"What form is that?" An awe and fearful voice of Leviathan echoed in the restless sea where the majestic serpent slithered.
The sea serpent gazed down, its abyssal voice resonating through the deep: "This is my Threnodian form."
"Who are you really?" the Leviathan asked, its eyes narrowed with apprehension and its horn glowing slightly, poised to plunge into the creature before it.
"I am the End," the Threnodian of Impermanence let out a silent growl, its voice embodying the aftermath of it. "Borne of Thalassa. The Threnodian of Impermanence—Marelys."
***
A/N: Mare means "sea" in French; lys means "lily," as in "fleur-de-lys"—the flower of the lily. In this context, Marelys is like a flower nurtured by waters, since its head looks like a flower.
***
"Lys."
The final syllable of the Threnodian's name echoed across the waves, and the Leviathan's eyes narrowed, recalling the appointed maiden whose crown weighed heavy—Fleurdelys.
But now was not the time for memories. The Threnodian of Impermanence—Marelys—struck, and with it, the nature moved.
The weather bent to its will. Thunder rolled, lightning forked across the sky, and the sea itself heaved in anticipation.
In its colossal, serpentine form, Marelys radiated a resonance so vigorous it churned the water into a maelstrom.
The Leviathan, master of splitting space and assimilation, reared back, its spectral horn slicing the air. It lunged, attempting to envelop Marelys in a rift of space—its signature power, able to tear lesser beings from reality and absorb their essence.
But as the rift opened, Marelys's bioluminescent patterns flared, casting the storm in ghostly blue and white. Its resonance surged, a tidal wave of power that crashed against the Leviathan's assault. The very fabric of space trembled, but did not yield.
With a single, resonant roar, Marelys suppressed the Leviathan's power—its resonance overwhelming, ancient, and absolute as the mighty Thalassa.
The sea serpent's maw opened, thunder and storm swirling within, and it struck with a force that shattered the silence of the deep.
The Leviathan recoiled, its assimilation failing, unable to overcome the sheer vigor of Marelys's resonance. Taking advantage, Marelys slithered and coiled around Leviathan, its serpentine body constricting with crushing force.
The Leviathan thrashed, spectral hooves flailing as it struggled to break free.
Marelys loomed above, coils tightening, voice echoing like a haunting tide. "You don't seem quite as eager to fuse with me now," Marelys taunted, eyes glinting with cold amusement.
A flicker of terror crossed the Leviathan's gaze.
'No… it can't be,' its mind screamed, realization dawning as Marelys continued, "I have always assimilated with others when their time comes."
Its words reverberated through the water, chilling and inevitable. "Accept me. Assimilate with me, Threnodian of Assimilation."
Leviathan writhed in panic, death's grip closing in. Marelys's maw hovered dangerously close to its neck, fangs crackling with an electrostatic current fierce enough to shatter atoms. Space shimmered—a desperate, final attempt to escape.
But this was finality. The end had come for Leviathan.
Marelys's resonance surged to its zenith, the jaws of oblivion brushing Leviathan's throat—when suddenly, a pleading voice rang out: "Oh mighty champion of Thalassa, show mercy."
The voice was similar to Leviathan's, yet carried a divine grace—this was the true Sentinel: Imperator.
For a moment, Marelys's resonance faltered. Marelys felt itself pulled into another space, her form shifting—Da Lian, in his human male form, now stood before a radiant Pegasus.
The Sentinel Imperator's voice echoed, solemn and pleading. "Threnodian of Impermanence, please… spare Leviathan. It carries my final whisper of code."
Lian's eyes were cold, his tone unyielding. "Death is natural. Why must I spare you?"
Imperator bowed its head, wings folding in humility. "I still have a duty unfinished—to pass on a message to my lord, and to save someone." It explained, a plea for some time. "If you end Leviathan now, that hope is lost."
Lian's gaze hardened. "My anger has been provoked. Unless it is quelled, it will consume everything. Besides..." His eyes were burning with rage but his voice carried a restrained finality.
"Even if you save them, death will find them by my hand regardless." Lain pointed, reminding the Imperator the futility of self-preservation. "Why preserve what is destined to wither?"
The Imperator met his gaze, voice gentle but resolute. "You speak the truth—nothing endures forever. But even a fleeting moment can carry meaning."
"Mercy, even in the face of impermanence, can plant a seed that outlasts us both." Imperator pleaded for Lian to let go of his anger. "If you must bring an end, let it not be out of wrath, but out of understanding."
Lian was silent, the storm of his resonance quieting as he considered the Sentinel's words.
Imperator continued, "Let this be your choice, not your anger's. For benevolence is the finest ornament of the strong." There was fear in the Imperator's voice, yet for what it must do, it had spoken—now, the rest was on Lian's shoulders.
A long pause. Then Lian exhaled, the tension in his form easing. "…Very well. For this moment, I will spare Leviathan. But remember—my mercy is not a promise of eternity."
The Sentinel bowed in gratitude, but quickly raised another plea. "Will you show mercy to the people of Ragunna as well?"
