It’s time! Reckoning, the final book in the Creativity Stone series is out now. It’s a tale of redemption in the midst of pain, suspicion, and lots of epic fantasy craziness.

Already early readers have said this book made them cry and fall off the edge of their seat. It’s the perfect conclusion to this series and characters, and I can’t wait for you to read it!

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Novitas has already survived the Creativity Stone once. It may not survive it again.

Joshua wanted this day to be perfect. After five years of rebuilding, Fides is finally healing. Hope has returned, and he’s ready to ask Namid a question that will change both their lives. But before he can speak, everything unravels. The Creativity Stone has been stolen. A guard lies dead. And all signs point to the one man they swore had changed. Dedecus.

As monstrous attacks strike and suspicion turns friend against friend, Fides must decide whether to trust the man who once ruined everything or abandon him before history repeats itself. Because a familiar enemy is rising from the wreckage of Transcendence, driven by a vengeance years in the making.

For Joshua, Namid, and Dedecus, the battle ahead will demand more than strength. Redemption was never a single moment, it is a path. Downfall broke him. Transcendence nearly consumed him. Now the fate of Novitas hinges on whether Dedecus has come far enough to stand when the reckoning comes.

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I’m excited to share that Reckoning, the third and final book in my Christian fantasy series, The Creativity Stone Series, releases August 18.

This book brings Joshua, Namid, Dedecus, and the world of Novitas into the final chapter of a story that began with Downfall. Reckoning explores redemption, grief, trust, sacrifice, and what happens when the past refuses to stay buried.

As a sneak peek before release, I’m sharing Chapter One so you can get an early look at where the story begins.

Read Chapter 1 Here

One early reader shared this about the book:

“Reckoning carried me deep inside the unique fictional world of Novitas, so much so that I forgot I was reading until my tears started flowing and I realized the book was nearing its end. It was imaginative, haunting, and inspiring, filled with twists and turns around unexamined grief, loss, and hope through faith in our Eternal God of all Hope.”

I’m incredibly excited for you to experience the conclusion of The Creativity Stone Series.

Reckoning releases August 18.

Pre-Order the Book Here

Chapter One

Joshua stood atop Peaceful Plateau, a vast expanse of emerald grass dotted with blue wildflowers, golden-tipped petals shimmering faintly in the green-tinted sunlight. A breeze stirred the air, carrying the sweet scent of blossoms, the tang of palm sap, and the distant murmur of a waterfall cascading down the Pearl Cliffs.

The plateau was a sanctuary, cool and quiet, its grassy edges sloping into cliffs of pearly white stone flecked with silver. From this height, the Emerald River below looked like a ribbon of green glass threading through Fides, vanishing into the forest of palms and Earth trees.

Joshua let his gaze drift outward. The sky, pale green streaked with yellow, glowed softly against the misted horizon. The White Mountains loomed in the distance, snowless peaks piercing the heavens like watchful sentinels. He and Dedecus had recently scoured their ravines for a sliver of blue copper.

Below, Fides nestled in the valley, palmlog houses in neat rows. Rooftops glimmered with dew. Smoke curled lazily from cooking fires, mingling with the scent of flatbread and the briny tang of river fish. Gravel paths wound between homes toward the village square, where the church spire rose skyward, a symbol of hope after so much loss.

It was the second most beautiful thing Joshua had ever seen.

The first was Namid. And she would arrive any moment.

He shifted his weight and tugged at the collar of his pale green tunic, stiff around the seams. The tightness in his chest refused to ease.

In the fields below, farmers bent to grain rows while others tended sheep, pigs, and cows, their bleats faintly audible. A child ran along the riverbank, kite trailing behind. The sight should have calmed him. It didn’t.

Grass rustled behind him. Joshua tensed, heart hammering.

“What are you looking at?” a soft, melodic voice asked.

He swallowed.

Her.

Namid’s voice carried the same warmth which had drawn him years ago, soothing yet igniting the butterflies in his stomach. He kept his gaze fixed on the church spire.

“Just marveling at how much the village has changed,” he said, voice steady though his palms were damp.

Namid stepped beside him, her presence lighting the space like morning sun. She slid her hand into his, and he prayed she wouldn’t notice the clamminess.

“Well, it has been over five years since the attack. A lot can change in five years.” Her words were gentle, a balm to the storm inside him.

Memory pressed hard. Five years ago, Dedecus had taken the Creativity Stone, twisting it for destruction. Chaos had left Fides in ruins. His parents had perished that day. That bitter memory would haunt him forever.

But five years ago, on this very day, something else had happened. A village party, laughter, dancing. He and Namid had shared their first kiss beneath the golden moon.

It had been the start of something precious, carrying him through the darkness.

He turned toward her. Her deep brown eyes sparkled like lake waters, alive with kindness and strength. The words he had practiced for months hovered on his tongue.

“The village isn’t the only thing that’s changed,” he said quietly. “We’ve changed too. You’ve become this incredible, beautiful woman. And I … still look like an awkward teenager.” He gave a nervous chuckle. “But I’ve matured. I want to be the man you deserve.”

The words spilled too fast. Five years, and he didn’t look a day older. His face still that of a seventeen-year-old. His hair unchanged. The Creativity Stone’s healing energy had slowed his aging, maybe frozen it.

Namid never mentioned it, but he sometimes wondered. Did she see the boy he had been, or the man he was trying to be?

Namid’s smile spread, radiating warmth. “You are that man, Joshua. I love you.” She squeezed his hand, and his heart soared.

Her words filled him with courage, making him feel like the man she believed him to be.

His free hand slipped into his pocket, fingers closing around a small, smooth ring of blue copper. He and Dedecus had nearly frozen hunting the mountains for the rare metal and found just enough for this ring.

“Namid, I—”

“Joshua, Namid, come quick!”

The shout shattered the moment.

Joshua turned to see Sharon racing toward them, face flushed, breath labored. The dark blue council sash fluttered against her tan tunic as she climbed the path.

Her urgency cracked the serenity, tension bleeding into the air like thunder.

“What is it?” he called, his annoyance sharp.

Sharon stumbled to a stop, boots skidding on gravel. “The Creativity Stone, it’s been stolen!”

The words hit like a thunderclap.

Color drained from Joshua’s face. His pulse quickened. Fingers shoved the ring deeper into his pocket, the proposal forgotten.

His gaze swept the village. Smoke from fires now seemed darker. The church spire fragile. People moved hurriedly below, shadows of concern flickering even at this distance.

Today was supposed to be perfect. Instead, a storm was brewing.

And he feared it would be worse than anything they had faced before.

Want to find out what happens next? Find out when Reckoning releases August 18th!

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If you haven’t yet read Redemption’s Scars, you can find the full story here:

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I wanted to take a moment to say thank you.

I’m so grateful for the responses to Redemption’s Scars, that not only have people enjoyed the story, but that so many of you were willing to sit with its themes, wrestle with them, and take them seriously.

One of the reasons I wanted to write Redemption’s Scars is because it acts as a necessary follow-up to Dedecus’s repentance in Transcendence. Book 2 ends with a massive, dramatic moment, Dedecus relinquishing the Creativity Stone, choosing repentance, and beginning the work of restoration. It’s powerful, and it needed to be. But as I sat with that ending, something felt incomplete.

From the very beginning, The Creativity Stone Series—and Downfall especially—has wrestled with justice. And it didn’t feel just, or realistic, for Dedecus to be welcomed back with open arms after everything he had done. Repentance doesn’t erase memory. Forgiveness doesn’t dissolve pain. Trust takes time.

Originally, the series was only meant to be two books. It was supposed to end with that moment of repentance. But the more I sat with the story, the more I realized that stopping there simplified redemption in a way that didn’t sit right with me. Big turning points matter—but in Scripture, and in life, God so often chooses to work through slow, uncomfortable processes instead.

So the story grew.

I ended up adding a third book, set five years after the events of Transcendence, which is scheduled to release this spring. And honestly, I wasn’t sure how to follow the scale and intensity of book 2. But what God led me into writing surprised me. Book 3 became the true epic conclusion of the series—not just in terms of plot, but for the character arcs of Joshua, Namid, and Dedecus.

In Transcendence, Dedecus forgives God.

In book 3, he forgives the village.

But something was still missing.

There needed to be space for Dedecus to face himself.

Then at one point I sat down intending to write what I thought would be a short, five-minute piece—a simple story where Wane tries to kill Dedecus, they talk, and both walk away changed. Instead, Redemption’s Scars emerged. It was darker, longer, and far more intense than I expected. But as it took shape, I realized it was exactly what the story—and the series—needed.

This was the missing piece.
The place where repentance meets shame.
Where justice meets mercy.
Where forgiveness finally turns inward.

I can honestly say that while I felt God’s help while writing Downfall and Transcendence, I felt His presence in a unique way while writing Redemption’s Scars and book 3 in guidance for what story needed to be told.

If you haven’t yet read Redemption’s Scars, you can find the full story here.

If you’re new here, Redemption’s Scars is set between Transcendence and the final book. If you’ve been following the series, it’s meant to prepare both Dedecus—and the reader—for what comes next. And you can find links to read the first two books in the series here.

I’ll have more to share as the spring release approaches. For now, thank you for reading.

– Caleb

If you haven’t yet read Redemption’s Scars, you can find the full story here:

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While writing Redemption’s Scars, I’ve been sitting with one thought in particular:

Redemption is rarely a moment.

More often, it’s a process—and a messy one.

We tend to imagine redemption as a clean turning point. A confession. A decision. A clear line where everything changes. But that isn’t how it works in this story, and it isn’t how it often works in real life either. Scars don’t disappear the moment repentance begins. Temptation doesn’t fall silent. Consequences don’t rewind.

One of the biblical images that stayed with me while writing was Paul after his encounter with Jesus on the road to Damascus. The blinding moment gets most of the attention, but Scripture lingers far longer on what follows: silence, waiting, fasting, prayer, fear. Paul repents—but he must live with the knowledge of what he’s done. And the believers he once persecuted are understandably wary when he claims to have changed. His calling is real, but trust has to grow. Redemption begins immediately, but it unfolds slowly, in community, and under the weight of memory.

Dedecus lives in that same tension. He understands that forgiveness might exist. What he can’t bring himself to believe is that he’s allowed to receive it. His struggle isn’t a desire to return to power or to do harm again—it’s the belief that ongoing pain is the only appropriate response to what he’s done. His scars become a form of self-punishment, a way of proving that he hasn’t forgotten, that he hasn’t gone easy on himself. In the story, the real temptation isn’t evil—it’s despair dressed up as repentance.

Scripture draws a distinction here that we often blur. Paul later writes, “For sadness as intended by God produces a repentance that leads to salvation, leaving no regret, but worldly sadness brings death” (2 Corinthians 7:10, NET). Not all sorrow heals. Some of it consumes. Dedecus is caught between the two.

Wane reflects a different resistance to redemption. His anger is understandable. It gives shape to his grief and purpose to his days. Letting go of vengeance feels like betraying his parents, as if justice must be final or it means nothing at all. In that way, Wane and Dedecus mirror one another more than either would admit. One believes punishment must never end. The other believes mercy must never begin.

That’s why the chasm matters. It isn’t just a dangerous place or a fantasy set piece. It’s descent. It’s confrontation. Redemption in this story doesn’t come through rising above the past, but by walking back into it—naming it, facing it, and refusing both denial and annihilation. Dedecus doesn’t defeat the version of himself that haunts him. He refuses to keep fighting it. He chooses to live without shortcuts, even when that choice offers no immediate relief.

And that’s also why the story doesn’t end neatly. The whispers don’t vanish. The scars remain. There is no declaration that everything is fixed. What changes is quieter: Dedecus is no longer alone. He’s willing to speak. He’s willing to be seen. Redemption, here, looks less like victory and more like endurance—choosing presence over isolation, honesty over punishment.

I wrote this story because I think we often oversimplify God’s redemptive work. But God’s work, in Scripture and in life, is rarely instantaneous. It’s patient. It’s communal. And it often unfolds in ways that don’t feel satisfying at first.

If Redemption’s Scars left you unsettled, that was intentional. Some stories are meant to resolve things. Others are meant to name them.

If you’d like to share how these themes landed for you, you’re welcome to leave a comment on the story. I’m grateful for thoughtful reflection and conversation.

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If this story stirred up heavy emotions or touched close to home, please know that help is available. In the U.S., you can call or text 988 to reach the Suicide & Crisis Lifeline. You don’t have to carry that weight alone.

You can return to the story here:

Redemption's Scars

Thank you for taking the time to read and sit with it.

– Caleb

Does anyone else get frustrated when redemption stories come too easily? When a character makes the right choice and suddenly everything is fine, with no real consequences for what they’ve done? I love a good redemption story, but redemption isn’t a moment. It’s a process.

That conviction is what led me to write Redemption’s Scars.

This story continues Dedecus’s journey beyond Transcendence, asking what repentance looks like after catastrophic failure, and whether someone who hates himself believes redemption is even possible. In Transcendence, Dedecus makes the decisive choice to repent. But as I sat with that ending, it felt incomplete. Repentance doesn’t erase memory. Forgiveness doesn’t dissolve pain. Justice doesn’t disappear just because someone has changed.

So I knew I needed to take Dedecus to a further and darker place, one that forced him to confront himself and the weight of his actions. A place that demanded answers to two difficult questions: Is redemption truly possible? And is there still justice after repentance?

Redemption’s Scars moves through grief, pursuit, and confrontation, into places beneath the world of Fides where memory, judgment, and power collide. It brings Dedecus face to face not only with those who want him to pay for what he’s done, but with the deeper question of whether mercy is something he is allowed to receive at all.

I chose to release this as a free, self-contained story meant to be read in one or two sittings (about a 35–40 minute read) because it’s a story that needed space to breathe, free from distraction. Writing a full novel in a series comes with necessary expectations and moving pieces. I love the characters of Joshua and Namid, but this story isn’t about them. And while I could have expanded this into a much longer book, that was never the point.

This story was meant to be experienced in a single descent and ascent, a complete arc with the epic fantasy action, intensity, and emotional weight of a novel, concentrated into a much smaller space.

That said, Redemption’s Scars is not the end of The Creativity Stone Series. In the coming months, I’ll be sharing more about Book 3, the epic conclusion to the story of Joshua, Namid, and Dedecus.

