Chapter 1561: Story 1561: Storm of Doubt

The shards fell like endless rain, each one a scream of the Gate itself. The lattice trembled with every strike, sparks flying into the void like dying stars. The survivors sang against it, their voices breaking, yet still the boy’s jagged melody held them together—thin, fraying, but unbroken.

Kael’s arms shook as his fused blade caught one shard, splitting it in a burst of fire. The recoil burned through his bones, but he forced himself upright, eyes locked on the boy. He’s the center. As long as he sings, we endure.

But endurance had its price.

The widow staggered to her knees, her light flickering weakly. “It’s too much… I can’t…” Her voice cracked, fading from the lattice. At once, their song buckled, the threads stretching thin.

The scarred woman’s voice lashed through the binding, sharp as her spear. “We bleed for a child who drags us into death! How many more must fall before you see? He’s no savior—he’s the anchor pulling us under!”

Her doubt infected the others. Murmurs seeped into the song—fear, weariness, the temptation of silence. The widow sobbed, clutching her chest. The farmer looked away, ashamed, unable to lift his voice.

The Unborn pressed harder, its laughter rolling like thunder. “Yes… let him be your ruin. His song is a feast, and I will drink it dry. Yield, and you may at least fade in peace.”

The boy convulsed, torn between notes. His glow stuttered, his voice cracking. For the first time, he seemed lost—not leading, not binding, but drowning in his own melody.

Elara clutched him tight, her tears hissing on his burning skin. “Stay with me, my son. You are not theirs to claim. You are not mine to lose. You are ours.”

Her lullaby threaded weakly into the lattice, but it was not enough. The scarred woman lifted her spear again, her face twisted in fury and desperation. “Better one death than all of us!”

Kael’s blade met hers in a clash that sent sparks scattering into the choir. His voice thundered through the binding, raw and unyielding. “Strike him, and you silence us all!”

They locked eyes, their wills clashing as fiercely as their weapons. Around them, the song wavered, survivors caught between belief and despair.

Then—faint but steady—the boy’s voice rose again. Not loud, not pure, but trembling with the weight of every scar, every doubt. His song carried the widow’s grief, the farmer’s shame, the scarred woman’s rage. He did not deny their fractures. He wove them.

The lattice flared, jagged arcs of scarred light forcing the shards back. The storm howled, but the survivors stood, their voices cracked yet bound in truth.

The scarred woman froze, her spear trembling in Kael’s grip. For the first time, she lowered her weapon—not in surrender, but in grim recognition.

The Unborn shrieked, its storm recoiling. “Fragile fools. You think scars will shield you forever? Every song ends. Yours will end in silence.”

Kael, bleeding and burned, lifted his blade high, his voice hoarse but unwavering. “Then let the silence come after we have sung our last!”

The battlefield blazed once more, the storm raging, the choir refusing to fall.