CHAPTER 175: That Day

CHAPTER 175: That Day

Darem's body no longer disintegrated into dust; it cracked like old porcelain. Large fragments of his torso and limbs broke off, falling and shattering against the asphalt in an eerie silence. From the fissures, no blood flowed, only a pale, agonizing glow.

From what remained of his shattered chest, Darem's voice emerged, not as a whisper, but clear and resonant, a final projection of his will.

"Less than a year, Fénix..." he began, each word causing another fracture to spread across his face. "Less than a year of hunting and being hunted. I've faced kings, beasts, beings who pretended to be gods... but none... none left a mark like you."

An eye detached from its socket and crashed to the ground.

"You were a constant obstacle. An irritating reminder that the perfection I sought would always have a crack with your name on it. I underestimated you at first, thought you were just another ephemeral insect. But you survived. You grew. You faced me again and again... and each time, you became stronger, harder to erase."

Fénix watched him, his face a mask of indifference carved in stone. He showed no triumph, no pity, not even relief. Only an infinite fatigue.

"Deep within my arrogance... I came to look forward to our encounters," Darem confessed, and an entire side of his jaw crumbled away. "They were the only moments when this endless existence... felt something. Rage. Frustration. Respect. You're the only rival who has made this weary soul... feel again."

Fénix said nothing. He just looked away, as if the final monologue of his centuries-old nemesis were an annoying buzz.

"So this is it..." Darem's voice began to distort, to blur, like a radio losing signal. "An appropriate... end. By your hand... I wouldn't have... wanted... any other..."

Darem's face was a landscape of ruin. Skin flaked and peeled like dry plaster, revealing a dark, dusty void beneath the surface. His eyes, which once shone with the divine certainty of the Nail, were now opaque sockets slowly crumbling away.

Fénix, who had begun to turn away, stopped mid-motion. Something made him look back at the spectacle of the final disintegration. And then, against all logic and all the accumulated hatred, a single warm tear traced a path through the grime and dried blood on his cheek. It fell to the ground, a small dark spot on the asphalt.

"Damn it," Fénix murmured, his voice laden with an emotion he thought he had buried long ago. "We're not so different, are we?"

Darem's lips, now little more than a groove in the crumbling clay, moved in one last faint whisper.

"You... with your Enid Corp... she gave you a purpose... a life when you were just a drifter..." Each word was a titanic effort, an echo from lungs that no longer existed. "Me... with Antigen... with Viktor... he showed me a path... an order... when I was just a lost paladin... He gave me a purpose... a crusade..."

Fénix nodded slowly, the tear drying on his face, leaving a clean line.

"Two weapons. Two soldiers. Loyal to an ideal that wasn't ours. We thought we were fighting for the right thing. We were two sides of the same coin... just with different faces."

A strange, tragic peace settled between them for a fleeting instant. The hunter and the prey, the executioner and the victim, understanding in the last second the absurd thread that bound them together.

Darem managed to form one final smile, a tortured and genuine gesture.

"Then... let me... tell you..." his voice was now the rustling of earth itself, "...my story... the true story..."

YEAR 1100 - KILDARE ORPHANAGE, IRELAND

The cold Irish afternoon filtered through the tall, narrow stone windows, illuminating specks of dust dancing in the air heavy with moisture and candle wax. The great hall, with its oak beams blackened by time, echoed with the deep, serene voice of Father Brendan, an elderly man in a simple robe, seated in a rustic armchair beside the crackling fireplace.

A dozen children, between five and eight years old, sat on the stone floor, captivated, forming a semicircle at his feet. Their small, pale, freckled faces reflected a mixture of fascination and fear.

In a corner, away from the group but still within the circle of firelight, sat DAREM. He couldn't have been more than seven years old. He was a thin boy with messy dark hair and eyes of such intense blue they seemed too serious for his age. On his knees rested a heavy, old book, its pages showing illustrations of beasts and constellations. But at that moment, he wasn't reading. His gaze was fixed on Father Brendan, listening to every word.

"—...and so," the priest continued, his hands gesturing softly, "the demon, taking the form of a wolf with fur black as pitch, approached the fold where the shepherd, a man of simple faith and pure heart, kept his flock."

The children huddled closer, some holding their breath.

"The shepherd did not flee, children. He did not blaspheme. He held high his simple staff of hazel wood and said with a voice that did not tremble: 'I will fear no evil, for you are with me.'"

Father Brendan paused, letting the sacred words resonate in the silent hall. Darem's eyes narrowed slightly, not from fear, but from analysis. His sharp, curious little mind processed the story not as a lesson in faith, but as a tactical account.

"And it was then," the priest continued, lowering his voice to a dramatic whisper, "that the shepherd's simple faith became a shield stronger than steel. The beast, unable to touch his soul, let out a howl of fury that froze the blood and fled back into the shadows from which it came."

A collective sigh of relief escaped the small lips. Some crossed themselves.

Darem, however, didn't flinch. His gaze drifted to the window, towards the grey sky beginning to tinge with orange. He wasn't thinking about the shepherd's faith. He was thinking about the nature of the wolf. Why would it retreat? Was it the faith... or was it simply that the wolf found a prey too difficult at that moment and sought easier pickings elsewhere?