But for now, I hope you take the time to read and sit with Redemption’s Scars.

Thank you for reading and walking through this world with me.

Read Redemption’s Scars here:

Redemption's Scars

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Set after the events of Transcendence, Redemption’s Scars follows Dedecus into the aftermath of his choices, where vengeance, repentance, and mercy collide in places that should not exist anymore.

This is a complete short story, best read in one or two sittings.

Wane glared at his imaginary opponent, gripping his sword hilt so tightly his knuckles burned white. His breath came fast and sharp, his body taut with pent-up fury.

“You will finally suffer for what you did to me,” he snarled through gritted teeth.

With all his strength, he lunged forward and swung. His blade cut through the air, colliding with the trunk of a sturdy tree. The impact sent vibrations up his arms, but he didn’t flinch. The blade embedded itself deep into the bark, right into the letter D he had carved into the wood days ago.

Not bad.

When he had first started training, his strikes barely left a scratch, his sword bouncing off like a child’s toy. But now, after months of relentless practice, the tree bore the scars of his dedication. At fourteen, he was no longer the boy who had hidden while his world burned. He was strong now. Strong enough to accomplish what no one else had the courage to do.

Strong enough to kill a monster.

Wane yanked at the hilt, but the blade was stuck fast. He grunted, bracing his foot against the trunk as he pulled harder, straining every muscle in his body.

“Wane! Where are you?”

The voice shattered his focus. His foot slipped, and he tumbled backward. A sharp clang rang out as the sword dislodged, clattering to the ground beside him.

The blade gleamed in the sunlight, mere inches from his ribs.

That was close.

A shadow fell over him. “Oh, there you are, kiddo.” Adia’s voice was warm but laced with concern. “The others said you snuck off again.”

Wane muttered a curse under his breath. “Traitors.”

They never understood why he had to keep slipping away, why every free moment had to be spent training. They had moved on. He couldn’t.

Adia’s gaze flicked to the sword. Her frown deepened as she picked it up by the hilt and rested it casually against her shoulder. “What did I say about using real swords?” she scolded, voice firm but not unkind. “I know you want to join the new guard when you’re older, but this is dangerous.”

Wane scowled but knew arguing with her was useless. Adia wasn’t cruel like some of the other grownups, but she was just as blind. She clung to the same ridiculous notions of forgiveness as the rest of them.

Her eyes lingered on the tree. She traced the carved D with her eyes before sighing. “This is about Dedecus, isn’t it?”

Wane tensed at the name. Even now, a year later, the mere sound of it made his stomach churn. How could everyone act like Dedecus deserved to walk free? Like rebuilding their homes made up for the lives he had stolen?

Adia turned toward him. “Listen, kiddo. I know how you feel. After what happened to Lincoln…”

Wane clenched his fists. “That was your husband,” he interrupted. “Killed in Dedecus’s first attack. Same as my parents, right?”

A flicker of pain crossed Adia’s face, dark and deep. She closed her eyes for a moment, as if bracing herself against the memory.

Then, softly, “Yes.”

Wane stepped toward her, the fire inside him burning hotter. “Then you should want revenge as much as I do.”

Adia exhaled slowly, then opened her eyes. The storm in them had passed, locked away where no one could see. “Revenge won’t give you your parents back, Wane. It will just give Dedecus another grave to carry.” She reached out, resting a gentle hand on his shoulder.

Wane jerked away like her touch burned. “That’s not the point.”

He expected her to argue, but she didn’t. She just studied him for a long moment, then smiled faintly. “Come back to the house. I made lunch.”

Wane snorted. Of course. That was what the grownups always did—ignore the problem, pretend food could fix everything.

He turned his back to her, staring into the woods. “I’ll be there in a bit.”

Silence stretched between them. He expected her to leave. But after a few moments, he still heard no footsteps.

He turned. She was still standing there, watching him. Waiting.

She smiled. “I can wait.”

His jaw clenched, but he knew she wasn’t going anywhere. She was stubborn like that.

Finally, he sighed. “Fine.”

Without another word, he followed her back toward the orphanage. He could always sneak away later.

As they walked, his gaze flickered toward where Dedecus’s lived alone on the edge of the rebuilt village—close enough to be seen, far enough that no one had to speak to him

Maybe Adia and the other in Fides Village were okay moving on and letting him live happily outside the village, but Wane never would.

He couldn’t.

He owed his parents more than that.

Wane crouched behind the thick underbrush, his heart hammering like a war drum. His fingers clenched around the hilt of sword he’d secretly taken from the guard station, the leather grip damp from the sweat slicking his palms.

Through the gaps in the foliage, he could see Dedecus pacing inside his cabin, his shadow shifting restlessly against the dim glow from within. There was something unnatural about the way he moved—agitated, unsettled. Like an animal trapped in a cage, searching for an escape.

Wane’s jaw tightened. Why is he pacing like that? He had expected to find Dedecus asleep, completely unaware of what was coming for him. Instead, the man was on edge. Was he guilty? Afraid?

The thought made Wane’s stomach churn. Dedecus wasn’t supposed to feel fear. He was the monster people feared.

A flicker of movement. Dedecus grabbed a sword.

Wane’s breath hitched. Had he been seen? He ducked lower, pressing himself against the rough bark of a tree as Dedecus pushed open the door and stepped into the night.

He’s leaving?

Wane risked a glance from behind the tree. Dedecus wasn’t heading toward the village. His strides were long, purposeful, cutting westward into the woods.

Where is he going?

Wane hesitated, every muscle in his body tight with indecision. Wait for a better moment? Or follow now?

His grip on the sword hardened. He was tired of waiting.

Keeping low, he moved after Dedecus, matching his steps with the rustling leaves so the wind masked his presence. The trek stretched on, winding through tangled roots and dense shadows. The further west they traveled, the heavier the air became, thick with the scent of damp earth and something faintly metallic.

No one ventured west.

The trees here were taller and darker, their thick canopies swallowing the moonlight. The hunting ground of the tree bears. Wane flicked his gaze upward, scanning the branches for movement. The beasts were known for their patience—waiting, hidden, until their prey wandered too close.

And yet, Dedecus walked on, seemingly unbothered.

He knows exactly where he’s going.

Wane’s legs burned from the relentless pace, the weight of the sword growing heavier with every step. His exhaustion warred with his anger, but his fury refused to be swallowed by fatigue.

Then Dedecus stopped.

Wane ducked behind a gnarled tree, forcing himself to slow his breath. He peered out just as Dedecus stepped into a clearing.

Wane’s pulse stuttered.

The earth had been ripped apart.

A massive chasm carved through the landscape, its jagged edges curling inward like broken teeth. The air here pulsed with a sickening vibration, an almost tangible hum that settled into Wane’s bones, making his skin prickle. The earth itself seemed to whisper, a distant, ghostly chorus that he could almost hear—almost understand.

A cold chill slithered down his spine.

What is this place?

The scent of blood and rust thickened in the air, mingling with something unnatural. Something wrong. Wane could feel it, creeping beneath his skin, coiling around his ribs.

Dedecus stood at the edge, staring down into the abyss. His posture was tense, but his face—his expression—was unreadable.

Was it fear? Fascination? Or something worse?

For the first time, Wane hesitated.

Dedecus looked... haunted. Not the monster Wane had always imagined, but something else. Something broken. What does he see down there?

Wane’s hand trembled as his grip tightened around the hilt of his sword.

And then the anger came surging back, hot and unrelenting.

It doesn’t matter.

Dedecus had stolen too much—Wane’s parents, his home, his childhood. His entire life had been reduced to ash at the hands of this man.

Monster or not, Dedecus had no right to anything else.

Steeling himself, Wane stepped into the clearing, his voice cold as steel. “So, this is what you’ve been hiding.”

The pull had been growing for months. At first, Dedecus had ignored it, shoving down the strange unease that coiled around his ribs whenever he passed near the western forest. But the longer he resisted, the stronger it became.

It wasn’t just a feeling—it was something tangible, something real. A whisper in his bones. A weight in his skull. The hum of something fractured, something that shouldn’t exist but did.

A mistake that never fully died.

And now, standing at the edge of the chasm, he felt it fully—like the breath of some ancient beast, slumbering just beneath the surface of the world.

It was wrong.

And yet… he couldn’t look away.

The jagged tear in the earth stretched before him, uneven and violent, as though the land itself had tried to swallow whatever had once existed here. The air seemed to shimmer around it, the metallic scent of rust and blood thick in his throat. He felt the vibrations in his chest, humming like the strings of an instrument plucked by invisible fingers.

His stomach twisted. He wasn’t sure if it was fear or longing.

Maybe both.

Then a voice shattered the stillness.

“So, this is what you’ve been hiding.”

Dedecus turned sharply, instincts flaring. His eyes locked onto a boy stepping from the trees—small, no older than fourteen, his hands clenched around the hilt of a sword that looked too heavy for him.

Too young to be a threat.

But the look in his eyes—wild, burning—that was dangerous.

Dedecus tensed. “What are you doing here?” His voice came out sharper than intended.

“What am I doing here?” the boy spat, stepping closer, fury twisting his face. “What are you doing here? Plotting some plan to kill more innocent people?”

Dedecus exhaled sharply. Another one. Another kid looking for a fight that wasn’t his.

He had spent the last year trying to make something of the ruins he had left behind, but it didn’t matter. It never mattered. People like this boy would never let it go. They would always see him as the monster he had been, not the man standing here now.

You still are that monster.

He forced himself to stay calm, to ignore the voice in his head. “I didn’t come here to hurt anyone. I don’t even know what this place is.”

“You expect me to believe that?” The boy’s grip on his sword tightened, his knuckles turning white. “You’re out here, all alone, in the middle of the night, staring at this—this thing. What else could you be planning?”

Dedecus hesitated. The truth felt too raw, too absurd to say aloud. That he had been drawn here. That he felt something waiting for him.

Instead, he settled for, “There’s something… wrong about this place.” His voice came out quieter than intended. “I’ve been feeling it for a while now. Like it’s calling to me.”

The words sounded like an admission of guilt.

The kid laughed—a short, bitter thing. “Calling to you? Do you ever stop lying?”

Dedecus clenched his jaw. “I’m not lying.”

“Then why are you here?” The boy stepped forward, blade flashing in the faint moonlight. “If you’re so innocent, why didn’t you tell anyone about this?”

Dedecus’s fists curled. “Because I’m trying to protect the village.” His voice was clipped, tight. “Whatever this is, it’s dangerous.”

At least, that was partially true.

The chasm still whispered to him. What if it’s something more? Something meant for you?

Would you take it back?

No. He swallowed hard, hating himself for the temptation. He wouldn’t go down that road again.

“Or maybe you just wanted to keep it for yourself.”

The accusation made his pulse spike, anger rising fast and sharp.

His voice dropped, low and firm. “I’m not going to stand here and let some kid accuse me of things you don’t understand.”

The boy’s eyes flared with fresh rage. “Don’t call me a kid!”

Then he lunged.

The attack was reckless, all rage and no control. Dedecus barely had to move to deflect the strike, steel clashing against steel.

He’s not a fighter. He’s just angry.

Dedecus stepped back, blade raised defensively. “I don’t want to fight you.”

“You don’t get a choice.”

Another strike. Sloppy. Desperate. Dedecus parried easily, his boots sliding closer to the edge of the chasm as they moved.

“Do you even know who I am?” The kid’s breath hitched, then his voice came, shaking but full of fire. “I’m Wane. One of the children left orphans. You murdered my parents.”

Something inside Dedecus fractured.

His grip loosened. His breath stalled.

He looked at the boy again, really looked at him.

Now… now he could see it.

Memories surged like a flood—the fire, the screaming, the bodies left behind.

His sword slipped from his fingers, landing with a dull clatter between them.

Wane.

The name tasted like ash.

His chest constricted, something sharp and splintering spreading through his ribs.

His breath came rough, uneven. “You’re right. I do deserve it.”

Wane froze. His fury had nowhere to go. “You’re just gonna give up without a fight?”

The chasm thrummed behind Dedecus, the vibrations pressing into his skull.

This is it. The moment.

His hands curled into fists. His voice turned sharp, desperate. “This is what I deserve. What I’m too… too weak to do myself.” His breath hitched, and for the first time in a long time, his voice cracked. “Just do it. Now. Before I change my mind.”

Wane hesitated. The rage faltered, confusion creeping in.

Dedecus swallowed, his whole body rigid. “Do it!” His voice broke, louder now, raw and full of something he didn’t want to name. “I murdered your parents. I’m a monster. Put an end to this!”

Wane let out a scream, lunging forward—

A blur of motion.

The sword Dedecus had dropped.

Wane’s foot caught on the hilt.

A stumble.

Wane’s body colliding into his.

The edge of the chasm beneath them.

A moment of weightlessness.

The ground vanished.

The scream tore from Wane’s throat as they plummeted into the abyss.

Dedecus didn’t scream.

For a single, fleeting moment, he thought—maybe this is justice.

Then the chasm swallowed them whole.

Dedecus hit the ground hard. The impact jolted through his ribs, pain lancing up his side as he rolled to a stop. The air rushed from his lungs in a strangled gasp, his mind sluggish, disoriented. For a moment, all he could do was lie there, staring up at the impossibly dark sky above. His body ached, but panic burned hotter beneath his skin.

He forced himself upright, breath still uneven, and took in his surroundings.

The chasm walls loomed high around them, made of packed dirt and jagged rock. But the ground wasn’t normal. Unlike the rough terrain above, this surface was eerily smooth, as if something had scorched it into glass. Long, fractured cracks webbed across it like veins of black lightning.

This place… I know this place.

Dread coiled in his gut. This wasn’t just any chasm. This was Layer Six—the top floor of Transcendence, the throne room where he had played god.

But Transcendence is gone.

He swallowed hard, his pulse thudding violently in his ears. Then why is it here?

A faint shimmer caught his eye.

A figure stood motionless a few feet away.

Dedecus stilled, his throat tightening. The man was small, bald, draped in a long white robe. His form was frozen, as if time had stopped just before his next breath. A thin layer of glittering red dust coated his skin, his robes, his unmoving fingers.

Dedecus’s stomach dropped.

No. No, no, no.

It couldn’t be. It wasn’t possible.

But it was.

Smith.

His servant.

His creation.

