Stage One: Hylic — The Breaking of Chains

Chapter 1: The Gilded Cage

The man stood among the obedient, a single figure taut with quiet rebellion amid a sea of bowed heads. The hall was grand and cold, all marble floors and high columns, lit by a harsh white fluorescence that gave everything the pallor of a dream. At the far end rose a massive statue of the Institution’s founder—a stone titan with deep blue eyes ringed in gold that seemed to watch over the proceedings. Beneath that stony gaze, rows of employees in identical suits recited the weekly litany, their voices low and devoid of passion. To an outsider, it might have appeared solemn, even inspiring. But to him, it felt like a farce, a well-rehearsed play performed by ghosts.

As the others chanted on cue, he found his lips still. The words tasted like ash now. Once, he had spoken them fervently, seeking comfort in their familiarity. He remembered when he first walked these halls: hungry for success, desperate to prove himself. In those days, he craved external validation—each compliment from a superior, each award, and each raise felt like sunlight on his face. He had been living for those moments of approval, bound by illusions that this was meaning. He vaguely recalled stumbling upon a strange book that labeled such unexamined living as 'hylic'—life bound to the husk of matter, blind to any higher truth. Back then, he'd dismissed it as mystic nonsense. Now, the word drifted back to him with an eerie resonance. The sunlight that once warmed him felt false, its warmth manufactured by someone else’s design.

A colleague at his side nudged him gently. “Don’t drift off,” she whispered, a note of concern in her voice. He realized the chanting had ended. The Director—an imposing man in a gray suit that matched the walls—was gazing sharply in his direction. Around them, the others remained flawlessly still, eyes forward. He quickly straightened, meeting the Director’s stare.

After a tense moment, the Director continued speaking. “Loyalty,” he intoned, “is the highest virtue. Our unity is our strength. In this temple of progress, individual dissent is a disease we cannot permit.” His words echoed in the chamber. Dogma disguised as corporate mantra, the man thought. Once, he would have absorbed those words like gospel. Now, each syllable scraped against his mind.

He glanced again at the statue looming behind the Director. In the sterile light, its carved eyes glimmered a cold blue. He imagined those golden-ringed eyes were fixed on him alone, boring into his soul. Am I crazy? he wondered. Am I the only one who feels this? All around, colleagues stood with placid, compliant faces—living statues themselves. He saw his friend Michael in the row ahead, shoulders squared diligently. Michael had joined the company the same year he did; they had shared youthful ambitions over coffee and late-night projects. But where his own heart now raged, Michael’s seemed content, even grateful, to be here.

A sudden flash of memory: weeks ago, he had found Michael dutifully working overtime on a meaningless report. The man had asked, “Why do you push so hard for this? It’s not even useful.” Michael’s answer was simple, “It’s what they expect. It’s how we get ahead. You know that.” At the time, he merely nodded. Now, in this moment, that reasoning felt like a chain around the neck. Getting ahead…to what end? he thought with a surge of bitterness.

The Director’s speech droned on about record profits, collective effort, and the promised rewards for those who “stay the course.” Each praise of conformity tightened the knot in his stomach. Dissatisfaction welled inside him, dark and growing. He realized he clutched his fists so hard that his nails bit his palms. The physical pain grounded him and stirred his primal fire instead of subduing it.

Suddenly, applause broke out—everyone was clapping on cue for some announced achievement. He had missed the cue. The hall reverberated with the sound, and he lifted his hands belatedly, giving a token clap. The Director’s eyes narrowed, catching his delayed enthusiasm. A flush of heat crawled up the man’s neck. They see my defiance, he thought, half exultant, half afraid.

When the assembly ended, employees began filing out, a low hum of polite chatter rising. The man turned to leave, hoping to slip away quickly, but Michael was at his elbow. “What’s wrong with you?” Michael hissed under his breath, worry and anger warring in his expression. “Do you have a death wish? You didn’t say a word of the Creed, and you almost didn’t clap. The Director noticed!”

He forced a shrug, trying to appear nonchalant even as his heart pounded. “I’m just tired of all this,” he muttered.

Michael’s eyes widened as if the idea of weariness with this—with the only life they knew—was incomprehensible. “Tired? We have a good thing here. You especially! You’re a top performer—recognition, promotions, all of it. You want to throw that away?” He lowered his voice further. “Look, just keep your head down. I heard rumors they’re considering you for the Elite Program. You’re set to rise high. Don’t mess it up because you’re in a mood.”

