CHAPTER 199: GARDEN

Merlin’s breath caught. His grip faltered. ’So it’s real. Everything—Nathan, Elara, Morgana—it was nothing. Empty. All of it...’

The man didn’t let him linger. His words cut in like scalpel to vein.

"But they left me."

Merlin blinked, staring. "...What?"

The man’s gaze didn’t shift. "This was their test. Their cage. Their amusement. But I do not belong to them."

The void shuddered. System text flickered at the edge of Merlin’s vision—

[The Audience grows restless.]

[The Arbiter disapproves of the intrusion.]

[The Messenger is silent.]

The man ignored it all. His voice steady. "They wanted to see how you would break. How long you would cling to shadows, how long you would rage at their strings."

He stepped closer, stopping only an arm’s length from Merlin. His hand, pale, steady, tapped the flat of Merlin’s sword, lowering it.

"You did not break."

Merlin’s pulse thundered in his ears. His throat felt raw. He wanted to scream, to demand, to tear answers from this man’s calm. But all that came out was a ragged whisper. "...Why? Why are you here?"

The man adjusted his glasses, gaze cutting through him.

"Because while they play with illusions, I deal in reality."

The void pulsed again, harder this time.

[The Audience protests.]

[The Arbiter warns of breach.]

[The Trickster delights in the disruption.]

The white-haired man’s tone never shifted. "Enough. The test ends here."

Merlin’s grip loosened. His blade lowered. His chest heaved with every breath, fury, confusion, and something else he could not name pressing at his ribs.

The man’s presence was not like the gods’. Not like their cold messages, their mocking laughter. He was here. Solid. Heavy. The way the labyrinth had been real.

Merlin stared at him, voice hoarse. "Then... this whole time... you’ve been watching?"

The man’s expression didn’t change. "Of course."

Merlin’s knees almost gave out. His laughter tore from his throat, half-broken, half-feral. "You—" He pressed a hand to his face, teeth bared. "You let them do this? You let them lock me here like some animal?"

The man’s reply was a knife. Calm. Detached. "You needed to be tempered."

Merlin’s laugh stopped. Slowly, his hand lowered. His eyes burned gold as they fixed on the man. "Tempered." He spat the word like poison. "You call this tempering?"

The man didn’t answer. Not yet.

The void trembled again, the gods’ voices flickering—

[The Audience demands continuation.]

[The Arbiter records outcome.]

[The Messenger observes in silence.]

Merlin’s breath came hot through his teeth. He raised the sword halfway again, not at the man, not at the gods, but at the void itself. His voice was a rasp.

"Then tell me. Tell me why I should keep playing their game."

The man’s eyes narrowed, just slightly, as though measuring the exact weight of Merlin’s words. Then, softly—

"You shouldn’t."

—

The white-haired man’s words still hung between them, sharp as glass: You shouldn’t.

Merlin’s fingers twitched on the hilt. His lungs dragged air like bellows. The void’s false ground pulsed beneath his boots, trembling under the weight of gods’ unseen eyes.

[The Audience roars in protest.]

[The Arbiter warns: external force detected.]

[The Messenger is silent.]

Merlin spat, lifting his blade again, but before he could speak—

A hand rested against his shoulder. Light, effortless. Cold.

And the world broke.

No flash. No thunderclap. No tearing scream of space unravelling. One instant Merlin stood in the hollow void, sword raised against shadows and gods. The next, he stood in sunlight.

He staggered. His eyes flared wide. Grass brushed his boots, impossibly green. A soft wind played against his skin, carrying scents of lilac, pine, water. The sky stretched endless and blue, unmarred by cracks, untouched by watchers.

Birdsong. Real birdsong.

Merlin’s throat closed. ’No. No, this—this has to be another trick—’

But the pressure was gone. The crushing weight of unseen eyes. The crawling itch of the system’s walls. He felt the absence like a limb torn away.

He spun, blade ready—

The man stood where he had before. Hands in his pockets, white coat shifting faintly in the wind. As if nothing had changed at all.

Merlin’s voice cracked, low and raw. "What... what did you do?"

The man adjusted his glasses, gaze shifting to the garden stretching around them, an endless sea of flowers, stone paths weaving through it like veins.

"I moved you."

Merlin’s jaw clenched. "That’s—" His words tangled, spat back out ragged. "That’s impossible. No one—no one can rip someone out of their grip. The gods—"

The man cut him off with a glance. Just a glance. Cold. Slicing.

"They are not gods."

Merlin staggered back a step. His pulse thundered in his ears. ’Not gods? Then what—what have I been fighting against this whole time? What was laughing, mocking, testing me—’

The system flickered, desperate at the edge of his vision—

[Warning: Unknown space detected.]

[Signal lost.]

[—Connection interrupted—]

Then silence. Blankness. Nothing. Even the system was muted here.

Merlin’s mouth went dry. He tightened his grip on the sword. His voice came hoarse. "...Then what are they?"