A tremor ran through Dedecus’s body, cold and violent. His breathing turned shallow, his vision narrowing. Transcendence is dead. Josh and Namid destroyed it.

So why was this here?

This has to be a nightmare. Please, let this be a nightmare.

But he knew better. The air smelled too sharp, the cold against his skin too real.

Somehow, impossibly, a fractured remnant of his greatest failure had survived. And now he and Wane were trapped inside it.

I have to get out.

The thought roared through him, overpowering everything else. Adrenaline flooded his limbs, numbing the pain from the fall. He lurched forward, closing the distance to where Wane lay unconscious.

He grabbed the boy by the shoulders and shook him.

“Wake up.” His voice came out harsher than intended.

Wane’s eyes shot open. “Get away from me!”

Dedecus barely had time to step back before Wane rolled and snatched his sword from the ground, pointing it at him with wild, panicked energy.

“What did you do?!”

Dedecus threw up his hands. “This isn’t me. We fell into the chasm, remember?” He jerked his head toward Smith’s frozen body, his own breath coming fast and uneven. “And we need to get out of here. Now.”

Wane’s eyes flickered around the space, his grip tightening on the sword hilt. “What is this place? Who’s that?”

“It doesn’t matter.” Dedecus took a step toward the chasm wall, scanning for a way up. “We need to go—”

A crack echoed beneath him.

He froze, heart leaping into his throat.

He looked down. Black cracks spiderwebbed outward from where his foot had landed.

The ground is unstable.

And if this is layer six… then layer five is beneath us.

His gut twisted. Layer five.

Wane shifted his stance, and more cracks splintered out beneath him.

Dedecus’s panic surged. “Stop!” He tried to keep the alarm from his voice, but it still came out raw, sharp.

Wane scowled. “Why should I listen to you?”

Dedecus clenched his teeth. “The ground is unstable. Do you want another fall?”

Wane hesitated. The tension in his posture wavered. “…Fine. How do we get out?”

Dedecus exhaled, forcing his body to stay still, to not make things worse.

“Very carefully.” His voice dropped to a whisper, as if speaking too loudly would make the entire world collapse beneath them.

He moved toward the cliff wall, each step deliberate, slow.

Every time his foot pressed down, the cracks deepened.

His pulse pounded.

God, I don’t know why you’d listen to me, but please don’t let us fall. I can’t go to layer five.

He reached the wall. Loose dirt. No solid footholds.

His hands dug in, but the earth crumbled under his grip.

Above him, just out of reach, a thick root protruded from the cliffside.

If I can get to that—

He turned back toward Wane. “Give me the sword. I can wedge it into the dirt so we can climb up.”

Wane laughed bitterly, clutching the hilt tighter. “Not a chance. This is my protection against you.”

Dedecus’s patience snapped. “I’m trying to rescue you, you idiot.”

Wane didn’t budge. “I don’t need your help. I can do it myself.”

“Fine. Then do it.”

Wane stepped closer to the wall, trying to wedge the blade into the dirt. He twisted, shoving it deeper, searching for an anchor point.

A sound split the air.

A deep, resonating crack.

The floor beneath them shuddered.

Dedecus’s stomach clenched.

No. No, not now.

They both froze.

The silence stretched, suffocating.

The ground collapsed.

A deafening roar of crumbling earth filled the air as the entire surface gave way beneath them.

Dedecus’s stomach dropped.

Wane’s eyes went wide as he flailed, trying to grab onto anything.

The world ripped away beneath them, and they plummeted into the stark white room below.

Layer five.

The floor beneath them shattered.

A rush of weightlessness gripped Dedecus as he and Wane plunged into layer five.

Dedecus hit the ground hard. He pushed himself up, teeth clenched, every nerve screaming at him to move.

The ground was smooth—unnaturally so, like polished stone, but riddled with cracks. Jagged, spiderwebbing fractures split across the stark white floor, pulsing faintly, as if the room itself were breathing.

White.

Everything was white.

The walls stretched high around them, blinding and endless, featureless but suffocatingly close. The cracks slithered up the walls and ceiling, as though something beneath the surface was trying to break free.

The space was empty—devoid of doors, of shadows, of anything except them.

But it wouldn’t stay that way.

Dedecus knew what was coming.

Wane groaned nearby, sprawled on the ground, clutching his ankle. “All this falling is getting old.” He exhaled sharply, pain flashing across his face. “I think I broke it.”

Dedecus barely spared him a glance. They had bigger problems.

“Get up, kid. We don’t have time to complain. We need to get out of here, before—”

He stopped.

The space ahead of them rippled, a distortion in the fabric of the room. A mass of dark energy crackled against the white void, forming something—no, someone.

Dedecus’s stomach knotted.

It’s happening.

The flickering mass twisted, stretched, distorted—a smear of unnatural movement, shifting between shapes, possibilities. It wasn’t solid yet, but it was becoming.

Wane stiffened beside him, his breathing shallow. “What is that?” His voice wavered.

Dedecus didn’t answer. Didn’t need to.

He was already moving, snatching up Wane’s sword from where it had landed.

“Hey! Give that back!” Wane protested, scrambling to his feet despite his injury.

Dedecus ignored him. This wasn’t a battle the kid could fight.

The distortion thickened, solidifying bit by bit.

The shifting mass expanded, contorted, growing taller, denser. The light in the room dimmed, as though the very presence of this thing was draining the space around it.

Then—a shape.

A towering, imposing figure.

The body came first—unnaturally muscular, built like a god sculpted from fire and stone. His skin took on a red tint, veins pulsing beneath the surface like rivers of molten power.

The air grew heavy.

A crushing weight settled over Dedecus’s shoulders, pressing into his bones.

This wasn’t real.

But it felt real.

The figure fully took form, the last traces of flickering energy snapping into place.

Then, it opened its eyes.

Red. Glowing. Hungry.

And smiling.

A slow, deliberate, cruel grin. “Thought you could escape me?”

Dedecus couldn’t breathe.

The figure standing before him.

It was the him he feared.

The him he had been when he had the power of the Creativity Stone.

The him he still feared he could become.

The monster-Dedecus grinned, his red eyes gleaming with dark amusement.

A sharp inhale from behind.

Wane gasped. His entire body went rigid, his fists clenching so tight they shook. “You!” He lunged.

Dedecus moved before he could think, grabbing the kid’s shirt and yanking him back. Wane stumbled, crashing to the ground just behind him.

“Whatcha gonna do, boy?” The monster version of himself sneered down at Wane, voice smooth as silk, dripping with mockery. “You gonna punch me?”

Wane tried to push himself up, but Dedecus stayed in front of him, sword gripped so tightly his fingers ached.

“He’s just a projection,” Dedecus muttered, forcing steel into his voice. “This is all in our heads.”

The monster chuckled, shaking his head. “Oh, but I’m very real.” He pointed at Dedecus’s temple. “Sure, this layer gave me form, but I’ve always been here. Isn’t that why you hate yourself so much?”

A flicker of heat crawled up Dedecus’s spine. “Shut up.”

The monster laughed, slow and indulgent, like this was all some private joke. Then his gaze flickered downward.

“Touchy, I see.” His grin widened. “But those scars across your arm give you away.”

The air thinned.

Dedecus went completely still.

A sharp inhale from behind. “What is he talking about?” Wane asked, voice wary.

Dedecus resisted the urge to pull his sleeves down. He wished he’d worn something long-sleeved today.

The monster took a step closer, tilting his head. “Oh, come on, Dedecus. I know you. I am you. You didn’t think you could keep this secret forever, did you?”

His voice was silk, smooth and sharp, digging under Dedecus’s skin.

It had started small. A week after he had finished rebuilding Fides.

At first, it had been just thoughts.

Left alone with his mind, with the whispers, with the pull.

The Creativity Stone had been hidden, and yet—he could still feel it. The temptation, the voice in his head that said “You’re nothing without it.”

He had needed a distraction. A way to release the pressure, the rage, the constant weight of his own existence.

At first, it had been small—just enough pain to drown out the voices. But it had become a habit. A routine. A necessity.

A daily punishment.

One he deserved.

No one knew. Not Joshua. Not Namid. Not anyone.

And he needed to keep it that way.

The monster watched him.

Studying him.

Savoring the silence.

“What’s wrong? No clever retorts?” His voice dipped into something softer, almost mocking sympathy. “Does it feel good, Dedecus? Hurting yourself? Does it help?”

Dedecus’s hands shook. He tightened his grip on the sword.

“Just let us leave.”

The monster-Dedecus scoffed, tilting his head like a predator considering a wounded animal. His red eyes gleamed with something cold, calculated.

“Pathetic,” he drawled. “Maybe I should just kill you right now. Put you out of your misery.”

Dedecus’s breath hitched.

“After all, you already tried to let this kid finish the job. But wouldn’t it be more fitting for me to do it?”

“Shut up!” The words ripped out of him, raw and ragged. His hands shook, his entire body taut with rage. Not fear—rage.

But the monster only smiled, his voice turning smooth, laced with venom.

“You stupidly let go of your anger toward God, didn’t you?” He rolled his eyes, feigning boredom. “You forgave Him after everything He did to us.”

“God wasn’t the one holding the stone,” Dedecus said.

“Exactly,” he said. “You were.” A slow chuckle. “And after everything you’ve done, you can never forgive yourself.”

The words slammed into Dedecus like a hammer, knocking the breath from his lungs.

“All those horrible feelings,” the monster continued, “the screams echoing in your ears, the faces of the ones you slaughtered—you will never escape them.”

As if the words carried weight beyond sound, the air itself twisted.

The white void fractured.

Distant voices rose from the cracks in the floor. Screaming. Crying. Pleading.

Dedecus’s chest tightened.

He could hear them—his victims.

The voices overlapped, a thousand tortured echoes.

His hands clenched into fists. His breathing grew ragged, his pulse hammering against his ribs.

“You here to make me feel worse?” Dedecus spat, his voice hoarse. “Nothing you can say compares to what I already think about every moment of my life.”

The monster only smirked.

“Oh, I’m not here to make you feel worse.”

He took a slow step forward.

“I’m here to show you how to make it stop.”

With a sickening rip, the monster reached into his own chest and tore something out.

The room dimmed, the light warping around the object in his hands.

The Creativity Stone.

The power that had let him reshape reality—and had reshaped him into a monster in the process

It pulsed.

The swirling red energy twisted between his fingers, humming with raw, limitless power.

Dedecus couldn’t look away.

It was right there.

Within reach.

He felt it in his bones, the pull that had never left him, the whisper that had never truly been silenced. For a year, he had fought it, resisted it—but he had never stopped feeling it.

Every dream. Every moment of silence. Every waking thought.

It was always there.

And now—it was in front of him.

His body betrayed him first.

His breathing hitched. His fingers twitched. His muscles coiled with a need so deep it felt like drowning.

It’s not real.

He knew that. Somewhere in the back of his mind, he knew this was just another trick of the Mind Prison, the layer he’d created in Transcendence designed to bring one’s deepest pains and fears to life.

But it looked real.

Felt real.

And if it was real, then all he had to do was take it.

One step.

One reach.

And the agony would stop.

He wouldn’t have to wake up every day with this weight in his chest. Wouldn’t have to feel the emptiness, the misery, the sickening self-hatred.

All he had to do was take it back.

His hand twitched.

Then—a flash.

Not from the outside. From within.

A memory.

The Creativity Stone burning inside his chest. The searing pain, the way it had consumed him, turned him into something uncontrollable.

The swirling tornado, the storm of power, ripping through everything.

The way he had lost himself.

The moment before the end—Joshua and Namid’s outstretched hands.

Not to fight him.

Not to destroy him.

To pull him back.

To save him.

And above even that—a hand he had never fully understood.

The hand of God that offered redemption.

Dedecus’s entire body trembled and his hand clenched into a fist.

“No,” he said, the word barely a whisper.

The monster-Dedecus tilted his head. “What was that?”

Dedecus inhaled shakily, pressing his palm against the scar over his heart. The place where the Creativity Stone had once been.

He tore his gaze away from the pulsing energy. “No.”

His voice rose, stronger now. “No!”

The monster laughed. “Suit yourself.”

He lifted the stone—and pressed it back into his chest.

The red energy fused into him, his form flickering for a moment like a living ember before he became solid again.

The temptation was gone.

But it had left something worse.

The monster-Dedecus’s smirk deepened.

“I saw it.”

Dedecus’s breath was uneven, his pulse hammering in his ears.

“Saw what?” He forced through gritted teeth.

The monster’s gaze pierced through him, eyes gleaming with cruel amusement. “The desire.”

A single step forward. “The way your body trembled.”

Another step. “The way you looked at it.”

His voice was a whisper now, low and full of satisfaction. “Don’t pretend I’m not still a part of you.”

Something inside Dedecus collapsed.

Self-loathing seared through him, hot and unbearable, suffocating him from the inside out.

He had rejected it.

But he had wanted it.

Even after all the lives he had destroyed.

Even after swearing he would never let it consume him again.

His fingers dug into his palms. His throat burned.

God, why am I still like this?

He wished God would strike him dead, right there. It’s what he deserved.

He longed to make himself pay with blood with the sword in his hand, but he refused to show weakness in front of the monster standing before him, the monster still inside him.

The monster watched him, drinking in his self-loathing like it was the sweetest thing in the world.

And he laughed.

Wane’s breath came in sharp, uneven gasps. His ankle ached but he ignored it. He just… sat there.

Staring.

His mind whirled, unable to process what he was seeing.

Two Dedecuses.

One was exactly as he had always imagined—the monster from his nightmares, the red-eyed demon who had torn his life apart. The murderer who had killed his parents, who had destroyed his life without a second thought.

And then—

The other.

The one he had tried to kill.

The one he had hated for a year.

The one who looked nothing like a god, nothing like a demon—just a man. A man who shook with the weight of his own existence.

His arms, scarred. His face, pale and drained. His breath, unsteady.

Wane had pictured this moment so many times. The confrontation. The rage, the blood, the revenge.

But this? This wasn’t how it was supposed to be.

Wane swallowed, his mouth dry as dust.

He should still want to kill him.

He had spent an entire year feeding that hatred, sharpening it like a blade. He had trained, planned, dreamed of the day he would face Dedecus the Destroyer and make him pay.

And yet…

The man standing before him looked nothing like a destroyer.

