Single for Eternity
Chapter 107: Unravelled

Chapter 107: Unravelled

As if summoned by Einar’s words, a sound broke the eerie stillness—a faint, slow clapping.

My heart clenched.

The sound echoed unnaturally, bouncing off the still air and the frozen horizon like it didn’t belong. I instinctively turned, my gaze darting across the open meadow.

And then I saw him.

The boy.

The same child I had played with for days... the one I had watched sleep like an innocent curled in my lap, his giggles and warmth so genuine they almost fooled me into believing it all.

But now—he wasn’t the same.

He stood a short distance away, hands lazily coming together in soft applause, his small frame illuminated by the golden half-light of this stilled world.

But it was his eyes that pierced me. The warmth that once sparkled within them—gone. Replaced by a cold, mocking glint that carried the weight of centuries. The illusion had shattered.

Standing before us, in the body of a child but radiating the presence of something far older and far more dangerous, was him—the Undead Lord.

Malthorn.

Einar didn’t hesitate. In a blur of movement too fast for the untrained eye, he was in front of the boy, cloaked in the living shadow of his symbiotic armor. His presence rippled like heat off scorched earth—dangerous, yet precise.

Malthorn’s smile only widened, his fingers now steepled in front of him as if watching something amusing. He regarded Einar not as an opponent, but as one might study an oddly shaped bug—curious, but insignificant.

Either Einar didn’t notice the condescension in the expression—or he simply didn’t care.

He bent forward with a slight mocking bow. "So," he said coolly, "is your stupid little dream finally over?"

Malthorn chuckled, voice smooth and echoing like a lullaby turned sinister. "Straight to the point, aren’t you? How impatient. You truly are a child."

Einar quirked a brow. "You look like a child, if anything. And you talk like an old man trying too hard to sound wise."

Malthorn sighed with exaggerated weariness and pressed a small hand to his forehead. "And yet, I’ve lived far longer than you can comprehend. Age is not defined by appearances, little mortal."

Einar rolled his eyes, completely unfazed. "Yeah, yeah, I don’t buy it. Sounds like you’re just trying to sound cool."

The Undead Lord’s eyes twitched ever so slightly. "What do you mean?"

"Nothing," Einar replied with a shrug, voice flat and careless.

Malthorn squinted at him, suspicion flickering across his face—but he let it pass.

"Regardless," Malthorn said, tone shifting to something far more formal, "you’ve reached the conclusion of this simulation... this fragment of my world. Whether by design or brute force, you’ve unraveled it. And by the rules etched into this plane by me, I must now explain the truth to you before your demise."

I couldn’t help but chuckle under my breath.

Looking at his slight frame, his small hands and childish features, it was easy to forget that this was a demigod. A being who had climbed higher than I could currently reach.

I may have reached the mystic level, but even that was a whole realm beneath his. And Einar—he was still unawakened. Powerless by comparison.

Yet, here he stood, speaking to the Lord of Undeath as if scolding a peer.

Einar crossed his arms. "Alright, Mr. Obligations. Care to explain your tragic backstory before the world collapses on us?"

Malthorn ignored the sarcasm. "This world... is not a dream. Nor is it a mere illusion crafted from my memories or biased perceptions. It is a real place—one that exists outside the bounds of the living. A realm where the undead flourish. A realm I once called home. The place where I was born, and where I met my first... genuine friend."

His voice softened at the end. His eyes shimmered—not with aether, but with emotion.

He looked into the distance, as though the past lay just beyond the trees. "It was here that I first felt something real. And it was here that I learned how easily it can be ripped away. This village—this peaceful memory you intruded upon—it was the first place I ever destroyed."

I swallowed hard.

There was no hatred in his tone. Just resignation.

Einar stepped forward again. "So the fur coat guy," he said, voice level, "was a real human. You pretended otherwise until the end. Hid it. But eventually, he was discovered. Tortured. Killed. All because he was a living person."

Malthorn’s small fists trembled at his sides. "I accepted me. When no one else would. He was not an undead—something unnatural in their eyes. To them, he was a mistake that should have never existed. But I didn’t care."

Einar’s voice was calm, yet sharp. "And your parents? Your so-called family?"

Malthorn sneered. "Undead don’t have biological bonds. We’re not born of love or blood. We simply are. Our ’parents’ are assigned. Formalities. Functionaries."

He paused, eyes hard. "There was no warmth. No acceptance. Only fear. Only disgust. They watched him become closer to me than they ever could. Jealousy twisted into paranoia... and they murdered him for it. Tied him to the tree that once shaded us... and let him die screaming."

His voice cracked then.

The illusion of the child wavered, just for a moment, revealing the hollow sadness buried deep within.

Einar exhaled slowly. "And so, you killed them in return. No guilt. No hesitation. Because they were nothing to you. But that man... that friend... he was everything."

Malthorn didn’t deny it.