For a moment, he felt a pang of doubt. Michael’s plea sounded rational. Keep your head down. How many times had he given himself the same command? Stay in line. Play the game. Reap the rewards. He knew that comfort intimately—the sweet, slow death of the soul hidden under achievements and salary increases. He had worn those golden shackles for years. But something in him had changed, was still evolving, and there was no reversing it now.

He looked at Michael sadly. “I…I just can’t anymore.” There was a tremor in his voice that surprised even him. Within that quaver was longing—not for the life he had, but for something unnamed beyond these walls. “Doesn’t it ever feel hollow to you, Mike? The constant scrambling for their approval, the slogans we repeat, the…the emptiness of it?”

Michael’s face hardened with fear. “Stop talking like that,” he whispered urgently. His gaze darted around to ensure no one else heard. Most of their colleagues had streamed out by now; only a few stragglers remained at a distance. “Of course it means something. We’re building a future here, aren’t we? That’s what they tell us. Meaning and purpose, together.” He recited the last words as if quoting an official line.

Meaning and purpose. Together. How many times had he heard that refrain? It rang more and more false each time. He almost laughed—a sharp bark of cynicism—but bit it back. Instead, he said quietly, “What if it’s a lie? All of it.”

Michael stepped back as if struck. “Don’t go down this path,” he warned. “It leads nowhere good. I’ve seen people question things…they don’t last here. And out there—” he nodded towards the distant exit doors, beyond which the night awaited, “—out there is nothing for us. We belong here. It’s the only way.”

“Do we?” he replied, voice sharpening. “Belong here…or fit here because we’ve been hammered into shape?” he breathed, steadying the fury and desperation rising in him. “I’m starting to think I’ve been living someone else’s life, dreaming someone else’s dream. And now that I’m waking up…I can’t go back to sleep.”

Michael stared at him, speechless. In the heavy silence, he felt his heart thudding like a drum. It was the first time he had spoken his doubt aloud to anyone. It felt dangerous but liberating. The air seemed to crackle around him.

Before Michael could find words, a brisk clack of footsteps interrupted. The Director was approaching, flanked by two assistants. Michael blanched and stepped away, blending quickly into the stream of departing staff. The man straightened his spine and braced himself as the Director stopped in front of him.

Up close, he could see the Director’s immaculate tie pin and the faint smirk on his thin lips. “A word, if you please,” the Director said, polite on the surface but with steel underneath. He didn’t wait for assent, turning on his heel to walk toward a side door. The man followed, every muscle in his body tensed. The assistants trailed behind, silent and watchful.

They entered a small antechamber adjacent to the hall—a more intimate space, wood-paneled and softly lit by a chandelier. As the door shut, muffling the sounds of the outside corridor, the Director spoke to him.

“I will get straight to the point,” the Director said, voice low and controlled. “Your performance just now was…unacceptable.”

The man felt a flicker of fear, but his defiance surged to mask it. “My performance?” he replied, unable to keep an edge out of his tone. “I wasn’t aware we were performing, sir.”

The two assistants shifted uneasily at his sarcasm. The Director’s eyes flashed. “Everything here is a performance, son,” he said, each word clipped. “A carefully orchestrated performance for the greater good. And every actor must play their part.” He stepped closer, the scent of expensive cologne and a whiff of something acrid—anger—emanating from him. “If one member forgets their lines, the whole play can fall apart. We can’t have that. I’m sure you understand.”

For a heartbeat, he considered backing down—offering a mumbled apology, anything to defuse the confrontation. But that heartbeat passed, and the moment for cowardice was gone. “What I understand,” the man said slowly, “is that I’m done playing along.” His voice sounded strangely calm, even to himself.

The Director blinked, taken aback by the open insolence. One of the assistants sucked in a breath. “Careful,” the Director warned, a soft venom creeping into his words. “You have a bright future here. You’ve always been strong, reliable…valuable. Don’t throw that away on some impulse. Whatever this is—stress, disillusionment—it can be managed. We have programs, counseling. We can straighten you out.”

“Straighten me out,” the man echoed. He felt a sudden clarity slicing through his fear. “Back into a good little soldier, is that it?”

The Director’s jaw tightened. “Into a team player,” he corrected. “Someone who respects the system that nurtures him. Look around you.” He gestured at the opulent room, the organization's emblem embossed on the wall, the very air of power and prestige. “This is what holds everything together. Without the system, there is chaos. You think you want out? You have no idea what ‘out’ even means. There’s nothing for you outside these walls—no purpose, no recognition, no meaning. All you’ll find is ruin.”