He looked like someone who had already been destroyed.

Wane had told himself that Dedecus thrived on pain, that he loved power, loved destruction.

But this Dedecus?

He had rejected the Creativity Stone.

The power was right there. And he didn’t take it.

If Dedecus was truly everything Wane believed him to be, he wouldn’t have hesitated. He would have taken it without a second thought.

So why had he turned away?

Why had he looked so sick with shame?

Why did he seem more tortured by his past than even Wane was?

Wane’s stomach twisted, the solid foundation of his hatred cracking, crumbling beneath him.

But… his parents were still dead.

A sickening grin spread across monster-Dedecus’s face as he lifted his hands.

“Fine,” he drawled. “If Dedecus is too much of a coward to use the Creativity Stone, then I will.”

The air rippled.

The stark white room fractured, its cracks crawling outward, consuming everything.

And the world changed.

The blinding white vanished, replaced by the vibrant hues of Fides—before the destruction.

Wane gasped.

The town was alive—the sun shining down on gravel paths, people bustling about their day, merchants calling out their wares. The scent of freshly baked bread drifted from the bakery, blending with the crisp forest air.

It was exactly as it had been.

Before he came.

A tremor ran beneath their feet.

The peaceful sounds of village life were shattered by a deep, inhuman roar.

The ground shook violently, sending people stumbling, screaming. Dust and debris rained from rooftops.

The sky darkened, twisting.

From the heart of the village, a figure stood.

The real Dedecus flinched at the sight of his past self—his monstrous self.

The Dedecus of the past—the one consumed by the Creativity Stone—stood tall, wreathed in unholy power. His skin shone with dark radiance, his eyes burning a searing red.

He didn’t look human anymore—only power wearing his face

The voice that erupted from his lips was a bellow of pure rage.

“You and your perfect village,” he roared, “are finally going to feel what I experienced my entire life.”

A crack of energy split through the sky.

“Bow to me as your god,” monster-Dedecus commanded, “or I’ll show you who you should have been praying to all this time.”

The ground exploded beneath him as he launched forward, slamming his hand into the earth. A pulse of red energy erupted outward, a shockwave tearing through the earth.

Buildings collapsed like paper. Stone walls crumbled, burying those beneath them.

The village descended into chaos.

People ran, screaming. Some fell, crushed beneath the weight of their own homes.

And Wane?

Wane could only stare.

It was happening again.

The day his parents died.

His body moved before he could think.

His broken ankle throbbed, but he didn’t care.

I can save them.

His father had charged forward that day, sword in hand, trying to stop Dedecus.

Wane had pleaded to go with him—but his father had refused, telling him to stay hidden.

That had been the last thing he ever said to him.

But now—now he could change it.

Now he was older, stronger.

He could stop it.

Wane’s breath hitched as he saw him.

His father.

Leading a small group of villagers, swords drawn, creeping closer to the monster.

He was alive.

I can reach him.

Wane limped forward, his injured ankle screaming in protest.

Dedecus’s voice shouted behind him.

“Wane, stop! There’s nothing you can do! This is just a—”

“I can save him!” Wane shouted back. “And you can’t stop me!”

The pain in his leg didn’t matter.

The ache in his chest didn’t matter.

The only thing that mattered was getting to his father.

The monster-Dedecus stood at the ruins of the church, his hands glowing with red-hot energy.

The real Dedecus stared in horror.

Wane stumbled forward, gasping as he tried to close the distance, but he was moving too slowly.

His father was so close now.

The past version of him—the younger Wane—was still hidden in the shadows, watching his father prepare to charge.

But Wane wasn’t that scared little kid anymore.

He was here now.

He could warn him.

He could stop him.

“Dad!” His voice ripped through the chaos.

His father’s head turned and for a split second, their eyes met.

Wane felt his breath catch, tears stinging his vision.

His father lifted a finger to his lips. A silent warning to stay quiet and hidden.

But Wane wouldn’t. Not this time.

He pushed himself harder, faster.

But his ankle buckled.

He crashed to the ground, gasping in pain.

He lifted his head just in time to see his father charge.

No. No, no, no!

His dad swung his sword, sending it straight into the monster’s chest.

He doubled over and grasped at the hilt. Blood gushed from the wound.

He stood up straight and laughed. He rolled his piercing red eyes and ripped the piece of metal out, flinging it off to the side where it clanged against the ground. The wound healed instantly. He brushed the blood off his chest.

Wane scrambled back to his feet. It was happening exactly as he remembered.

“Really?” The monster laughed, “Did you really think a little weapon could stop a literal god?” He held out his hand and grinned. “But if it’s a sword fight, you want.”

He held out his right hand, and a black hilt entwined with red spirals appeared in it. Shiny metal grew out of the hilt, glowing red.

Wane cried out, immediately recognizing the blade that had killed his dad.

He tossed the blade once, caught it, and the point angled toward Wane’s father’s chest—exactly like the memory

Here it comes.

Wane’s breath hitched, his body frozen in place. This was it. The moment he’d relived a thousand times.

The blade tore through the air, aimed straight at Wane’s father’s chest.

A blur of motion.

Steel met steel.

The resounding clang rang through the ruined village as Dedecus blocked the strike.

Wane’s eyes widened.

What?

Dedecus stood firm, his sword locked against his monstrous past self’s blade. His body shook with the impact, but he didn’t falter.

This wasn’t right.

Dedecus was fighting.

Not just fighting—protecting.

The same man Wane had hated, the same man he had spent a year preparing to kill, was now shielding his father from death.

Monster-Dedecus laughed. “You cannot change the past, your actions change nothing about this man’s fate.”

Dedecus’s voice was hard as stone. “Maybe not, but I will not let this boy watch his father die again. Once is already too many times.”

Too many times.

Wane’s heart pounded.

His father was still there—alive, retrieving his sword.

I can still reach him.

Ignoring the pain screaming from his ankle, he pushed forward, shoving his way over rubble, past the burning remains of what used to be homes.

Monster-Dedecus struck first.

A wave of raw energy erupted from his blade, slamming Dedecus backward. He skidded across the gravel path, barely regaining his footing before the monster charged again.

Wane flinched at the force of it. The air itself felt like it was burning.

His sword lashed out, a red-hot arc slicing through the air. Dedecus twisted, barely dodging, the heat of the blade singeing his skin as he moved.

He retaliated, swinging his own sword in a sharp counterattack.

The two clashed violently, their blades sparking with every strike. Each impact sent shockwaves rippling outward, kicking up dust and debris.

Monster-Dedecus laughed, eyes glowing with un-contained power.

Wane shielded his face from the dust.

Faster. I have to move faster.

But he couldn’t, every step felt like someone was stabbing him in the leg.

His father was still ahead, waiting for the perfect moment to strike. The same moment that had killed him before.

The two Dedecuses fought like gods, each strike cracking the illusion of Fides itself.

Monster-Dedecus’s sword blurred, too fast, too brutal.

Dedecus blocked, dodged, countered—but he was struggling.

Wane could see it now.

The real Dedecus was tiring. His movements were sharp, but slowing. Every strike he deflected came closer and closer to breaking through his defense.

And all the while, Wane’s father moved.

Creeping closer.

Ready to strike.

No. Not again.

The monster lunged, his blade slicing downward in a brutal arc. Dedecus caught it mid-swing, locking their swords together.

For a moment, they were face to face.

Red eyes met haunted ones.

Monster-Dedecus grinned, his voice dripping with mockery.“You’re fighting a battle with yourself you’ve already lost. You think anything you do now will change things? Lessen that self-loathing? It’s too late.”

Dedecus’s jaw clenched. Blood trickled from a cut on his arm, his grip on his sword tighter than ever. “I don’t care.” His voice was steel.

“You don’t get it, do you?” His voice was softer now, almost mockingly pitying. “I’m stronger. I always have been. You gave up what made us powerful.”

He gestured at his glowing chest, the pulsing stone embedded within.

“You think rejecting this makes you noble? It makes you weak. I was the version of you that no one could touch. No one could hurt. And now? You’re nothing.”

Dedecus exhaled sharply, steadying his stance. “If power is all you have, then you were never strong at all.”

“Then what does that make you?” The monster broke the deadlock.

The world burned around them as they fought.

Each strike sent cracks splintering through the illusion of Fides. Buildings wavered like mirages, as if the village itself was breaking under the weight of their battle.

Monster-Dedecus fought with relentless fury, his blade a blur of red light, his movements inhumanly fast.

Dedecus barely had time to react before a wave of power slammed into him.

He was sent flying back, crashing into a half-destroyed building.

Wane reached the battle empty-handed, his sword still in Dedecus’s grip. He desperately searched around for anything he could use to defend them.

Dedecus forced himself upright, coughing dust from his lungs.

Monster-Dedecus spun on his heel, locking onto Wane’s father.

His father lifted his sword, lunging.

The monster moved faster.

Wane saw the blade swing upward.

Saw it glow red.

Saw it cut through the air—

And plunge into his father’s chest.

“NO!”

Wane collapsed, his legs buckling as if the sword had pierced him instead.

His father choked, eyes going wide.

Monster-Dedecus twisted the blade.

Blood spilled over the steel.

His father staggered, then fell.

The world blurred.

The sounds of battle faded into static.

All Wane could hear was his own ragged breathing.

All he could see was his father lying on the ground, unmoving.

It happened again.

He hadn’t saved him.

He hadn’t changed anything.

It was a fight that could never be won.

Dedecus rose from the rubble, slowly, painfully. His body ached with exhaustion, his limbs trembling from the sheer weight of the battle—not just the physical fight, but the one raging inside him.

He was fighting against himself.

And he was losing.

His breath came in ragged gasps as he took in the sight before him.

Wane’s father lay still, lifeless.

And Wane—the boy who had spent a year dreaming of getting revenge for this moment—knelt beside him, broken.

The sobs cut through Dedecus like a blade.

Behind him, Monster-Dedecus laughed.

The sound was deep, victorious, cruel.

“You failed.”

The words hit harder than any blade.

Dedecus swallowed, his throat burning.

“You thought you could change the past, but you can’t.”

No. He couldn’t.

And he was tired.

So, so tired.

Dedecus turned back toward his past self.

The monster’s red eyes blazed, his expression twisted in pure amusement.

They weren’t done yet.

Monster-Dedecus lunged forward, sword raised high, going for the kill.

Dedecus met him head-on, blocking the strike with the last of his strength.

Their swords clashed in a violent spark of power, but Dedecus was losing ground.

His muscles burned, his movements slowing.

The monster fought with pure, unrelenting fury, but Dedecus wasn’t angry anymore.

He wasn’t fighting for atonement.

He wasn’t fighting to prove himself.

He wasn’t fighting to punish himself.

And somehow, that made him stronger.

The battle raged, the illusion of Fides splintering around them, the very world trembling under their clashing blows.

But Dedecus wasn’t fighting to win.

He was fighting to end it.

Then, in one final movement, he let go.

Dedecus dropped his sword.

Not because he’d given up—but because he refused to feed his demons any longer.

The clang of steel hitting stone echoed through the dying illusion.

Monster-Dedecus hesitated, blinking in surprise. “What are you doing?”

Dedecus turned away. His breath was shaky but steady. “No.”

Monster-Dedecus’s face contorted with rage.

“Fight me!” he bellowed, his voice twisting the very air around them.

“No.” Dedecus didn’t look back.

“You don’t get to walk away from this!” The monster’s voice was a snarl, desperate now, like he could feel himself fading.

But Dedecus did walk away.

Because he couldn’t keep fighting with the past.

Dedecus stumbled forward, barely keeping himself upright, until he reached Wane.

The boy looked up, red-eyed, tear-streaked, shattered.

For the first time, Wane didn’t look at him with hatred.

He just looked at him like someone lost.

Dedecus lowered himself to his knees beside him, his heart pounding as he searched for the right words.

He found none.

So instead, his voice cracked with the only truth he could give.“I’m sorry.”

Wane hesitated, his whole body tense.

Then, finally, his lips parted.

“Thank you.”

It was quiet. Almost too quiet.

But it was real.

Dedecus exhaled a shaky breath. “I know it doesn’t make up for what I did, but...”

His voice trailed off. Because what could he say?

There was no right thing. No words that would make Wane’s pain disappear.

Wane wiped his sleeve across his eyes. His voice was still hoarse when he spoke.

“I thought maybe God was giving me a second chance.”

Dedecus’s breath caught.

The words pierced deeper than he expected.

Not a second chance at the past.

But maybe—maybe a second chance at the future.

He nodded slowly, the realization settling over him like a weight lifted.

“You know, maybe He has.”

Wane stared at Dedecus for a long time. “You really have changed, haven’t you?”

Dedecus opened his mouth, but Wane kept talking.

“That monster died a year ago.”

Dedecus flinched. His voice was rough when he finally spoke.“That monster is still in me. Tempting me. Every day.”

“But you didn’t listen.” Wane shook his head. “You two don’t look anything alike.”

Dedecus pressed his tongue against the roof of his mouth, trying to keep from breaking.

His throat burned.

His eyes stung.

But for the first time in a long, long time...

He felt like he could breathe.

After a long silence, Wane swallowed hard. “I’m sorry I tried to kill you.”

Dedecus let out a small, dry laugh. “I think you had a fair reason.”

A hint of a smirk ghosted across Wane’s face before it faded into something solemn. “And I...” He swallowed hard. “I forgive you. Or at least I’m trying to.”

The words settled over Dedecus like a weight.

“And I hope one day you can forgive yourself.”

Dedecus’s chest tightened.

Wane wasn’t finished. “Because I think God saved you for a reason.”

For a long moment, Dedecus just sat there.

Feeling.

Breathing.

After a year of screaming voices in his head, it felt strange to have silence.

It wasn’t the numbness of despair.

It wasn’t the whispers of temptation.

It was just quiet.

And for the first time in a long time, that quiet felt like peace.

He exhaled and ran a finger absentmindedly over one of the scars on his wrist.

The world around them shifted.

The ruins of Fides blurred, faded—until they were back in the stark white room.

The monster was gone.

Dedecus blinked, feeling strangely light.

He pulled himself to his feet, offering a hand to Wane.

“Come on.” His voice was steady. “We need to get out of this place.”

Wane took his hand.

And together, they walked forward.