Instead, he looked down at his tiny hands, as if trying to remember the warmth that had once existed in them.

"Yes," he said quietly. "I destroyed the village. And I regret nothing."

Einar tilted his head slightly, his eyes narrowing with a subtle curiosity. "So... you don’t hate the living?"

Malthorn gave a slow, deliberate nod. "That’s correct. I hold no particular animosity toward the living. Unlike the others of my kind, hatred never quite took root in me."

Einar blinked, seeming almost caught off guard by the answer. "Huh. That’s... surprisingly reasonable. Great, I guess?"

I took a tentative step forward, my gaze locked on the boy who stood like a quiet storm in human form. "Then, can I ask something else?" I said, voice low. "How exactly did a living person—someone like your friend—invade your undead realm in the first place?"

Malthorn turned his gaze to me, and in that moment, his eyes softened. I saw it—the faint glimmer of warmth, of a connection he believed we shared.

The way he looked at me, it wasn’t just polite interest or idle amusement. It was familiarity.

It was recognition.

A chill slithered down my spine.

’He sees me as a replacement.’

The realization struck like a blade through my thoughts.

’This... this entire world... this whole fabricated scenario—was never just a memory. It was designed. Crafted. For one reason.’

To recreate what he lost.

To find another fur coat.

His smile grew, small but genuine, and that was all the confirmation I needed.

This wasn’t just a test or a trial. It was personal.

’This guy... this guy is seriously infuriating.’

Malthorn’s innocent face, with its delicate features and soft expression, twisted slightly—not with malice, but with something even more dangerous: hope.

Hope that I would willingly take the place of his long-dead friend. That I would become the new anchor for his sanity.

Before I could say anything, his smile broadened and a wave of energy burst from his body.

The air thickened as a deep, bone-chilling hue of blue engulfed his form. It wrapped around him like a second skin, an eerie halo of power radiating in every direction.

’Pure undead aether...’

So that was the truth. The reason he could slaughter his fellow undead so effortlessly wasn’t just strength—it was affinity. He possessed the rare, terrifying quality of pure undead aether.

A force that defied conventional balance, corrupting and devouring lesser undead like shadows at dawn.

And then—his attention shifted. Slowly, deliberately, he turned his eyes toward Einar.

Their gazes locked.

And for a moment, the space between them felt taut, like a string pulled too tight. Something unspoken passed between them—something raw and layered with meaning neither of them shared aloud.

Then Malthorn spoke, breaking the silence like cracking ice.

"You’ve unraveled this place," he said calmly. "I suppose that means... you’re entitled to a reward."

Einar raised an eyebrow, voice casual but tinged with skepticism. "Oh? And what’s the prize? A pat on the back? Eternal trauma? Another illusion, maybe?"

Malthorn didn’t flinch. Instead, his lips pulled into a full smile—broad, childlike, and somehow deeply unsettling.

"You’ll love your reward."

The moment the words left his mouth, the deep shade of aether around him surged outward. The ground trembled, and the illusion of the world around us began to peel like wet paint.

The serene field, the silent forest, the broken village—everything dissolved into motes of blue light, unraveling like a tapestry torn from the edges.

The light intensified, and a sharp pressure pressed against my skull. My vision blurred. My eyes burned.

Then—everything went white.

When my senses returned, I found myself standing beside Einar once more. The air had changed—heavier, dense with condensed aether. We were no longer in the illusory village. We had returned.

Back in the ancient moss covered Corridors.

But something was different.

Ahead of us, where once there was only a dead-end wall, stood a massive door. Weathered and ancient, covered in creeping moss and symbols etched so deeply they seemed fossilized into the stone.

A faint silver shimmer outlined the edges of the door, as if welcoming us into something sacred.

Before I could even speak—Einar moved.

His hands, buried deep in the pockets of his dark-crimson living armor, remained still as he casually strode forward. There was a confidence in his walk now. No hesitation. No fear.

He stopped in front of the door, studied it for a moment—then pushed it open with a single shove.

The hinges groaned in protest, old and reluctant. But the door yielded, revealing a sight that made me instinctively squint.

Inside was a chamber bathed in pale gold and soft blue light, glowing from within the mountain of treasure that lay at its heart.

Aether crystals.

Thousands of them.

Piled from floor to ceiling, arranged like glistening waves of aether-infused jewels. The sheer concentration was suffocating—almost intoxicating.

Even Einar, whose spiritual sensitivity wasn’t his strong suit, flinched slightly as the raw aether brushed against him.

A treasure trove. A sacred vault.

’This... was our reward?’

I narrowed my eyes. For something so grand, it felt strangely underwhelming. As if the value was purely external.

But beside me, the guy in crimson armor was grinning—no, beaming.

Einar stepped inside like a child entering a candy store, eyes gleaming with a hunger that had nothing to do with food.

To him, this wasn’t lackluster.

This was exactly what he needed.

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