The words hit the man like stones, not because he believed them, but because he had believed them for so long. They were the exact phrases that had kept him compliant year after year—the fear of the unknown, of being cast adrift without the structure to validate his existence. He realized the Director expected to see doubt or submission in his face at this barrage. Instead, with each word, he felt his resolve hardening.

A slow burn of anger flared in his chest. “If ruin is the price of truth, I’ll pay it,” he said, his voice quiet but fierce.

The Director’s eyes narrowed to slits. “Truth,” he sneered. “What truth? The only truth is that which we create. The truth we provide to the masses to keep them sane and productive. There is no other truth.” He paused, then spoke more softly, as if reasoning with a child. “You’re confused. It happens. You’ve been working too hard. Take tonight to rest. We’ll forget this lapse, and tomorrow you’ll return with a clear head. Understood?”

A part of him almost admired the Director’s audacity—to stand there, the picture of composed authority, and insist that reality would bend to his decree. That his pronouncement could erase his awakening. He felt a smile tug at the corner of his mouth and saw the Director’s expression flicker with uncertainty at this unexpected reaction.

“Understood,” the man repeated. “I understand perfectly.” The man stepped forward, just enough that he and the Director were eye to eye, two wills clashing silently. “You think you can tell me who I am. What to think. What is real? But I know what I felt in there.” He pointed vaguely back toward the great hall. “It was like...like seeing everything from outside myself. All of us chanting like automatons, worshipping some hollow ideal. I saw shadows, nothing more. And I’ll not spend my life in shadows and illusions.”

One assistant opened his mouth to bark a retort, but the Director raised his hand to stop him. The older man’s face was eerily calm now, drained of expression. “I see,” he said coldly. “Then you leave me no choice.”

He gave a sharp nod to the assistants. In a flash, each man seized one of the man’s arms in a bruising grip. He struggled reflexively, muscles coiling, but they held fast like iron vises. They were big men hired for brawn, and he hadn’t expected the move.

The Director stepped back, smoothing his cuffs. “I had hoped to avoid this. But if the rot has set in, it must be removed.” He nodded to the guards. “Bring him to the basement. We’ll let him reconsider his stance overnight...off the record.”

The man’s heart lurched. He knew about the basement only by rumor—a place where troublemakers were taken, where careers ended quietly behind soundproof walls. Fear spiked in him, sharpening every sense.

He felt the guards tighten their hold and drag him toward another door that likely led down to that dreaded lower level. His mind raced. This is it, he realized. They mean to break me, or worse. A fierce, wild panic ignited, but it carried with it a strange liberation. There was no longer any need to pretend, no reason to hold back.

Chapter 2: The Idol's Fall

As they muscled him forward, he let his body go limp for a heartbeat, deceiving them into thinking he’d given up. One guard’s grip loosened fractionally. Now. With a guttural roar, he surged against the guard on his right, slamming his shoulder into his chest. Caught off guard, the hulking guard stumbled back. The man freed his right arm and swung his freed fist into the other guard’s throat. The second guard gagged, grasping at his neck and releasing his hold.

For an instant, both captors were reeling. The man did not hesitate. He drove his elbow back into the first guard’s face with all his might. There was a sickening crunch as the guard’s nose gave way, and the big man crashed to the floor.

The Director shouted in alarm. The second guard was already recovering, reaching for a stun baton at his belt. Before he could draw it, the man launched a brutal kick to the back of the guard’s knee. The guard howled, collapsing down on one leg. An uppercut to the jaw sent him sprawling onto the polished wood, unconscious.

Chest heaving, the man whirled to face the Director. The entire scuffle had taken mere seconds. The Director stood by the wall, eyes wide, one hand inside his suit jacket, reaching for a concealed weapon.

A primal satisfaction coursed through the man. Raw, bold, and defiant, he stood surrounded by the evidence of his strength. “Stay back!” the Director hissed, pulling a small pistol from a shoulder holster. He pointed it with a shaky hand.

They locked eyes. In the distance, muffled by walls, alarms began to ring—set off by the struggle or an emergency signal from the Director’s device. Time was running out.

The man’s gaze flicked to the door behind the Director, the way out. He gauged the distance between them. If he moved fast…

“You won’t make it,” the Director snapped as if reading his intent. His gun hand steadied. But the man noticed sweat beading on the older man’s brow, and there was a slight tremor in that extended arm. The Director was afraid.