Dedecus drove his makeshift pick into the dirt, the impact sending small tremors through his already aching arms. Though the walls of layer five were still unnaturally white, beneath the surface, they were just dirt.

That had been his advantage.

He had torn up fragments of the fractured ground, shaping them into rough picks. They weren’t perfect, but they were strong enough to climb with.

Wane had been amazed by his quick thinking, his breathless voice carrying a hint of something close to admiration.

“You know,” Wane had grunted between movements, “you should do more building. You’re annoyingly good at it.”

Dedecus had chuckled, more at himself than anything else. The idea wasn’t bad.

In fact, it was the first time something had sounded good in a long time.

Something to do.

Something with purpose.

They had been climbing for hours.

Slow, grueling progress. Wane’s injured ankle made every movement a struggle, forcing Dedecus to keep to a very slow pace.

But finally—finally—they had reached layer six.

And now, they were climbing the final stretch, clawing their way out of the chasm itself.

Dedecus gritted his teeth, pushing upward, his fingers raw from gripping the stone.

He was ready to be free of this place.

Ready to escape what he had already named in his mind—Transcendence’s Shadow.

“Dedecus…”

He froze at the echoing whisper.

His grip on the pick tightened as his eyes snapped downward, searching the abyss below them.

Nothing.

No movement. No shifting shadows.

Just emptiness.

A shiver crawled up his spine.

Then it came again.

“How far the great god has fallen.”

The voice was low, steeped in contempt, curling through the chasm like smoke.

Familiar.

But not.

Dedecus’s breath hitched. He stopped climbing, his heart pounding against his ribs.

“You good?” Wane’s voice snapped him back to the present.

Dedecus’s fingers dug into the dirt. “Did you hear that?”

Wane cocked his head. “Hear what?”

A sharp chill settled in Dedecus’s chest.

The voice came again.

“Enjoy Fides while you can. My reckoning is coming.”

His pulse slammed through his veins.

A distant pressure pulsed beneath his skin—something looming.

Watching.

Waiting.

Dedecus squeezed his eyes shut, forcing his breathing to steady.

It’s just in my head.

It’s exhaustion. It’s this cursed place playing tricks on me.

He forced his shaking fingers to grip the rock again. “Nothing,” he muttered. “It’s just... nothing. Let’s get out of here.”

But the feeling of dread didn’t leave him.

They climbed the final ledge just as the first light of dawn broke across the horizon.

The warmth of the sun should have been comforting.

But Dedecus still felt cold.

The whisper lingered in his mind, echoing.

It wasn’t the voice of his past self.

It wasn’t the voice of the Creativity Stone.

It was something else.

Something that knew him.

But he didn’t know it.

He shoved the thought aside as he helped Wane to his feet. “Come on.”

Since Wane couldn’t walk properly, Dedecus had to alternate between carrying him and acting as a human crutch.

It took them another three hours to make their way through the western forest, their exhaustion pressing heavier with each step.

But eventually, through the thinning trees, the rooftops of Fides came into view.

The streets of Fides were bustling in the late morning, but the orphanage stood like a beacon at the edge of the village.

The home for the children who had lost everything.

Most of them were there because of him.

Dedecus hesitated.

They had finally made it back. Wane was safe. There was nothing more for him to do here.

“You can make it from here, right?” Dedecus said, shifting awkwardly. “I should get going.”

Before Wane could answer, the door flew open.

“Kiddo, you’re alive!” Adia rushed out, relief radiating from her—until her eyes locked onto Dedecus.

Her expression darkened instantly.

“Get away from him!” She stepped protectively toward them. “Haven’t you already done enough damage? I don’t know what you did to him all night but—”

“He saved me.”

Adia’s breath hitched. She turned to Wane, startled. “He what?”

Wane shifted uncomfortably, looking away. “I was being dumb and got us into a dangerous situation.” His voice was quieter now, but firm. “He saved my life.”

Adia’s expression softened—just slightly. She turned to Dedecus. “Is this true?”

Dedecus sighed. “He’s a good kid. He’ll make an excellent guard one day.” He glanced at Wane’s swollen ankle and smirked. “But first, he needs to get some ice on that ankle before it falls off.”

Adia crossed her arms, eyes still wary, but she exhaled. “Well… thank you.”

Dedecus nodded once, uncomfortable with the unspoken tension in the air.

But at least one more person today, compared to yesterday, was glad he was there.

He smiled to himself.

Correction. Two people.

Wane… and himself.

Adia wrapped an arm around Wane’s shoulder. “Let’s get you to the hospital, kiddo. You’ll have plenty of time to let that injury heal, because you’ll be grounded for at least that long.”

Wane groaned but didn’t argue. “Real quick, though, can I have a minute to talk to Dedecus?”

Adia hesitated, glancing between them.

“…Fine. I’ll go grab some wrapping for your ankle.”

She stepped inside, leaving just the two of them.

Wane turned back, his voice quieter but unwavering.

“Look, I know this isn’t my place… but you need to talk to someone.”

Dedecus stiffened.

Wane held his gaze. “About... the scars.”

Dedecus looked away, resisting the urge to pick at one of the scabs.

“Joshua, Namid, Pastor Don… Someone. Just—” Wane hesitated. “You’re not alone.”

Dedecus’s jaw clenched.

For a long moment, he didn’t respond. Then, finally, ”I know...”

“So you’ll talk to someone?”

Adia returned, kneeling down to start wrapping Wane’s leg.

Dedecus chuckled. “It’s just the ankle, I’m not sure his knee needs to be wrapped.”

Adia shot him a glare. “Better safe than sorry.”

Wane snorted, shaking his head as Adia continued her overzealous bandaging.

A few villagers had gathered nearby, their whispers low but sharp.

Some glares burned into his back.

That wasn’t new.

Dedecus ignored them.

“Well, I should get back to my place.” He took a step back, then smirked. “Feel free to stop by sometime, Wane—once you’re ungrounded, of course. I could give you some sword-fighting pointers for next time you want to try and skewer me.”

Adia’s face paled.

Wane laughed. “I’ll be there!” Then his expression turned serious. “But you didn’t answer my question.”

Dedecus hesitated.

Wane narrowed his eyes. “Will you talk to someone?”

Dedecus rubbed his arm. “…I’ll think about it.”

Wane nodded.

Dedecus turned, heading back toward his cabin.

His body ached. His mind was exhausted.

But for the first time in a long time, he was actually thinking about talking to someone.

The idea of opening up still terrified him.

But the idea of continuing like this forever?

That terrified him more.

His thoughts drifted back to the chasm. Even now, as he walked away, he could still feel it. That faint pull. That whispered presence.

Still waiting.

Still watching.

Still plotting.

Dedecus swallowed hard. Whatever was down there wasn’t done with him yet.

But then he thought of Wane’s words.

I think God saved you for a reason.

Maybe he had.

And maybe, for the first time, Dedecus was finally willing to find out what that reason was.

The world of The Creativity Stone Series is built around consequences that linger—and redemption that costs something.

Redemption’s Scars bridges the space between Transcendence and what comes next, both thematically and narratively.

If you’d like to explore the larger story:

• Downfall — where Dedecus’s fall begins

• Transcendence — where the cost of power is fully revealed

Read Now

You’re welcome to share this story or leave a comment below. I’m grateful to everyone who takes the time to sit with it.

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— Caleb

Next week, I’m releasing a new short story set in The Creativity Stone Series that continues Dedecus’s journey beyond Transcendence.

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Redemption’s Scars is a dark fantasy story about justice, self-punishment, and the slow, painful work of repentance. It asks a difficult question: not whether forgiveness is possible, but whether someone who hates himself believes he deserves it—and what happens when that belief is challenged.

The story leads into forbidden places and fractured realities, into spaces beneath the world of Fides where the past refuses to stay buried. As Dedecus is hunted by someone who believes justice means vengeance, he is forced to face the one enemy he has never been able to escape: the version of himself he believes God can never redeem.

This is a free mini-novella, designed to be read in one or two sittings (about a 35–40 minute read) and it will be released all at once next week here on Substack and directly to your email.

If you’ve been following Dedecus’s story so far, this is not a side tale. It’s a necessary chapter in what comes next in preparation for the ultimate conclusion in book 3.

– Caleb Ward

Order Transcendence Now

Dedecus stood bound in the center of the town square, the villagers pressing around him in a restless wave of emotions—anger, fear, uncertainty. Their whispered judgments buzzed like insects, relentless and inescapable. The last time he had been here, he'd left the village in ruins. Now, he stood before them as their prisoner.

The damage from the inferno bears had been cleared, but his crimes lingered invisibly, heavy and suffocating. He could feel their hatred like a scorching brand, marking him forever as the monster he had become. Dedecus gritted his teeth, the bitterness of lifelong rejection rising in his throat. Once merely an outcast, now he was the nightmare haunting Fides.

The village council faced him from the front of the crowd, standing in a rigid, accusing line. Don's expression remained frustratingly unreadable, although something in the older man's eyes hinted at compassion Dedecus didn't deserve. Joshua and Namid stood beside him, tension etched deeply in their familiar faces, uncertainty mingled with something else Dedecus couldn't name. Sharon crossed her arms, her calculating stare piercing through him without mercy.

Dedecus's gaze flicked to the three new council members, appointed hastily after the destruction he caused. Adia stood stiffly, avoiding his eyes, grief clear in her tight posture. It was fitting, he supposed bitterly, that she now cared for the children he'd orphaned. Beside her was Jerold, the new leader of growth and technology, analyzing Dedecus with detached curiosity, as though he were a puzzle to solve.

And finally, there was Mreck—someone he had never met, yet Dedecus could already tell exactly the kind of person he was. The man radiated contempt, viewing Dedecus as a stain that needed scrubbing out of existence. They'd put him in charge of the village's defenses. And from the glare in his eyes, Dedecus could tell Mreck considered him Fide’s greatest threat.

Don stepped forward, his voice steady but heavy.

“We stand here today in the aftermath of great destruction. Many lives were lost, and much was broken. But Dedecus stands here, alive. A miracle in itself. And so, we must decide—not just what to do with him, but what kind of people we choose to be.”

The crowd murmured, a shifting sea of emotions. The late afternoon breeze swept quietly through the square, doing nothing to relieve the tense stillness that hung heavy over every shoulder.

Mreck scoffed, his voice cutting through the silence like a blade.

“This isn’t complicated,” he said, stepping forward. “He murdered our people. He nearly wiped out this entire village—twice. I don’t care that he claims to be sorry. How do you make up for that? You can’t. There’s only one fitting punishment.” His eyes locked onto Dedecus with the sharpness of a drawn sword. “He should die for what he’s done.”

A ripple of agreement moved through the crowd. Someone shouted, "Justice for our dead!"

Dedecus clenched his fists, his nails digging into his palms. He had expected this. He had prepared for it. But hearing the words still sent a cold weight into his chest.

Joshua stepped forward, his fists tight at his sides. “No!” His voice rang with a desperation Dedecus hadn’t expected. “He’s not the same person he was when he took the Creativity Stone! He gave it up—he removed it from his own chest. You saw him die. God brought him back. That has to mean something!”

“God bringing him back doesn’t erase what he’s done,” Mreck snapped. “And let’s be honest—are we just supposed to assume it was God? He died from removing the stone. Maybe his link to the stone brought him back. How do we know some other dark power isn’t at work here?”

The words sent a fresh wave of whispers through the gathered villagers. Suspicion bloomed in their eyes.

Namid stepped forward, her voice sharper than steel. “That’s ridiculous. We all saw it happen. Dedecus removed the Creativity Stone from his chest and chose to surrender it, sacrificing himself in the process. God’s given him a second chance and we have a duty to allow him to take it.”

Dedecus glanced at her, surprised by the unwavering conviction in her voice. But she wasn’t looking at him—her gaze was fixed on the crowd, daring them to challenge her words.

Sharon exhaled slowly, her arms still crossed over her chest. “Even if that’s true, the reality remains—he did commit those crimes. We can’t just pretend that didn’t happen.”

Adia spoke, her voice quieter than the others, cautious and measured. "It's more complicated than just what Dedecus has done. It's what he still represents to people. Even if he's changed, even if he regrets everything, the fear he left behind is real. The children still flinch at his name. The nightmares haven’t stopped.” Her gaze flickered briefly toward Dedecus, sadness more than anger coloring her features. “How do we move forward from that?”

Dedecus swallowed, the words pressing heavily against him, but he said nothing.

Sharon leaned forward, her voice sharper and more direct. "Exactly. How do you expect us to overlook the pain you've caused? The lives you've shattered?"

Dedecus stared at the ground, his fists clenched at his sides. Adia’s words pierced deeper than the others', twisting painfully in his chest. Of course the children feared him—they had every reason to. He'd grown up an orphan himself, longing for acceptance, haunted by the loneliness of never belonging. Now, because of him, other children faced the same cruel fate, their nightmares filled with the monster he’d become. A shuddering breath escaped him, tension building as desperation fought to surface, but he forced it back down.

“I don’t expect anyone to overlook it.” His voice was strained, holding a careful tightness. “You think I don’t know exactly how people look at me? You think I don’t wake up every day remembering the things I've done?” His voice trembled slightly, but he forced himself back under control. “I despise what I've become, what I've caused, but I can't undo any of it.”

Mreck’s lip curled, his words blunt and biting. “Then you shouldn’t get to live among us.”

Joshua stepped forward. "That's not fair. He gave up the stone—he chose to sacrifice himself. We all saw it. If we judge him as if nothing has changed, then what hope is there for anyone who's made mistakes?"

The silence that followed was thick and uncomfortable.

Dedecus’s pulse pounded in his ears as he looked out over the crowd. Their faces were a storm of emotions—anger, fear, uncertainty.

“I understand why he took the stone,” Jerold said, his voice measured. “He wanted power because he had none. He wanted control because he had none. I even understand why he lashed out at us. He was an outcast. He suffered his whole life. And we didn’t help him.”

Dedecus felt his stomach twist. He didn’t want their pity.

“And yet, he still made the wrong choice.” Sharon’s voice was sharp.

Jerold didn’t flinch. “Yes. And he needs to answer for it. But not with his life.”

Mreck let out a scoff, crossing his arms. “Then what? You want him to just walk free?”