"No." Lain refused.
"Death is the only mercy they deserve." Lian's voice rang with finality, his resolve unshakable. "Ragunna will be ended."
"The Order may be corrupt, but the people are innocent," Imperator argued, but Lian scoffed. "Innocent?"
He glared, voice rising with fury. "Those who allow injustice to flourish in broad daylight—are they truly innocent?" His anger fractured the very fabric of space, and Imperator felt its own existence begin to unravel.
"None are exempt," Lian vowed to release the dam of crimson river. "Not by age, nor silence."
Imperator recoiled. "Isn't that... too much?"
Lian's eyes blazed. "And what would you have me do? Let them keep kneeling to the Order's vile doctrines?"
"I saw them bound by invisible chains…" His voice choked—strained, cracking as he continued, "Eyes wet with withheld tears, fear sealing their throats, their dignity licking the floor."
Despite the harshness in his voice, there was a gentleness—an undercurrent of compassion which Imperator felt, prompting silence from the majestic steed.
"I cannot bear to see anyone's sovereignty tarnished," Lian declared, a tear streaking down his face. "I do not wish to see people walk in garlands of thorns and bangles of chains."
His voice, though firm, began to crack. "I want to see the world in its original beauty, not a beauty forced by tyranny." Letting out a helpless sigh, he continued. "Sadly, death is but the only ultimate mercy I know, and can give."
Hearing this, even the Imperator was moved. It began to reconsider the nature of Threnodians as it watched Lian, but still, it could not accept the death of its people. It needed hope—a silver lining.
And it found one in Lian's next words. "They promised me enlightenment through meeting the Sentinel, yet this Pilgrim's Sail has failed."
"Who said it has failed?" Imperator interjected quickly, drawing Da Lian's gaze.
"How about this," the Sentinel offered earnestly. "I will set you on a new journey—one that will bring you true enlightenment. But I beg you, spare the people of Ragunna."
Hahaha." Lain laughed, mocked by the steed's words.
"Are you going to betray me for my mercy?" Lian asked, hesitation blooming in his heart. But the Imperator answered firmly, "No. I vow on what remains of my code that you will see the truth for yourself."
Lian let out a trembling, tearful smile. "What a farce. My heart wants to forgive, but my mind tells me to be rational."
"Tell me." Wiping his tears, he asked, "Are you truthful, Imperator... or just skilled at hope-dressed deceit?"
"I would never take advantage—not of a soul as great as yours," the Imperator promised, its voice shaky but resolute. "I do not know what you have endured, but I promise you this: I will never lie to you."
"..."
Lian stood quite.
Hesitation lingered in his heart, but with resolve, he broke his cocoon and whispered, "Very well. But if I am not given the clarity I seek—" His eyes narrowed. "A river of crimson will paint Ragunna's streets."
"Understood," Imperator agreed.
With a gesture, Lian allowed the Imperator to warp the space outside, where Marelys and the Leviathan had been locked in battle. Marelys's colossal form shimmered, then vanished—teleported to another realm.
"Tch." The Leviathan clicked its tongue in frustration, muttering, "Why intervene, Imperator? You know that being is an ocean—far too vast to be contained by any dam."
***
The sky dimmed by degrees, sunlight slipping behind the teeth of the mountains like a secret swallowed by dusk. Da Lian stirred from stillness.
The breath of the sea no longer howled in his ear—only the distant hush of wind through cedar and stone. His eyes opened slowly, adjusting to the bruise-purple sky. The world had changed again.
He found himself on the stony shore of an island, belonging to the neighboring region of Rinascita.
Ahead, a slender bridge arched over the surf, its stones slick with evening dew.
Lian crossed in silence, the salt wind tugging at his hair, each step carrying him closer to the heart of the island.
Rising above the mists, Mount Firmament dominated the horizon—its ridges coiling like the resting form of an ancient Long, an immortal dragon whose spine shaped the land itself.
Cradled in the lap of this monolithic guardian, the city of Hongzhen stirred with the last light of day.
Mist slithered through the towering peaks, curling around stone and timber like the breath of a slumbering beast. Beneath the cliffs, the city awakened to twilight.
Golden light spilled over the dragon's spine, cascading into narrow streets where the day's rhythm faded into the hush of evening.
Traders packed away their wares, voices softening into the familiar symphony of closing time.
Scholars, draped in flowing robes, descended the steps of great libraries, their minds heavy with the wisdom of ages.
And among them, Resonators—figures of power and discipline—moved with quiet grace, their presence shifting the air like ripples in still water.
Yet for Lian, the city's welcome was as distant as the mountain's peak. Stone steps echoed beneath his feet. People passed him, but none paused. Their eyes slid over him like rain over glass—acknowledging, yet never settling.
He approached a man unloading woven mats beside a lantern-lit door. "Good evening. Might I ask for a place to rest?" Lian's tone was polite.
The man's hands paused mid-motion. He didn't look up. "Not here. Try the tea house down the slope."
Lian bowed slightly, then walked on.