The man didn’t answer at first. He moved, slow, measured, walking down the stone path between blooming trees. Each step was unhurried, deliberate, the kind of walk that didn’t belong to mortals.

Merlin followed, blade still in hand, fury and fear burning under his skin.

Finally, the man spoke. "Spectators. Parasites. Power without flesh, clinging to the title of gods because they have no better word."

Merlin’s throat tightened. "...And you?"

The man stopped at the edge of a pond. Clear water mirrored the sky, broken only by drifting petals. He crouched, dipping pale fingers into the surface. Ripples spread outward, fracturing the reflection.

His voice came calm. Detached. "I am what they fear."

Merlin’s chest clenched. The sword in his hand felt suddenly smaller. He forced the words past his throat. "...Stronger than them?"

The man didn’t look up. "Do you need me to say it?"

The wind stirred. The flowers rustled.

Merlin’s grip trembled. His fury wavered, gnawed at by something colder, heavier. He remembered the void, the simulation, the endless laughter of the unseen audience. He remembered the man’s hand stopping his blade like nothing. And now this garden, this impossible silence where even the system could not reach.

’He pulled me out. Just like that. No strain. No cost. He’s not lying. He’s—he’s beyond them.’

Merlin swallowed, the question dragging itself raw from his throat. "...Then why me? Why... test me like that?"

The man finally looked up, water dripping from his fingers. His eyes fixed on Merlin. Calm. Cutting.

"Because strength that bends under illusion is not strength."

Merlin’s chest heaved. His jaw locked. The fury surged again, colliding with the weight of the words. He barked back, hoarse, trembling. "You think I care about your lessons? You stood there—you let them rip me apart, let them cage me, let me drown in lies—and you call it tempering?"

The man straightened slowly, dusting his hand against his coat. His voice didn’t rise, didn’t harden. It stayed the same quiet edge as before.

"Yes."

Merlin’s laugh tore out, wild and broken, halfway between rage and disbelief. He pressed a hand to his face, shaking. ’He’s insane. He’s worse than them. He thinks this is some game, some... training ground—’

The man stepped closer again. Close enough for the garden’s light to frame his pale features. His words fell heavy, inevitable.

"And you survived."

Merlin froze. His breath caught. His eyes met the man’s, golden against steel-grey.

"You endured," the man continued. "You raged. You tore at the chains until they cracked. That is why I am here. Not because of them. Not because of their stage. But because you did not break."

The garden swayed with wind. The pond rippled faintly. Somewhere, a bird sang.

Merlin’s grip faltered. His sword arm lowered. His heart thundered, torn between defiance and a weight he could not name.

The man’s voice stayed calm. "Now, Merlin Everhart. You stand outside their reach. You see their lies for what they are. What you do with that truth is your choice."

—

The last words still lingered in Merlin’s ears, cutting deeper than any blade.

’What you do with that truth is your choice.’

But he couldn’t breathe. The garden air was too clean, too gentle. It pressed against his lungs like something alien, wrong, unreal in its perfection. After the void, after the labyrinth, after centuries of blood burned into his veins... this place made him feel naked.

He stood rooted in the grass, sword hanging slack in his hand, watching the man’s pale figure shift among the flowers. A ripple of breeze tugged at the long coat, teasing loose strands of white hair. He looked like nothing. Like no one. A librarian. A teacher. A man who should’ve been swallowed by history.

But Merlin’s instincts screamed louder than his mind. This was no mortal. This wasn’t even one of them.

His golden eyes narrowed. ’Stronger than the gods. Untouchable even by their grip. He shouldn’t exist.’

The silence cracked.

[The Arbiter commands: Return the apostle.]

[The Audience clamors in fury.]

[The Trickster laughs, but his voice is thin.]

The messages flickered across Merlin’s sight—then died like sparks in rain. Nothing remained. Not even static.

Merlin’s stomach twisted. He whispered, hoarse: "...They can’t reach me here."

The white-haired man’s gaze didn’t shift from the pond. "No."

Merlin’s throat tightened. "You—" His voice broke. He swallowed, forced the words back out. "What are you? If not a god, if not one of them, then what—"

The man finally turned. His eyes pinned Merlin like a blade. Cold. Clear. Merciless.

"I am the one who decides whether you walk forward, or vanish."

Merlin’s skin prickled. His chest heaved. ’Forward. Vanish. Just like Mae. Just like Dion. He erased them. He’s admitting it.’

His fingers dug into the sword hilt. He snarled. "So you are their judge. Same as them. Pretending you’re different, but you’re no better—"

The man’s steps carried him closer. Each footfall a quiet strike against stone.

"Wrong."

Merlin froze.

The man stopped within reach, his voice low. "They erase because they fear. I erase because I choose."

Merlin’s heartbeat spiked. His knuckles whitened. "...That’s supposed to make you sound better?"

"It makes me honest."

The garden swayed with wind. The silence gnawed deeper.