“No one is saying that,” Namid cut in. “But how would killing him make anything better? It won’t bring back the dead. It won’t fix what was broken. If we do this, then we’re proving we haven’t changed either. We’ll be the same as when we executed people under the Judges of Justice. That’s not who we are anymore.”

Dedecus studied her face, searching for hesitation, but there was none. Namid had always been like this—level-headed, fair. But the fact that she was defending him at all, especially now, made something tight in his chest loosen just a little.

Mreck shook his head. “Justice isn’t vengeance. But justice is consequences. What consequences do you propose?”

Sharon’s gaze flicked to Dedecus, unwavering, assessing. “We hold him accountable, but we don’t execute him. He must work—hard—to rebuild this village. The homes that were destroyed, the lives that were shattered. But he must live outside the village, it’s the only way to keep people from being too afraid to leave their houses.”

Dedecus barked a humorless laugh, shaking his head. “Oh, I see. You want me to be your village servant. Your little reminder of past mistakes so you can all feel better about yourselves.”

“Dedecus—” Joshua started, but Dedecus wasn’t done.

His voice hardened, fists clenching. “No. I get it. You don’t want to kill me, but you don’t want to accept me either. You just want me to pay for the rest of my life.”

Namid stepped closer, her voice calm but firm. “This isn’t just about you. It’s about what’s right.”

Dedecus exhaled sharply, bitterness creeping into his voice. “Right? This village treated me like a mistake before I ever did anything wrong. And now you expect me to just—serve the people who spat on me? The people who drove me to take the stone in the first place?”

Sharon’s eyes narrowed. “That’s what repentance is, Dedecus. It’s not just feeling sorry for yourself. It’s making things right, even if it costs you.”

His breath came heavier. “And who decides when the cost is enough? You?”

“The people you hurt,” Adia said softly, but her voice cut through the noise like a blade.

His voice came quieter now, more raw. “And what if it never is? What if nothing I do is enough?”

The silence that followed stretched unbearably long, heavy as the weight on his shoulders.

Don sighed, rubbing a hand down his face. “That’s the risk of repentance, Dedecus. You don’t get to control the outcome. You just choose whether you’ll do what’s right anyway.”

A thick stillness hung in the air.

Joshua ran a hand through his hair. He glanced toward Dedecus, frustration etched deeply into his expression. "I don’t like this," he said finally, voice taut. "He doesn’t deserve to be treated like a slave."

Namid’s expression softened. “I won’t let that happen.”

Sharon nodded. “Then it’s decided. He will live. But he will work to rebuild the village. He will prove he has changed—not just with words, but with actions.”

Mreck scowled, but there was resignation in his face. “And if he fails?”

Don exhaled. “Then we face that when it happens.”

The crowd murmured, some nodding, some uncertain, but no one objected.

Dedecus inhaled deeply, then exhaled just as sharply. His fate had been decided. But maybe it was a chance to prove himself.

His fingers curled into his palms as he forced himself to say it. “Fine.”

As a special thank you, I’m excited to share an exclusive bonus chapter with you:

The Trial of Dedecus

After the devastating events at the end of Transcendence, Dedecus finds himself bound and on trial in the heart of Fides Village—the very place he once destroyed. Surrounded by faces reflecting anger, fear, and grief, Dedecus must confront not only the judgment of the villagers but the crushing weight of his own guilt. As accusations fly and tempers flare, the village council grapples with an impossible question: can someone who has caused unimaginable pain ever truly be redeemed?

Read Now!

Thank you again for being part of this community. I’m so grateful to share these stories with you—and excited for what’s next.

Whether you’ve already picked up a copy, shared a post, or sent an encouraging word, I’m so grateful for your support. Because of you, we hit number 1 in Christian fantasy new releases and number 3 on the Christian fantasy bestsellers list on Amazon!

If you haven’t jumped in yet, let me give you a glimpse of what book two is about:

When humanity seeks to play divine, can God’s truth overcome the impending destruction?

Embark on an epic journey with Joshua and Namid as they confront the consequences of wielding the power of creation.

In the riveting sequel to the acclaimed Christian fantasy novel, Downfall, these two friends must navigate the perilous layers of Transcendence, a world shaped by their former friend’s corrupted mind.

As chaos unfolds and the boundaries between humanity and divinity blur, they face a daunting question:

When humanity seeks to play divine, can God’s truth overcome the impending destruction of two interconnected worlds?

➡️ You can order it here:

Order Here

Thank you again for being part of this story. I truly can’t wait for you to experience it.

— Caleb

If you’ve been waiting to find out what happened after the events of Downfall—the wait is over.

I was originally planning to send this email tomorrow, but I’m reaching out tonight because Transcendence has already climbed to #1 in Christian Fantasy New Releases and is currently sitting at #4 overall in Christian Fantasy Bestsellers.

With your help, it could reach #1 tonight.

If you’ve been planning to grab a copy, now would be the perfect time. Your order could help push Transcendence to the top—and every bit of momentum in these early days matters more than you know.

Order Now

Here’s a quick look at what’s inside:

Three weeks have passed since the fall of Fides.
The storms haven’t stopped.
Joshua is restless. Namid is hurting.
And Dedecus has disappeared—into a world of his own making.

To save him, Joshua and Namid must step into that world.
But what they find isn’t a battlefield. It’s a kingdom.
And in this kingdom, Dedecus isn’t a villain—he’s a god.

Transcendence is a story of fractured identity, spiritual warfare, impossible choices, and the hope that redemption is still possible.

Ready to begin the journey?
Order your copy today and return to Novitas:

Order Now

Thank you so much for being part of this series with me. I can’t wait for you to experience what’s next.

— Caleb

Transcendence, book two in The Creativity Stone Series, releases on April 28th, and I want to invite you into something more than just a book launch—I want to invite you into a message.

At its core, Transcendence is a story about redemption, healing from deep failure, and the long, painful road to restoration. It’s about two friends fighting through a world of chaos because they believe in the power of redemption... and the God who offers mercy even when we think we’re beyond it.

If you believe in stories that bring truth, hope, and light into dark places, I’d love to have you on my Launch Team.

Join Here

Here’s what it means:

• You’ll get a free digital advance copy of the book

• Join a private Facebook group (April 7–May 5) with fun giveaways and connection

• Help spread the word through social media posts and a quick Amazon review

• You’ll be entered to win weekly prizes and a GRAND PRIZE:
  👉 $30 Amazon gift card, a Transcendence T-shirt, and themed swag!

This story has meant a lot to me as the author—but now it’s time to share it with the world. And I can’t do that without you.

Apply to join the launch team here:

Join Here

Thank you for believing in these stories and their message. Let’s get this one out there together.

Apply to Join

If you’ve enjoyed Downfall and are excited to return to Novitas—or if you just like Christian fantasy with high stakes and redemption arcs—this is your chance to be one of the first readers to dive into the story and help me spread the word. Here's what being on the team looks like:

🌟 You’ll get a free advance copy of the book
🌟 We’ll hang out in a private Facebook group from April 7–May 5
🌟 You’ll help by sharing the book on social media and leaving a short Amazon review
🌟 Participate in weekly giveaways + a grand prize to win: a $30 Amazon gift card, a custom Transcendence T-shirt, and exclusive swag!

It’s super simple and really fun—and you’ll be a huge part of launching this story into the world.

Apply to Join

Thanks so much for your support. I couldn’t do this without you.

P.S. Here’s the book description and cover if you want a sneak peek:

Book Description

If you’re still reeling from the intense cliffhanger that Downfall left you on, the wait is almost over! Transcendence, the second book in The Creativity Stone Series, officially launches on April 28th!

What to Expect in Transcendence

The world of Novitas has forever changed. The Creativity Stone’s power has been unleashed, and its effects have reshaped everything Joshua, Namid, and the people of Fides once knew. With Dedecus gone and storms raging across the land, Joshua and Namid must make a choice—leave the past behind or step into the unknown to confront their former friend.

But finding Dedecus is only the beginning. What awaits them is beyond anything they could have imagined: a world of his own making, built with the power of the stone. A world where he is worshiped. A world that dares them to question everything they thought they believed.

Will they be able to bring him back? Or will Transcendence consume them, too?

Preorder the Kindle Version Now!

I’m thrilled to share that the Kindle version of Transcendence is now available for preorder! Secure your copy today so you can dive in the moment the book releases.

Preorder Now!

And if you haven’t read Downfall yet, now is the perfect time to catch up before the adventure continues.

Stay tuned for more updates, and let me know in the comments—what are you most excited to see in Transcendence?

And now, I’m thrilled to reveal the cover for the next installment in The Creativity Stone Series.

This sequel delves even deeper into the consequences of wielding power beyond human understanding. Joshua and Namid must navigate the perilous layers of Transcendence, a world shaped by the corrupted mind of their former friend. As chaos unfolds and the boundaries between humanity and divinity blur, they’re faced with an impossible question:

When humanity seeks to play divine, can God's truth overcome the impending destruction of two interconnected worlds?

The Cover Reveal

I won’t keep you waiting any longer—here is the official cover!

This design captures so much of what this book is about—the tension between creation and destruction, the forces at play in Transcendence, and the weight of the choices our characters must make. I’m incredibly proud of how it turned out and can’t wait to hear what you think!

What’s Next?

While I don’t have an official release date just yet, this book is coming soon, more than likely the end of February. Over the next few weeks, I’ll be sharing more about the story, behind-the-scenes details, and maybe even a sneak peek. If you haven’t read Downfall yet, now is the perfect time to start—this sequel raises the stakes in ways you won’t want to miss.

Get Downfall Now

Let me know your thoughts on the cover in the comments! What are you most excited to see in this next book?

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This novella has been an adventure I hadn’t planned on, but a blessing to tell. It’s a tale of redemption, faith, and the enduring power of ancient truths. Over the past few weeks, we’ve followed Soldier 739 on his journey from a tool of the Neoterian regime to a man rediscovering his identity, his purpose, and his place in a broken world. We’ve seen Selah’s unwavering hope, the courage of the People of the Covenant, and the clash between progress and tradition.

And now, it all comes to a head.

Read Part 6: A Remnants' Last Stand

Read Part 7: A Drink of Water

Read Part 8: The Song of Repentance

Or start at the beginning of the adventure with part 1:

Read Part 1: Into the Fog of Memory

What Awaits You in Parts 6–8

In these final chapters, the stakes have never been higher. With the threat of destruction looming over the People of the Covenant, Tof (formerly Soldier 739) must step into the role he was destined for. The truth of the covenant, the power of obedience, and the ancient song of repentance will all collide in an unforgettable finale.

But will faith be enough to turn the tide? Will the Neoterians' relentless pursuit of control break the covenant once and for all, or will the Ancient One’s promises prevail?

Read Part 6: A Remnants' Last Stand

What’s Next?

Is the world of The Antiquarians done? Maybe, maybe not. I’d love to hear your thoughts on the story—your favorite moments, the themes that resonated with you, and any reflections you’d like to share.

And if you’ve enjoyed The Song of the Covenant, stay tuned because I might have more novellas set in this world to share, as well as updates on my upcoming novel releases.

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Thank you for joining me on this adventure. Your support and encouragement mean everything. Now, let’s see how the story ends.

Read Part 6: A Remnants' Last Stand

Or start back at the beginning with part 1:

Read Part 1: Into the Fog of Memory

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Tof’s heart raced. His body tensed, ready to grab Selah and leap onto Shofar’s back if water began to fall. He’d protect her—no matter what.

But nothing happened. The sky remained stubbornly cloudless, and not a single drop of rain fell.

The Enlightened One’s face darkened with rage. “Your soldiers didn’t power it enough!” she barked at the Subjugator. “Make them go faster!”

The Subjugator whistled sharply, and the soldiers resumed their desperate push, kicking up sand as they strained to rotate the wheel faster.

One soldier tripped and was immediately trampled, but the rest didn’t slow down. They couldn’t afford to.

The device hummed louder, spokes grinding as the soldiers pushed it to its limits. Sparks flew from the wires, snapping angrily. A few soldiers stumbled, gasping for breath, but the Subjugator barked for replacements, and new ones took their place.

The machine crackled, lights flickering, a desperate beast trying to wring rain from a cloudless sky. But still, not a single drop fell.

Shofar, unbothered by the spectacle, had lain down, burying his massive head in the warm sand.

Selah, unable to contain herself, shouted, “Make ’em run faster! You must not have enough power!”

Tof stifled a grin at the sight of the Enlightened One’s face turning a deep shade of red. The vein on her forehead bulged visibly. “Faster!” she screamed.

The soldiers, now visibly exhausted, pushed harder. Whenever one of them collapsed from the strain, the Subjugator simply sent in another to drag the body away and take his place. Their exoskeletons whirred and clunked under the pressure, the sound almost comical in its contrast to the gravity of the situation.

Forty rotations came and went. The switch was flipped again, and still, the sky offered nothing but empty silence.

“Maybe try fifty rotations!” Selah’s voice was playful, mocking.

Tof joined in, unable to resist. “Yeah, or sixty! You’re so close!”

The Enlightened One glared down at them, her eyes blazing. She fiddled with the wires on the device, making a few hurried adjustments. “There. Now it’ll work.”

The soldiers, already drained, resumed their rotation, this time moving even slower. By now, the wheel had carved a deep trench into the sand, making it harder for them to keep up. The spokes were now shoulder-height, forcing them to stretch and strain just to keep the thing moving.

Dozens of men lay on the ground, exhausted and bloodied from the relentless pressure. The only reward for their efforts was more silence from the heavens.

The crowd of Antiquarians, sensing the futility of it all, began to laugh. Even Nebel cracked a smile, despite the severity of their circumstances.

"Send more soldiers!" someone shouted from the back.

"Maybe you’ve got a wire loose!" another voice added, drawing more chuckles.

“Spin around a few more times for good luck,” Tof called out, grinning as Selah’s giggles filled the air.

Selah, her eyes twinkling with mischief, shouted again, “Have them take off their suits to go faster!”

The Enlightened One looked like she was about to explode. “Subjugator, tell them to remove their exoskeletons!” Her voice was a barely controlled snarl.

The Subjugator raised an eyebrow. “But—”

“I said do it!”

The soldiers exchanged nervous glances, knowing all too well what the Enlightened One was asking. Removing their suits meant death—every one of them had been told that from the moment they donned the armor. But orders were orders. The Subjugator sighed and barked the command.