A slow smile spread across the man’s face, surprising even himself. He straightened to his full height, blood pounding in his ears. “Better to die free than live chained,” he said softly. It wasn’t a slogan from any handbook. It was his truth, spoken at last.

With a furious yell, he charged. A thunderous crack exploded in the small room as the Director fired. Searing pain scored across the man’s upper arm, but momentum carried him forward. Before the Director could fire again, he slammed into him with all his weight. They crashed against the wall, the gun clattering away.

The Director crumpled, winded, and stunned, and the man staggered back, his left arm burning where the bullet had grazed him. There was no time to waste. He yanked the door open and burst back into the great hall, leaving the groaning Director and the unconscious guards behind in the antechamber.

Outside, the hall was nearly empty—just a few late-working staff peering from the far end, drawn by the alarm. They gaped at the sight of him: disheveled, bloodied, eyes blazing with a wild light. He knew he must look like a madman. At that moment, he didn’t care.

He took off at a sprint, adrenaline lending speed to his legs. Behind him, an angry shout echoed: The director must have recovered enough to call for backup. Guards from elsewhere in the building would be converging fast.

At the end of the hall, the grand foyer loomed, with its towering statue and the wide glass doors beyond—the exit to freedom. But between him and the doors, two more security officers skidded into view, drawn by the commotion and now blocking his way. They spotted his wild charge and fanned out to intercept, hands hovering near the weapons on their belts.

The man’s eyes darted to the colossal statue of the founder to his left. In its stony hand was raised a sculpted torch symbolizing enlightenment—ironically, the torch’s flame was just painted metal, purely decorative. The man veered toward it without fully knowing why, instincts guiding his steps. One of the officers lunged at him, but he ducked behind the statue’s massive pedestal. The officer skidded to a halt, raising a taser.

Desperate, the man planted his shoulder against the statue’s base and heaved. A raw scream tore from his throat as he summoned every ounce of muscle and will. For a breathless second, nothing happened—then, with a cracking groan, the bolts securing the statue’s feet to the marble gave way. The colossal figure began to tip.

“Move!” the second officer yelled to his partner, and they both dove aside as, with a thunderous crash, the stone idol collapsed forward. The floor shook under the impact. The once-revered likeness of the founder shattered into a dozen heavy pieces, echoing like an earthquake through the foyer. Shards of sculpted rock skittered across the polished floor. Amid the rubble lay the statue’s grand head, its proud face cracked down the middle. One of the jeweled eyes had popped out and rolled across the floor, a glittering fragment of deep blue and gold.

The officers were thrown into disarray, scrambling back from the debris. Taking his chance, the man seized a fallen iron rod—the stand of a ceremonial lamp that had toppled with the statue. Its oil-fed flame, used for rituals, had spilled and spread into a small fire crawling across the edge of a heavy curtain. He gripped the iron rod, whose smoldering tip flared as if in approval.

The man leaped atop the broken pedestal, brandishing the rod like a spear. “Back off!” he snarled, the flickering flame painting wild shadows over his face. Perhaps it was the sight of their mighty idol in ruins at his feet, or the crazed resolve in his eyes, but the men hesitated. To them, he must have looked like a demon risen from their worst nightmares—a figure wreathed in smoke and ember, standing defiant over the wreckage of their false god.

One officer, face pale, took a step back. The other gritted his teeth and advanced, drawing a baton with a shaky hand. The man swung the iron rod in a wide arc. Metal smashed against metal as the rod met the baton with a resounding clang, tearing the baton from the officer’s grip. The officer yelped and stumbled away, nearly losing his footing on the wet marble—above, the sprinklers had activated, sprinkling the scene with a mist of water.

The first officer, seeing his partner disarmed and the madman before him surrounded by fire and destruction, decided enough was enough. With a final wary glance, he turned and bolted through a side door, disappearing into the warren of offices. The unarmed officer clutched his bruised hand, cast one longing look at his fallen weapon, and then followed suit, retreating toward safety rather than facing this wrath.

For a moment, he stood alone in the foyer, chest heaving, rain from the sprinklers plastering his hair to his scalp. Flames from the ignited curtain were being doused in steam by the water, filling the air with a haze. Alarms continued to wail a sharp chorus. Distant shouts echoed from deeper within the building—more guards would arrive any second.

He tossed aside the iron rod and dashed for the exit. The glass doors were spiderwebbed with cracks from the statue’s impact. He threw his shoulder against the largest panel. With a splintering pop, it gave way, shards of glass exploding outward as he burst through to the steps outside.