At the tea house, a woman in ochre robes regarded him with a mixture of suspicion and discomfort. "We're full. Maybe the shrine steward might spare a corner?"
Though her words were polite, she simply did not wanted a money-less bum to enter.
Lian, understanding the concerns and the business oriented mind of the establishment decided to head for the shrine.
But the steward shook his head before Lian even asked. "We house only pilgrims of the Harmonious Path. You are not of them."
So Lian wandered the winding paths, lantern light flickering in the pools of his eyes. At every turn, rejection met him—not cruel, just careful.
A guard near the garden wall muttered to another, just within earshot: "Another one of them—walking like mist, asking for shade."
"Let him ask the shadows. We've nothing for him," the other replied, tightening his grip on his staff.
Lian said nothing. He was used to exile in silence.
As twilight deepened, he reached the edge of the city—a quiet district near the foothills, where homes leaned gently against the mountainside, old and humbler than those in the heart of Hongzhen.
There, a small hut stood alone.
The gate had no guards. The windows were shuttered with care. But what caught his eye—what made his breath hitch—was the path.
From the gate to the balcony, the road had been deliberately lined with flowers. Not wild or accidental, but placed with reverence.
Petals of marigold, iris, and a rare pale bloom he had never seen decorated the path, each of them, evoking serenity within his heart.
This was the last house from where he had yet to ask for a stay but, upon watching such carefully planted flower bedding, Lian could not bring himself to walk on them.
But with no other house left, Lian made his choice: he would wait.
He knelt before the humble hut, patient and unmoving, hoping for the householder to appear.
Passersby glanced at him, recognizing the stranger who had been turned away from every other door. Some paused, whispering warnings: "Careful—there's a madwoman in that house."
Lian only replied, "It's the only place left where I haven't been rejected."
A friend approached, concern etched on his face. "That's just blind hope. No one's gotten close to her in twenty years. If you want, I can give you some money."
Lian shook his head politely. "I appreciate your kindness, but I don't wish to be indebted."
"Take it as charity," the man insisted.
"Charity or not, money is the most versatile currency," Lian simply said. "Besides, I do not wish to receive from those who have already rejected me."
"So you want a place to stay?" A husky voice intervened.
Just then, another voice echoed from within the hut. The door creaked open, and a weathered old woman emerged, leaning on a stick as she made her way to the gate.
The two men beside Lian whispered, "That's her—the madwoman," before quickly retreating.
Lian remained kneeling as the woman drew closer. As she approached, a faint scent caught her attention—petrichor, the earthy fragrance after rain.
Memories of a beautiful maiden flickered in her mind, stirring something long dormant. "Could this young man be…?
Curiosity quickened her steps. She stopped before Lian and asked, "What is your name, young man?"
"Da Lian," he answered softly.
The old woman's eyes widened as she compared his name to another—Da Xia. Her voice trembled with hope. "Are you here to stay?"
Lian's face beamed. "If you'll have me."
"Please," the old woman said, gently guiding him inside.
Lian walked the flower-lined path, his heart stirring with something he couldn't quite name—a feeling long dormant, perhaps.
He settled on the floor of the main room, where the old woman brought out a basket of snow pears. "Have some," she offered.
Lian took one and bit into it. It was sweet—sweeter than anything he'd ever tasted. Yet something about the woman felt unusual, so he asked softly, "Whom were you waiting for?"
The old woman simply smiled and shared her story: how she had been instructed by a woman named Dan Xia to wait for a young man, enchanted with the scent of petrichor, whose name would resemble her own.
"And I believe you are the one I was waiting for," she said.
Lian blinked, surprised, awe and confusion mingling in his eyes. He looked at the weathered woman, who seemed like a hopeful mother waiting for her child.
Moved by her patience, he murmured, "Your patience, reminds me of Mother Thalassa herself." Still kneeling, Lian asked, "May I call you Honorary Mother, Lady…?"
"It's Yin," she replied gently.
"Please, come here," Lian said, offering his lap. Though Yin was confused, the offer felt impossible to refuse. She rested her head on his lap.
"You have endured so much," Lian whispered, his voice softer than dusk, "Now… rest." It was not a command, nor even comfort—but a lullaby from death itself, tender and final.
Yin's resonance faded into peaceful silence as Lian shakingly gazed out toward the ocean and murmured, "Imperator, you did not lie."
***
The next day, a grave bearing the name Yin stood quietly in the cemetery. Lian stood before it in silence, the morning wind threading through his hair like the memory of a hand that once knew how to care.
A thought stirred within him.
"Hope," he murmured, gaze fixed on the freshly turned earth, "is a double-edged sword. It can make you hesitate… or make you strong."
The words lingered on his lips, neither bitter nor sweet—just true.
He turned, stepping away from the grave as another thought began to take shape—one not of mourning, but of self-inquiry. "My powers… they aren't good. They aren't evil. They simply are."
"They affect everyone equally. So then…" His brow furrowed, the question burning behind his eyes. "Why are they hated?"
To be continued...