The Wordless Mage
Chapter 52: The One Who May Split The World

Chapter 52: The One Who May Split The World

The blade swung downward.

It was neither fast nor slow. It simply was, carving through the void like a sovereign rewriting law. No wind, no friction, no resistance--just clean, unrepentant severance. The black aether dancing along its jagged edge cried out, burning brighter as it tore through the demon’s upper torso.

"GRHHHHK!" it screamed, the sound bending in on itself, fragmented like a dying chorus choking on its final note. Rowan yearned for its pain--relished in it, even. And he was going to exert all his being into finishing it off.

The cut didn’t stop.

It extended--not just through the demon--but through the fabric of the mindscape itself, splitting the infinite black from its unseen crown to the belly of nothingness far below. Time staggered at its edges. Space folded in protest. Cracks, like shattered porcelain, spiraled out from Rowan, their points blooming outward in jagged veins.

Beyond them... light.

Not warmth. Not peace. Not hope.

Just light--pure and blinding.

A pulse surged from the line, and with it, the air in every direction flattened, quieted, died.

Far above, in the real world, Pope Tharos stood suspended in place. His staff quaked in his grasp, holy energy orbiting the tip like it’d burst if not restrained by his own will. The light radiating from it was almost white enough to break through thought--bright enough to sear the soul. And it very well would have, had Rowan been a second too late.

Tharos stood atop the fractured earth, robes alight with gold shimmer. Beneath him, the demon writhed in its divine cage.

"This world has tolerated you long enough," he said, voice echoing like scripture. "Let the gods reclaim what never should’ve been made."

He pushed the staff forward.

A blinding column of sanctified light screamed downward--straight for the blackened figure below.

Crack!

The earth split before it could reach.

No sound.

Just a line--thin, black, tinged in violet. A slash that came not from this world, nor the one below it. A cut that shouldn’t exist. A fault in reality.

The light hit it. And parted. Cleanly. Like silk on the edge of a blade.

Tharos stumbled backward, eyes shaking behind lenses of divine disbelief. No demon should have been able to fend off a sovereign-level arcana, and certainly not of the holy attribute.

"What... What is this?"

All across the battlefield, the others stopped. Knights. Mages. Heroes still crawling from their injuries. Even King Viral stepped forward, slack-jawed.

From within the gash--Rowan emerged.

Not walked. Not rose. Emerged.

His figure slid through like ink escaping parchment, unbound by gravity or weight. The void still clung to him, wisps of black spiraling from his cloak. Writbane pulsed in his hand, jagged and humming. At his side, his grimoire was open--pages turning in wildly at his beckon.

Flames of violet curled up his body, painting his silhouette in divine rage.

A step.

The fissure behind him sealed like it had never been.

And with breath still caught in the throat of the world, he spoke:

"Stay away from her."

Back in the void, the demon twitched.

Its body collapsed inward. Flesh curled like paper. Limbs detached from their seams. The hole Writbane had torn into its chest still steamed, radiating ruin. It tried to move. To reach. To speak.

But for the first time, its face was no longer smiling.

"You... ungrateful whelp..." it spat, voice thinned into ragged, broken notes. "You think... this is over? Don’t, for a second, think you’ve bested me."

It shifted--barely--dragging its hollow weight through the ruin of itself. Its bones cracked without cause. Its wings dangled like soaked cloth. It watched Rowan fade into the world above.

And then... it looked to Liora.

Still floating. Still dazed. Still close.

She turned, only briefly in a blinding curiosity.

A grave, even fatal mistake.

A single finger snapped forward, the last of its strength and malice driving its movements. It understood that it only had one shot at this--to make a lasting impact on Rowan. To leave him with a burning memory so great that it could never be forgotten.

Red-hot. Aether-bound. Cursed. A streak of flame no larger than a whip--aimed not to kill, but to brand.

To leave something behind.

"Liora!"

She spun.

Too late.

The flame struck her side, tearing up her ribs and licking across her collarbone. It didn’t tear fabric. There was no body to burn. But her spirit screamed, as if her soul had flesh.

"AGHHH!"

Her body flailed, a streak of red light etching into her. The pain was sharp, winding, soul-deep. Her scream echoed across the mindscape, louder than the demon’s last breath.

Her grimoire floated nearby, untouched, its pages flapping uselessly.

The demon laughed, not necessarily proud or victorious over its achievement.

Just... spiteful.

Its form cracked once more, then broke into an innumerable fraction of tiny fragments. And with that, it was gone.

Ash scattered into the dark, disintegrating into the mindscape’s silence.

The last thing it left was Liora’s scream.

Back in the waking world, Rowan’s feet never touched anything. Still, he stood. Still, he hovered.

The divine beam from Tharos unraveled, dissipating like mist cut by steel.

Rowan didn’t look at him, didn’t even wish to think on the words that’d come from his mouth while Liora had been fighting for her way out.

He didn’t look at the knights, or the priests, or the waking heroes.

His eyes were locked forward, right where Liora emerged.

Her form stumbled, clutching her side.

He caught her before she could fall.

"Liora?! Hey, what happened?"

Her face was pale. Her hands trembled.

"I... I’m okay," she lied, voice ragged, her words trembling like her fingers.

But he saw it.

The glowing line across her chest, still pulsing. Not just damage.

A brand.

He held her closer, pulling her in.

His grip on Writbane tightened. Veins darkened with strain, light bending subtly around the blade.

And he looked back.

Not toward the demon.

But toward the gods who let this happen.

He didn’t speak.

He didn’t need to.

The wound said enough.

And somewhere, beneath the sky and above the void, a storm began to rise.