The cold night air hit his face like a splash of ice water. He gulped it in, adrenaline still thundering in his veins. Behind him, the lobby was a tableau of chaos—broken stone, flickering fire, spraying water, and the frantic red pulse of the alarm lights.

For one surreal pause, he turned back and looked through the shattered doorway. Across the slick marble floor, the great idol’s sundered face stared at the ceiling, mouth open in a silent cry. Smoke curled around it like a dark halo. Inside, a handful of figures rushed about, their shouts faintly audible. No one had dared follow him out…yet.

He had done it. Against all expectation, against reason, he had done it. A wild exhilaration surged through him, mingling with the pain of his wounds. He was free.

He took the stairs down two at a time. Only as his foot hit the pavement did he notice that he still clutched something in his left hand—something hard and smooth. Opening his fist, he saw it was the statue’s dislodged eye: the oval jewel of blue encircled with gold. By some chance, it had rolled right to him, and he grabbed it without thinking. It glinted in the streetlight like a tiny echo of the night sky.

Voices shouted behind him. He shoved the jewel into his pocket, turned away from the building, and ran into the night.

Chapter 3: Embers of Meaning

The city’s edge greeted him with silent, empty streets under a moonless sky. He moved through back alleys and forgotten lots for hours, guided only by the primal instinct to get away. Each footfall echoed in his ears as the adrenaline of escape slowly ebbed, replaced by the dull ache of bruises and the stinging burn of the graze on his arm. He kept going until the lights of that corporate temple were distant glimmers against the horizon.

Eventually, exhaustion forced him to stop. He found himself in a derelict industrial yard at the city's fringe—where the glow of skyscrapers yielded to darkness. Amid rusted scrap metal and graffiti-stained concrete, a toppled stone statue lay half-buried in weeds. It looked like an angel, cast down and forgotten. One wing was missing, and rainwater pooled in the hollows of its vacant eyes.

With a weary sigh, he sank to the ground, his back against the fallen angel’s pedestal. The night was eerily quiet here; only a distant siren gave any clue of the city he’d left. The air smelled of damp earth and iron.

He pressed a hand against his wounded arm. The bleeding had slowed, but his sleeve was stiff with dried blood. Tearing a strip from his shirt, he fashioned a crude bandage. The sharp pain made him wince, but it also grounded him. This was no dream. He had truly done it—he had rebelled, fought, escaped. He was free.

Free. The word fluttered in his mind, strangely weightless. Shouldn’t it feel more triumphant? He had imagined this moment so many times in secret daydreams: breaking out, standing under the open sky, finally himself. And yet, as the seconds ticked by, he felt not triumph but a creeping hollowness clutching at him.

He looked up at the sky—endless black stretching overhead. Out here, away from city lights, a few stars pierced the darkness. One in particular caught his eye, low on the eastern horizon, unusually bright and solitary. Perhaps it was a planet—the morning star, herald of dawn yet to come. He recalled a half-forgotten lore: that star was called Lucifer by ancient poets—the light-bringer, proud rebel of the heavens—an exile, shining alone at the edge of night.

The irony made him smile bitterly. He, too, was an exile now, cast out of his former world by his own will. Better to reign in hell than serve in heaven? The old line flickered through his mind. But he had no kingdom here—only an empty lot and a broken statue for company. He reigned over nothing at all.

He dug into his pocket and pulled out the jewel eye he’d taken. In the faint starlight, the stone glowed a dusky blue. A ring of gold circumscribed its center. It felt cool in his hand, a bauble from another life. By all rights he should cast it away—a trinket of the falsehood he’d left behind. With a grunt of disgust, he hurled the jewel into the weeds. It landed with a faint clink and was gone.

Yet the emptiness remained. He leaned his head back against the pedestal and closed his eyes. Anger, sorrow, relief, and fear all swirled within him. He had severed himself from everything he knew. What now?

In the sterile confines of the institution, they had painted the outside world as a wasteland of meaninglessness—a chaos in which he would not survive alone. He had scoffed at those warnings as manipulation, and yet here he was, adrift and unsure. A tremor of doubt whispered through him: What if they were right? What if he had traded away comfort and purpose for a whole lot of nothing?

He opened his eyes and stared at the fallen angel beside him; its stone face cracked and eroded by time. With its sightless eyes and broken wing, it seemed as defeated as he felt. “What am I supposed to do now?” he murmured aloud, his voice echoing softly among the metal husks. He wasn’t really expecting an answer from the emptiness…but in the stillness, he heard one.

