉̇͂d̴͔̥̭͐ ̵̭͋̓́y̵̳͋͋̉̚ǫ̷̑u̵̦̬̲͝͠.̴̰͉̩̞͗̿]̸͕͕̺͎̅
Makima did as it said and soon came to a conclusion.
The Rinegd City granted by Gwyn was not a prize. It was a prison for mankind and the Dark within them.
And Veilhem was one of its final mourners and its prisoner.
Something inside her twisted in a suffocating way.
'Just give up, like many others. Why even bother?' She did not even understand why she had these thoughts.
Makima reached for her face, feeling warmth trailing down her cheek. Her fingers wiped away the stained red.
A single drop of blood trickled down from the corner of her eye.
Her breath hitched just for a moment because she herself didn't know what she was feeling right now.
Then, Makima snapped her fingers, and the world around her shattered.
______
She was back to reality, the dim firelight replaced by the cold darkness of this place. Veilhem lay in front of her, still trapped in restless sleep, his breathing slow and steady.
Makima exhaled, pressing her lips into a thin line of a smile. She wiped the tears away and simply stared at it, crimson staining her fingertips.
She had seen enough.
The fire burned low in the cave, its embers casting faint, flickering light across the rough stone walls. The air was still, save for the slow, steady rhythm of two breaths in the quiet.
Makima did not move at first, lingering in the silence as the weight of what she had seen settled deep into her being.
She had expected to peer into Veilhem's mind and find something hideous or monstrous.
Or at least something cold.
But instead, all she had found was a broken man undone by his fate.
A knight who had bled for an Age that had never been his.
Who had marched into war knowing he was never meant to be honored for his sacrifices, only used.
Who had carried a burden for so long that he had become a relic of an era that no longer needed him.
Veilhem lay beside her, still clad in the remnants of his battered armor. The plates were tarnished by the passage of time, bearing the scars of countless struggles.
His gauntlets, covered in faint traces of soot and dried blood, rested idly at his sides. The tattered remains of his cloak draped over him like the last remnants of dignity, its once-proud colors long since faded into muted shades of gray.
His grey eyes, which had stared into the abyss more than once, were closed now, as if the weight of his past had finally pressed him into stillness.
Makima's gaze lingered on his huge frame, but looked almost pitiful.
But she knew better than anyone not to let emotion take over logic.
She hesitated only a moment before shifting closer. Then, without a word, she wrapped her arms around him.
It was an odd thing to hold someone like him. But right now, it felt like the most reasonable thing to do, as if it was her way to comfort him.
A knight who had long abandoned the idea of warmth, of comfort. A warrior whose only companions had been the endless battles and the corpses left in his wake.
But still, he did not move.
Seeing that, Makima rested her head against the cold, dented metal of his chest plate. Through the armor, she could not hear the usual rhythm of his heartbeat. That was when she realized that his heart had ceased to beat since the time he was bound to the Fire.
The cold of steel seeped into her being as she closed her eyes, but it was oddly intoxicating because to her, it was more real than anything she had experienced thus far.
For the first time in a long while, exhaustion pulled at her mind. Reading memories of someone who had existed since the dawn of humankind was a stretch even for her.
It seeped into her limbs, into her mind, and though she was not one to succumb so easily to something as fragile as sleep, she did not resist.
The warmth of the dying fire flickered against them, barely enough to stave off the chill of the darkness of this world.
Then, in the stillness, something shifted.
A single grey eye, dull yet knowing, cracked open.
Veilhem did not move.
He had been awake the whole time.
He had felt her presence in his mind and had let her walk through the ruins of his past without resistance. He had not stopped her, nor had he cared that she had seen everything.
Because in the end, it didn't matter.
His past was not a secret. It was simply what he was.
Not because he believed in the cause, nor did he cling desperately to some elusive hope, but because he had nothing else to lose.
Makima's breathing had steadied now, her grip on him loose but present.
A warmth he had not felt in centuries now pressed against him, quiet and unfamiliar.
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(A/N: If you still not giving me the review, I'm gonna touch you this time frfr.
And I hope you guys have a headache trying to read the lines I messed up.)