Reluctantly, the soldiers shed their exoskeletons, keeping only the helmets with the network of wires attached to their necks and spines.

Tof’s stomach twisted with anger. “So much for progress,” he muttered. “They’ve been lying to them the whole time.”

Selah’s hand squeezed his arm gently. “Progress, huh?” she winked. “Looks like even that has its limits.”

The soldiers, now lighter but clearly terrified, resumed their task, turning the wheel with renewed speed. But even then, the result was the same: no rain.

The sun had dipped lower in the sky, casting long shadows across the desert. The Neoterians had spent the entire afternoon chasing an impossible goal, their efforts futile and their soldiers collapsing in droves.

The trench around the device had grown so deep that the soldiers were practically climbing the spokes just to keep them turning. The once orderly ranks of the Neoterian forces had devolved into a pitiful scene of sweat, blood, and sand.

Still, the crowd watched in quiet anticipation, no one daring to move. Even the youngest among them stood frozen, their eyes locked on the spectacle of the Enlightened One’s growing desperation.

When the sun had almost set, Kinnor stood. “Enough!” he shouted. “Your time is up.”

The Enlightened One’s face burned with frustration, but she said nothing, her hands clenched into fists.

“Tof,” Kinnor called, “it is time for you to ask the Ancient One to save us. This is the moment we must return—fully return—to the covenant.”

Tof’s heart raced. What if the song didn’t work? What if he failed? Would the Enlightened One send her army to slaughter them all?

The Subjugator approached, his voice a venomous whisper. “Yes, Soldier 739. Ask the mythical deity whose subjects you spent a over of your life hunting down and killing to help you. I’m sure he’ll listen.”

Tof felt as if the Subjugator had jabbed a blade into his gut.

“Say your magic words and pray that your all powerful God will honor his covenant. Even though he stayed silent while the far more devoted of his people begged for his help, I’m sure he’ll answer you.”

Tof knew the Subjugator was manipulating him, but that didn’t change the truth of his words.

Though he’d changed his ways, why would the Ancient One honor his covenant with them. He was a murderer and a monster.

Tof swallowed, but Selah was at his side, her arms around him.

“He’s right,” Tof said, his voice just above a whisper. “I’m not even sure what to sing.” He looked around at the villagers eyeing him expectantly.

As she lay against him, her skin touching his, he knew she could feel the fear and insecurity running through his mind. A part of him wanted to push her away, while another knew that her comfort would be a healing balm to his soul.

“No he’s not right. It’s not about magic words, it’s about turning and actually following the truth of those words.” She looked up into his eyes. “Think about all we’ve been through just in the past few days, all the seemingly impossible pieces that came together to bring us to this moment. The Ancient One has been with you. You’ve repented and changed, but now will you obey”

Tof thought back over the past several days. If it wasn’t for the Ancient One and his people, Tof would be one of the soldiers now lying in the sand, drained after giving everything to serve the Enlightened One. If it wasn’t for the Ancient One and his gifts, Tof would either be trapped in an endless network of caves or dead, or both.

The Ancient One had been with him at the very beginning of the mission, when he traveled to the remains of the Antiquarian village and saw the tapestry move. Then again in the chamber where Selah had found the memory water. And when he’d finally drank the water himself and experienced the testimonies of the People of the Covenant.

Tof closed his eyes and whispered, “Yes, I will obey.”

“And the Ancient One will honor that.”

Tof stepped away and shouted as loud as he could so that everyone, both the Antiquarians and the Neoterians, could hear. “Look at the machine they built to control the skies, to force nature to bend. But has it worked? Have their promises brought us life? No! The land is still dry, the rivers are still empty, and our hearts are still weary. They’ve taken everything from us, but they can’t take the truth.”

Tof rubbed the spot on his arm that marked him as a child of the Ancient One For so long his identity had been obscured, but now he knew the truth. “People of the Covenant, we have been unfaithful to our God. Turn back to him and see his covenantal faithfulness. By obeying him, we will prove to the world that he has not abandoned his people!”

Tof took a deep breath, then turned to Shofar. “Will you take me up?”

Shofar nodded, bowing his head. “I am at your command.”

Tof climbed onto the wyvern’s back, reaching for Selah’s hand. “Come with me?”

Selah smiled, her eyes shining. “I do love dragon riding. And if I get a chance, I have to tell you some of my hilarious wyvern jokes.”

He playfully grunted.

“Be careful or I’m going to start calling you Grunt again.” She giggled.

“Fine. But first we have a drought to take care of.”

He climbed aboard Shofar’s back, with Selah sitting behind him.

As soon as they were settled, Shofar leapt into the air and circled around the area.

From above, Tof could see the entire village—its crude sand structures, worn and cracked from years of drought, the people huddled together in fear and hope. But beside them, the towering monstrosity of the Neoterian device stood in stark contrast—metal, wires, and gears whirring angrily, a crude attempt to force nature to bend to their will.

The device was surrounded by exhausted soldiers still trapped under the tongue of the Subjugator and tech of the Enlightened One.

How many of them were once People of the Covenant like him? They had been manipulated and forced into a life in service to empty ideas.

He looked up into the cloudless sky.

Ancient One help me.

He took a deep breath and began to sing the song he’d first heard while watching the tapestry in the Ancient’s House.

His voice echoed across the desert, carried by the wind. The people below lifted their heads, hope sparking in their hearts.

He added the second verse, the one he’d heard while in the caves where Selah had discovered the stream of memory water.

At the time, the words hadn’t made sense to him. And because of the exoskeleton he’d worn, hearing the song had caused pain. But now the words were filled with meaning and life.

The third verse had come after he’d drunk the memory water and learned about the Ancient One’s ways.

That was the last verse he knew, yet somehow it felt incomplete.

Had he missed something? Was there another piece that he was supposed to have?

Ancient One, I trust you. Give me the words to sing.

He let out a long breath. And the final verse came to him

The last note hung in the air and Shofar landed.

The crowd watched the sky, pensively waiting.

The Enlightened One glared at the sky, the muscles in her jaw twitching as the tension mounted. But the tightness in her neck betrayed her—the woman who had built an empire on control was teetering at the edge of collapse.

Tof held out his hand, it remained dry.

No rain came.

The Enlightened One sneered. “You’ve failed.”

Tof began to sweat. Had he gotten the words wrong? Displeased the Ancient One somehow?

Sensing his fear, Selah leaned close. “Have faith. You were obedient, now trust in the faithful maker of the covenant.”

The Subjugator marched forward, dagger in hand. “Even though we didn’t succeed, surely you Antiquarians see now that your faith has been in vain. Reject the covenant and let progress finally march forward.”

Kinnor shouted, pointing upward. “Look!”

A small dark cloud had formed far above them.

The Enlightened One scoffed. “Oooh a tiny cloud, so impressive.”

But her bravado couldn’t hide her twitching leg or the bulging vein in her forehead.

Tof turned to the crowd. “People of the Covenant, our deliverance is at hand. Sing the song of repentance with me.”

He began to sing again, with Selah and Kinnor quickly joining in. Shofar let out a mighty trumpeting call, harmonizing with the song.

Tof closed his eyes, letting the words flow, not just from his mouth but from somewhere deeper, as if the song had always been there, waiting for him to find it. As he sang, a breeze swept through the village, gentle at first, but growing stronger, stirring the sand at their feet.

The other elders and several pockets throughout the crowd lifted their voices.

The sky began to shift, dark clouds gathering on the horizon. And with each note, hope flickered brighter in the hearts of those who joined in, a spark that dared to challenge the dark.

Tiny droplets of rain struck against the ground, darkening the sand.

The Enlightened One’s eyes went wide as she stared into the sky. the Subjugator’s face grew pale.

As the last note ended, a lightning bolt struck across the sky and water fell from the sky in a torrential downpour, instantly drenching everyone present.

The People of the Covenant began shouting and dancing in the rain, overjoyed and in awe of the Ancient One’s faithfulness.

Draping his cloak over him, the Subjugator fled. But the Enlightened One stared in wonder at the sky, unable to comprehend what had happened but desperate to understand.

A cry came from the Neoterian soldiers. Sparks were shooting out of the wires on the back of their necks. The water was shorting out the equipment ensnaring them.

One by one, the soldiers slowly removed their helmets, laughing and weeping as the fog dissipated and their memories returned.

Unable to contain herself, Selah leapt up and down, her soaking wet braids bouncing behind her.

She slipped in the wet sand and Tof reached out to catch her.

Tof tried to wipe the water out of his face as he held Selah in his arms, but everything was drenching wet.

Then they both looked up into the sky and laughed.

The Ancient One hadn’t abandoned his people, nor would he. And his people would be the water that would flood the world and bring life back to a parched desert.

The world would return to its state as a lush paradise. And they would teach everyone, even the Enlightened One herself, the ancient ways.

The Ancient One had not abandoned His covenant. Tof was never more certain of anything else in his life.

Thank You for Reading!

Thank you for joining me on this journey through The Antiquarians: The Song of the Covenant. I hope this story has inspired you, challenged you, and reminded you of the enduring faithfulness of God, even in the driest seasons.

Your support means the world to me, whether you’ve read, shared, or reflected on these words. If this story has touched your heart, I’d love to hear from you—your thoughts and feedback bring life to the creative process.

Stay tuned for more adventures and stories to come. Until then, may you walk in the hope and light of the Ancient One.

Or start back at the beginning with part 1:

Read Part 1: Into the Fog of Memory

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Tof’s breath caught as he stood before the gathered People of the Covenant. They all stared at him, their eyes wide with desperate hope, their faith hanging by a fragile thread.

“Do you really know it?” Chalil’s voice wavered, barely rising above a whisper, yet it pierced the heavy silence. “The song... can it bring the rain?”

The question struck Tof like a physical blow, twisting his gut. These were his people—maybe even his relatives—looking to him for deliverance. How could he carry that weight? His hands clenched at his sides. He glanced at Selah, who stood beside him, her eyes filled with trust. She believed in him more than he believed in himself, and her quiet confidence made his failure feel inevitable.

“Come on,” he muttered under his breath, grabbing Selah’s arm and pulling her off to the side. He kept his voice low but couldn’t hide the tension that laced every word. “What are you doing? I don’t know any covenant songs. I was a kid when they took me, and I literally just got my memory back.”

Selah’s hand rested gently on his arm, her touch grounding him, even as it sent goosebumps up his skin. “Tof,” she said, her voice soft but firm, “the Ancient One told me, when I drank the memory water, that a man freed from metal chains would sing the words to bring the rain. That man is you.”

Tof let out a bitter laugh, his heart hammering against his ribs. “How could I possibly know what the Ancient One wants from me?”

Memories surged unbidden, flashes of brutality and darkness from the years he’d spent under the Subjugator’s control. He saw himself as a teenager, trembling under the weight of endless drills and beatings. The training had been relentless, designed to break his will. The Subjugator’s voice still echoed in his ears: “Pain is your master. Obedience is your path to survival. Feel nothing. Be nothing.”

He swallowed hard, shaking his head. “I was just a boy when they took me, Selah. I barely remember who I was before they turned me into... this. And I didn’t drink any of that crazy water.”

Selah’s eyes sparkled with mischief as she pulled a small vial from her dress, the glass glinting in the flickering firelight. “Want to?”

Tof froze, his mouth falling open in disbelief. “Where did you get that?” His gaze darted from the vial to the gathered villagers, then back to Selah. “The Enlightened One said no one could drink the water!”

“She said we couldn’t drink from that well.” Selah nodded toward the well Shofar had filled earlier. “But this?” She twirled the vial between her fingers, her grin widening. “I collected it back in the cave. And you, my friend, haven’t had your fill.”

The idea of drinking it felt like stepping off a cliff. His memories had already been tampered with once, leaving scars that ran deeper than he wanted to admit. He rubbed the back of his neck, his fingers brushing the faint, healed puncture marks where wires had once been embedded. “I don’t know, Selah. I’ve already had people mess with my mind. What if this is the same?”

Selah’s face softened, her teasing giving way to earnestness. “The Ancient One doesn’t control minds or manipulate memories. He heals them, Tof. He gives hope and truth. If you drink this, you won’t lose yourself—you’ll find the truth of who you’ve always been. And maybe... maybe that’s exactly what we need right now.”

His mind raced. Could he really trust a god he barely remembered? The thought of faith felt foreign, like reaching for something he’d only ever heard about in stories. “How can I have the faith you do?” His voice cracked, barely audible. “What if it’s all... empty?”

Selah’s smile returned, but it was softer this time, a beacon of quiet strength. “Tof, none of this is an accident. Think about it. We were separated as kids, but out of all the soldiers they sent to capture me, it was you. And we didn’t just fall into any cave—we landed in the one place that shattered their hold on you and led us to the memory water. And Shofar, a beast no one’s seen in ages, carried us here just in time to stop the Subjugator from manipulating everyone. The Ancient One’s been with us this entire time.”

Her words gnawed at his doubts, planting seeds of something he didn’t dare call hope. He stared at the vial, his pulse pounding in his ears. Could she be right? Could he trust in something—or Someone—he couldn’t see?

With a deep, shaky breath, he grabbed the vial, his fingers trembling as he pulled out the stopper. The faint scent of sweet water wafted up, a stark contrast to the bitter liquid the Neoterians had formerly forced him to drink. He tilted the vial to his lips and drank.

The moment the water touched his tongue, the world shifted. A sweetness unlike anything he’d ever tasted filled his senses, followed by a rush of warmth that spread through his chest. Then, as if the universe itself cracked open, images flooded his mind.

He saw his ancestors—People of the Covenant—bound in chains, their faces etched with sorrow as they labored under a scorching sun. But the vision didn’t end there. Wonders unfolded before him: rushing water, seas parting, and a voice that shook the heavens. The Ancient One had freed them, made a covenant with them, and promised blessings if they stayed true and hardships if they strayed.

Scenes shifted again, faster now, until Tof stood amidst a lush and thriving land. Green fields stretched as far as the eye could see, rivers sparkling like diamonds under the sun. Great houses dedicated to the Ancient One rose from the earth, their walls echoing with songs of joy. Wyverns perched on the rooftops, their melodic voices joining the chorus of the People of the Covenant. It was a world of life, of abundance, of purpose.