“Well,” came a low, raspy voice from somewhere behind the statue, “you could start by tending that arm a bit better.”

The man jolted upright, scrambling to his feet. His heart slammed against his ribs. In the darkness, a figure emerged from behind the ruined angel. A man—stooped, wrapped in a threadbare coat—stepped into a shaft of faint light. He appeared elderly, with hair that hung in wild, silvery strands about his shoulders and a short, scruffy beard. Despite his disheveled appearance, he held himself with an easy confidence, as though strolling into a midnight garden rather than a junkyard.

“Who are you?” the man demanded hoarsely, taking a wary step back. In his exhaustion, he hadn’t thought to keep watch. Stupid. If this stranger meant harm, he was in no shape to fight now.

“I mean you no harm,” the old stranger said, raising his hands placatingly. His eyes glinted as he looked the man up and down. “Saw you sitting here, figured you might use some company. Or at least a second pair of hands to tie that bandage properly.”

The man’s hand twitched toward the bit of metal rod he’d dropped nearby earlier, but the stranger made no move closer. After a moment, he found his voice. “I’m fine,” he lied curtly. “Go on your way, old-timer.”

The stranger chuckled, unfazed. Instead of leaving, he lowered himself with a quiet groan onto the pedestal of the fallen statue a few feet from the man. “Ah, my bones,” he sighed, rubbing a knee. “Not as young as I used to be, you know.” The stranger peered at the younger man, and in the dim light, the younger man’s eyes caught a glimmer. Were they… blue? No, it was hard to tell. They seemed dark, but a thin ring of amber gleamed around the pupils, giving them a mischievous sparkle. “Quite a night you’ve had.”

The man tensed. “You…saw what happened?” His mind raced. If this stranger had witnessed the chaos, could he be one of the Institute’s people tracking him? But nothing about the old man’s demeanor spoke of corporate security or police.

“I saw enough,” the stranger said lightly. “Enough to know you chose freedom over comfort. Truth over lie. Fire over darkness.” He nodded toward the man’s battered appearance. “Not without cost, it seems. But such is the way of these things.”

Silence hung between them. The man felt an uncanny familiarity around this stranger, as if they were not meeting for the first time. But he was confident he’d never seen this ragged elder before. The old man’s gaze drifted to the weeds where the blue jewel had disappeared. He tilted his head. “Throwing away treasure, are we?”

“It’s not treasure,” the man muttered. “Just a piece of glass. Means nothing.”

“Mm.” The stranger scratched his beard. “Pretty trinket, though. People cling to such things for the comfort of what was.” He gave a little shrug. “But you’re done with ‘what was,’ aren’t you?”

The man narrowed his eyes. “I don’t have time for riddles. What do you want?”

The old man grinned, revealing a surprisingly full set of teeth, a bit crooked but strong. “Straight to the point, eh? I like that.” He folded his hands over his knee. “Maybe I want nothing. Maybe I’m here to give you something. Or maybe,” he winked, “I’m just a lonely vagrant who likes chatting with strangers in the starlight.”

Despite himself, he felt a small smile tug at his lips. Something about the stranger’s playful tone disarmed him. He decided to drop his guard a fraction. “If you’re lonely, you picked a hell of a person to talk to.”

“Oh, I don’t know.” The elder’s eyes glinted again. “Hell of a person, indeed—raising hell back there.” He cackled softly at his joke.

The man’s smile faded as his thoughts returned to the night’s events. He slumped back against the pedestal, suddenly weary beyond measure. “I don’t even know why I’m telling you anything,” he murmured. “Maybe I am crazy. Talking to some drifter while my life lies in ruins behind me.”

The stranger regarded him kindly. “Sometimes ‘ruin’ is the beginning.” He extended a gnarled hand. “Name’s Lucius, by the way.”

The man hesitated, then shook the offered hand. It was warm and surprisingly firm. “I… don’t really have a name anymore,” he said quietly. It was true—his name, his identity, belonged to that old world. He felt as though he’d left it behind with his employee badge and scorched tie.

Lucius tilted his head. “Everyone has a name. But you can share it or not, as you like.”

He almost gave a false one, but something stopped him. “Call me…Odd,” he said at last, choosing a childhood nickname that suddenly resurfaced in his memory. It felt appropriate, given how out-of-place he was in the world now.

Lucius’s eyebrows rose, and then he laughed—a surprisingly melodious sound. “Odd? Oh, we’ll get along just fine, you and I.”

A faint smile ghosted across Odd’s face before he caught himself. He still had unanswered questions. “How did you know I chose truth over lie? Or anything about me?”

Lucius leaned back, hands resting on the stone beside him. “I have a knack for sensing these things. Call it intuition.” He tapped the side of his nose. “You’re not the first soul to crawl out of that fortress of theirs in search of something real. Most don’t make it as far as you, though.”

Odd’s heart gave a hopeful little thump. “There are others? Like me?”

The old man shrugged. “There have been, over the years. Few and far between. Some simply vanish. A rare few break free, as you have, and wander awhile.” He looked off toward the city lights. “It’s a hard road, breaking out of illusion.”

Odd followed his gaze to the distant skyline. The alarms had long faded. From here, the city looked serene and ordinary. No hint of the upheaval in that towering edifice he’d left behind. “I feel…so empty,” he confessed, the words slipping out unbidden. “I burned my whole life down tonight. All the things that gave me meaning, false as they were…gone.” His throat tightened. “What if there’s nothing else? What if I destroyed myself for nothing?”

Lucius was quiet for a moment. When he spoke, his voice was softer. “Ah, the Nigredo.”

Odd turned to him, puzzled. “The what?”

“Nigredo,” Lucius repeated. “Alchemy term. The blackening. It’s the first stage of turning base metal to gold—transformation, you see. At Nigredo, everything is burnt to ashes, reduced to the black essence. The old self dies. It feels like darkness, despair…emptiness. Sound familiar?”

Odd swallowed, the description hitting home. “Is that…is that what this is? The dark night before some new dawn?” His voice had an edge of skepticism but also a spark of hope.

Lucius gave a half-smile. “Perhaps. These old sciences, old arts—they knew a thing or two about the soul. You, my friend, are in the crucible right now. The stage where you’ve torn down the lies and are left staring into the void, waiting for something true to emerge. It hurts. It’s scary. Most turn back at this point if they can.”

“I can’t turn back,” Odd said, more to himself than to Lucius. “There’s nothing to go back to. I made sure of that.”

“Good,” Lucius nodded, eyes flashing. “Then onward it is. Through the dark.”

Odd closed his eyes for a moment, absorbing that. Onward—through the dark. It sounded poetic, but how to actually do it? “I feel like I don’t know anything,” he whispered. “Everything I was sure of…it was all handed to me by them. I don’t even trust my own mind fully. How do I…how do I find what’s real?”

Lucius hopped down from the pedestal and stood facing Odd. Though shorter by a head, the old man suddenly seemed to tower in presence. “By asking exactly that question. By longing for truth so deeply that you refuse to accept any comfortable lie in its place. You’ve already begun. Tonight proved it.”

Odd searched Lucius’s face. In those strange eyes, he saw no mockery, only a glint of earnestness. “And what if the truth is beyond me?” he asked. “What if I’m not special enough to find it?”

At that, Lucius threw back his head and laughed, a bright, startling laugh that rang against the crumbling walls. “Special? Oh, there’s no ‘special’ when it comes to truth. Only hungry or not hungry.” He leaned forward, tapping Odd’s chest lightly with a fingertip. “And you, lad, are starving. That’s what I like about you.”

Despite himself, Odd felt a flush of pride at the stranger’s words, as odd as they were. Starving…yes, that was the word. He was starving for meaning.

Lucius stepped back and gestured grandly to the broken statue. “You know, there’s an old story about an angel who decided he’d rather rule in hell than serve in heaven—got himself cast out for defying the powers-that-be. People call him villain, call him tempter—yet there he stands, shining like a beacon in the morning sky. Rebellion and illumination all in one.”

“Lucifer,” Odd murmured. “The morning star.”

“Aye. And another: the Titan Prometheus, who stole fire from the gods to uplift mankind and suffered for it, chained to a rock.” Lucius tapped the stone angel’s head with his boot. “Some might see this poor fellow here as a Lucifer or a Prometheus. Rebel, fall, punishment.” He glanced at Odd. “Ring any bells?”

Odd managed a half-smile. “I didn’t steal any fire,” he said, thinking of the torch and the flames he set. Then he amended, “Well, maybe a little fire.”

Lucius chuckled. “You’ve got a spark in you, that’s for sure. A divine spark, some might say.” He reached into his coat and pulled out a small flask. “Now, hold out your arm. That bandage job of yours is pitiful.”

Without waiting for permission, Lucius took Odd’s injured arm and untied the clumsy cloth knot. Odd winced but let him work. The old man poured a bit of clear liquid from the flask onto the wound. It burned like fire. Odd hissed through his teeth.

“Stings, I know,” said Lucius, tearing a cleaner strip from Odd’s ragged sleeve and wrapping it firmly around the gash. “A little antiseptic trick I picked up. Hurts like the devil but cleans things right up.”

“You’re a doctor now?” Odd asked through gritted teeth.

Lucius grinned. “Jack of all trades.” He tied off the new bandage. “There. That’ll hold you until you find a better healer. Or until it scars over and makes a nice tale.”

Odd flexed his arm gently. The bleeding had stopped. The pain had receded to a dull throb. “Thank you,” he murmured genuinely. “Why…why are you helping me?”

The old man took a swig from his flask and tucked it away. “Let’s just say I have a soft spot for rebels. And I know a hero in the making when I see one.”

“Hero,” Odd echoed, almost laughing. “I don’t know about that. I feel more like a fool.”

“Most heroes do, in the beginning,” Lucius said matter-of-factly. “They feel the fear, the doubt. But they keep going anyway.” He put a hand on Odd’s shoulder, surprisingly strong. “Listen to me. The journey ahead won’t be easy. You’ll wander through many shadows. You’ll grapple with your own demons and maybe a few real ones. You’ll be tempted to think you were wrong, that the lies you left were better than the uncertainties you face. But hold fast to that hunger for truth. Let it lead you. And trust that there is power growing in you—power you’ve only begun to tap.”

Odd looked down, feeling emotion swell in his chest. “I’m scared,” he admitted.

“I know,” nodded Lucius. “There’s no courage without fear. And you have courage, Odd. More than you realize.”

Odd raised his eyes. “Will I…see you again?”

The old man smirked. “Oh, I suspect our paths will cross. I have a way of turning up. Trickster’s privilege, you could say.” He gave a little theatrical bow.

Trickster…Odd had an inkling then. These names, these parallels—Lucius, Lucifer, Prometheus, trickster. He glanced at the old man’s face, and for a fleeting heartbeat it seemed the shadows and pale light conspired to give Lucius the suggestion of horns atop his brow and dark wings at his back. Odd blinked, and it was just the wild-haired old wanderer again.

Lucius stepped back. “Dawn’s coming soon. Time for me to fade, as all good stars do.” He offered a final handshake. Odd clasped the old man’s hand firmly. There was something comforting in that grip.

“Thank you…Lucius,” Odd said, sincerity in every syllable.

“Steady on, seeker,” Lucius replied, and his tone had a formal, almost ancient cadence now. “Follow your longing for truth. Use your mind, your muscle, and your very soul. Embrace your shadow and your light alike. And remember: those who would keep you in chains fear what you’re becoming. Prove them right to be afraid.” He flashed a last wolfish grin. “Go forth and raise a little more hell, why don’t you.”

With that, Lucius turned and walked off into the darkness beyond the broken statue. Within a few paces, he had melted into the shadows so completely that Odd wondered for a moment if the stranger had been a hallucination. Only the snug, clean bandage on his arm proved otherwise.

Odd stood alone again. The eastern sky had grown faintly lighter; a deep indigo hint touched the horizon. The morning star he’d spotted now glimmered a bit higher, heralding the unseen sun.

He felt different. Still bruised, still uncertain—but no longer empty. A small flame had kindled inside his chest. Hope. Purpose. The promise of meaning, to be found or forged.

Slowly, he began to walk, leaving the yard of broken angels behind. He did not know where he was going—only that he could not remain in the shadows. His long shadow stretched out before him in the first pale glow of dawn, and he followed it toward whatever awaited.

As the first light crept into the sky, Odd felt the latent power within him stirring anew. It was as if the night itself had tempered him like steel in a fire. He squared his shoulders, each step steady and sure. The Hylic stage of his journey—this raw, defiant beginning—was coming to an end, but it had delivered him here, to the brink of a new horizon. He was free, he was alive, and he was not turning back.

He moved on, into the daybreak, ready to seek the truth that had so long beckoned his soul. Each footstep was an initiation, each breath a quiet declaration: I am coming alive. And in the depths of his eyes, there was a new gleam—a ring of gold igniting in the blue—reflecting the fire of a dawn that was his and his alone.