Then came the fall. Rivers dried, fields turned to dust, and the wyverns vanished into the sky. He watched as the people’s hearts strayed, chasing after false promises and fleeting power. They abandoned the covenant, and the drought descended like a curse, leaving only desolation in its wake.

But even in their rebellion, the Ancient One’s presence never left. His voice echoed in Tof’s mind, gentle yet commanding: “Return to Me. Repent, and I will restore you.”

Tears streamed down Tof’s face. It all made sense. The hardships, the pain, the drought—it wasn’t abandonment. It was a call to return. The Ancient One hadn’t left them; they had left Him. The drought lingered because the covenant had been forgotten, its promises cast aside. But it wasn’t too late. It was never too late.

As the visions faded, one last image lingered: the words of a song, etched into his soul as if they had always been there:

When Tof opened his eyes, the world felt different—brighter, sharper, as if he were seeing it for the first time. He looked at Selah, the girl who had risked everything to bring him back. The girl who had believed in him when he didn’t believe in himself. The Ancient One had used her courage and compassion to reach him, to pull him from the darkness of his past. He would be forever indebted to her. More than that, he would protect her with his life.

“Thank you,” he whispered, his voice breaking.

No matter what happened when the sun rose and the Enlightened One returned, Tof knew one thing for certain: the Ancient One would provide, as He always had.

***

The afternoon came too quickly, pressing down on the village like a weight. The People of the Covenant moved in anxious silence, their fear palpable. Elders whispered among themselves, and families clung to one another, their eyes darting toward the horizon where the Enlightened One’s forces would soon appear.

Tof, Selah, and the elders huddled near the village’s center, their voices low but tense. “Attempts to flee have failed,” Nebel said, his aged voice trembling. “The Neoterian soldiers have blocked every exit. We’re trapped.”

Tof scanned the faces around him. The villagers’ expressions ranged from despair to muted anger. “It’s a show of power. They need us to believe we’re hopeless.”

Selah’s gaze lingered on him, her hand brushing against his. “But we’re not hopeless,” she said, her voice firm. “The Ancient One hasn’t abandoned us.”

Tof wished he could share her certainty. Even after drinking the memory water, doubt gnawed at him like a relentless tide. He had seen the fragments of a song, heard the echoes of promises, but was it enough? Would the words he barely understood bring the rain that had eluded them for so long?

By late afternoon, the whir of machinery and the drone of wyv-droids signaled the arrival of the Neoterian forces. The drones descended first, sleek and menacing, their metallic wings slicing through the air. Behind them came soldiers, marching in formation, their exoskeletons clanking with precision.

At the center of the procession, carried by wyv-droids, was a massive machine. It looked like a grotesque amalgamation of gears, wires, and steel, towering over the soldiers as they escorted it into the village. The device gleamed under the fading sunlight, its surface etched with intricate designs that pulsed faintly with energy.

Tof and Selah stood at the front of the crowd, watching as the Neoterians began assembling the device. Scientists in gray uniforms scurried around the machine, their movements precise and mechanical. Several soldiers were called over to help secure the structure, attaching long poles to its base and driving them into the ground with heavy, rhythmic thuds.

The Enlightened One appeared moments later, her presence commanding despite her small stature. She ascended the platform they had erected beside the machine, her expression cold and confident. She surveyed the village, her gaze lingering on the gathered People of the Covenant. “It is time,” she declared, her voice carrying across the square. “Prepare to witness the power of progress.”

Her words sent a ripple of unease through the crowd. Tof could feel the tension thickening, the villagers’ doubts threatening to boil over. He glanced at Selah, her hand steady in his. “They have no faith in the ancient ways they claim to cling to,” he said quietly.

Selah turned to him, her eyes searching his face. “Did you have faith?” she asked.

Tof didn’t answer immediately. The question cut deeper than he expected. Even after all he had seen, he still felt the weight of his doubts. The Ancient One had been with him, that much was clear. But faith? That was something else entirely.

He wanted to have faith, wanted to trust in the Ancient One’s promise, but the enormity of the moment threatened to drown him. The memory water had shown him glimpses of the covenant’s power, but it hadn’t erased the years of pain and manipulation he’d endured under the Neoterians.

His mind drifted back to the Subjugator’s training. He could still hear the man’s voice echoing in his head, cold and unrelenting. He had been shaped into a weapon that existed only to serve the Enlightened One. He remembered the drills, the punishments, the way they had stripped him of his name and identity until all that remained was a soldier with a number.

He closed his eyes, the weight of those memories pressing down on him. How could he trust anyone after that?

But then another memory surfaced—one that felt softer, warmer. He saw the tapestry in the ruined building, its figures moving with impossible grace. He heard the song, faint but persistent, its melody stirring something deep within him. And he thought of Selah, her laughter echoing in the cavern, her unwavering determination to remind him of who he truly was. The Ancient One had been with him, even when he hadn’t known it, guiding him toward this moment.

“I’m trying,” he admitted, his voice barely above a whisper.

The Subjugator stepped forward, a grin stretched across his sagging face. “You might as well surrender now,” he said, his voice dripping with mockery. “We will end this drought.” From under his cloak, he pulled out the dagger he had used to carve away his covenant mark, its blade glinting menacingly.

“Funny,” Selah spoke up, her tone sharp. “I was about to tell you that. And we’ve got some great water for you to try.”

The Subjugator’s grin faltered, but he quickly recovered, turning to the Enlightened One. “Are we ready?”

She nodded, her smile razor-sharp. “Yes. Have you gathered the soldiers with the greatest endurance and strength?”

The Subjugator whistled, and a hundred large soldiers in their clunky exoskeletons encircled the device. They moved with mechanical precision, their faces blank, their movements robotic.

The Enlightened One climbed onto the platform, her voice sharp as she addressed her soldiers. “Begin!” she ordered.

“May time always march forward!” the Neoterians shouted in unison.

The soldiers, drenched in sweat from the heat and their suits, began pushing the spokes of the device. Each spoke groaned under the strain as it began to turn, the wheel slowly rotating. The machine hummed to life, a low, menacing sound that sent vibrations through the ground. Wires crackled with energy, and sparks danced along its surface.

Each rotation sent tremors through the village, shaking the ground beneath their feet. With every turn, the noise grew louder, a deafening roar that drowned out the murmurs of the crowd. The device pulsed with power, its central cylinder glowing faintly as the spokes spun faster and faster.

Tof’s eyes shifted between the machine and the villagers. The People of the Covenant stood frozen, their fear evident in the way they huddled together, whispering and pointing toward the device. He could see the doubt etched into their faces, the way their shoulders slumped as though the battle was already lost.

The machine hummed louder as the soldiers strained against the spokes, their faces glistening with sweat as their exoskeletons whirred and clicked with every movement. Sparks flew from the wires, snapping like tiny lightning bolts, and the vibrations from the rotating wheel made the ground tremble.

Tof felt his stomach churn. The spectacle was terrifying, and the Enlightened One’s confidence was infectious, even to those who wanted to resist her.

After ten rotations, the Enlightened One flipped a switch on the platform. “Now we’ll see who’s stronger!” she declared, her voice filled with triumphant malice.

Blue lightning crackled up the metal cone, surging toward the rod at the top. It rocketed into the sky, branching out into a complex web of electricity that spread across the heavens. The crowd watched in tense silence, their eyes glued to the display.

Tof’s breath hitched. This was the moment. Either their ancient covenant would prevail, or the Neoterians would force their will upon the skies.

Excited to see what happens in the finale? Read part eight!

Read Part 8: The Song of Repentance

Or start back at the beginning with part 1:

Read Part 1: Into the Fog of Memory

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Tof strained against the unyielding grip of the Neoterian soldiers, his muscles aching as the chaos of the village swirled around him. Shouts and angry cries echoed through the air, a cacophony of fear and defiance. The sight of the Subjugator and the Enlightened One, standing smugly to the side, only fueled the fire of his rage.

Kinnor stepped onto the stage with the aid of his cane, one of the elders helping him up. “Everyone, listen!” he called, voice calm but commanding. “The Neoterians have given us until daylight to surrender or face their army, but we won’t get anywhere in this disarray. We need order.”

The shouting gradually subsided. Whether it was respect for Kinnor or fear of the Neoterians, Tof wasn’t sure. His breath came in sharp, angry bursts.

“Thank you,” Kinnor said with a nod. “As with every village-wide discussion, we will go family by family. Each representative will speak. Interruptions will cost your family its right to speak. Then, the five elders will vote.”

Kinnor gestured toward a woman in the front. “Chalil of the Azer family, you may begin.”

Chalil, thin and worn, stepped forward. Her voice shook as she spoke. “The Neoterians slaughtered all of my children.” Her hollow gaze scanned the crowd. “I can’t bear to see anyone else die. Our only hope is surrender.”

Tof growled under his breath, rage simmering. The Subjugator smirked, enjoying the impact his ultimatum had made.

Kinnor’s voice softened. “Our hearts are with you, Chalil. Thank you for your words.” He scanned the crowd and called on the next. “Timbrel of the family of Hinnom, you may speak.”

Timbrel, a hulking man with bulging muscles, marched forward. “We must fight!” His voice echoed across the courtyard. “The Neoterians are weak. I once fought off six—no, seven—of them with nothing but my bare hands!”

Kinnor interrupted with a sigh. “Timbrel, we’ve all heard your story. Keep it brief.”

“But I haven’t even gotten to the part where I—” Timbrel’s voice rose, but Kinnor waved him off.

“Thank you. We’ve heard enough.” Kinnor rolled his eyes. “Since there is no one left of the Bezemon tribe, we will now hear from Tselatsel of the family of Johannan.”

A man stepped forward, his shoulders hunched. “We’ve been running and hiding for generations, clinging to hope that the Ancient One would provide. But he hasn’t. He has forgotten us, so why should we cling to foolish ways. We have to accept the reality that if we don’t embrace progress, we will become nothing but dust.”

Kinnor looked like he wanted to rebut the man’s argument. But he was bound by his own rules, each elder would chance to speak at the end.

Tof’s mind raced as each family took its turn. Most were too exhausted, too afraid to fight. The will of the People of the Covenant had been worn down by years of hiding. How could they not see the truth? How could they be so willing to surrender everything to the Neoterians?

“Lastly, we will hear from Selah the last of her tribe,” Kinnor said, his voice quieter now. He motioned for her to step forward.

Selah’s face was calm but determined as she stood at the center. “People of the Covenant,” she began, her voice steady. “I’ve heard your fear. Some of you wish to fight, and others seek to surrender. But there is another way. I have found the memory water.”

Gasps echoed through the crowd.

“I drank deeply and learned the truth. The drought is a sign. We’ve turned away from the Ancient One. Instead of being the water that refreshes the desert, we’ve become as dry and lifeless as the land around us. But if we return to Him, He will provide.”

Timbrel barked a laugh. “And what does that have to do with fighting the Neoterians?”

Selah met his eyes without flinching. “We need to trust in the covenant. We are not just Antiquarians—we are the People of the Covenant, and the Ancient One has not abandoned us.”

Before anyone could respond, the Subjugator took a step forward, his black cloak dragging across the sand. “Ah, yes. More of this ‘Ancient One,’” he mocked. “This child offers nothing but false hope. There is no Ancient One.”

“I’ve seen the truth,” Selah said, her voice strong. “I’ve seen His faithfulness.”

The Subjugator smiled coldly. “And so have I.”

He lowered his hood, revealing his bald, scarred head. The crowd gasped.

“I was once Teqowa of the Bezemon tribe, just like you,” he said, addressing the crowd. “I participated in the Antiquarian indoctrination, foolishly believing in the myth of the Ancient One. Then one day I wandered outside the original village and came upon a culture unlike any I’d ever experienced. Instead of relying on wyvern beasts, they had built their own superior versions. Instead of relying on the strength of some ancient covenant, they had created powerful suits that gave the user strength and endurance. While clinging to our antiquated ways, progress had passed us by.”

The crowd was silent, their eyes glazing as they listened with rapt attention to the Subjugator, spell-bound by his story.

Tof’s hands clenched into fists as the Subjugator spoke, his words sliding through the air like poison as he bent wills to his whims.

The vile man was once one of the People of the Covenant. Now his strange power over minds made sense, it was his gifting. Tof remembered how easily the man had twisted his mind, turned his pain and confusion into blind obedience.

What was meant to be used for strengthening faith in the Ancient One was now being used to sow doubt.

Tof felt the anger boil within him, sharper and hotter than ever. This was the man who had stolen his childhood, who had tried to strip him of everything, and he was doing it all over again.

“That’s when I met a brilliant young woman, the Enlightened One. The very one who created the devices I’d marveled at. She taught me the modern ways. Together, we realized that so much suffering was caused by peoples’ clinging to their ancient deities and refusal to be enlightened. And so we rose to power, teaching the world the truth.”

“You mean controlling and manipulating the world,” Tof shouted, desperate to break the spell he had over the people. Even Selah and Kinnor seemed enchanted by his words. “Just like you did to—”

One of the soldiers placed his hand over Tof’s mouth, using his enhanced strength to clench Tof’s jaw shut. He tried to yell but couldn’t open his mouth.

Ignoring Tof, the Subjugator continued his speech. “The People of the Covenant, my former people, are the only culture remaining that refuses to embrace progress. But now I have come to teach you the truth. Once you learn the new ways, you will finally be happy. No longer will you suffer or toil.”

One of the elders stepped forward. “What must we do?” He asked.

“Nebel, what are you doing,” Kinnor said weakly.

Nebel didn’t look at Kinnor, instead staring into the Subjugator’s eyes as if hypnotized.

“I saw what the world had to offer. Progress. Power. Freedom from the chains of ancient beliefs. I broke free from the shackles of the covenant.” He raised his arm to reveal the scarred, mutilated flesh where his mark had been. ‘It was painful, yes, but it was the price of true freedom. I stand before you as proof—proof that you can cut away the chains of your past and embrace a future where you’re not bound by ancient myths. You can be free, as I am.”

The Subjugator held up a curved knife. “This is more than just a simple blade, it holds the power to break the shackles holding you. All you have to do is carve off the branded flesh. Reject the covenant. Cut away the mark, as I did.”

He stepped closer. “When I held this knife for the first time, I was like you—bound by tradition, shackled by an ancient mark that meant nothing in the new world. But now, this blade is the only symbol I need. It is progress. It is freedom.”

The people were transfixed. Even Selah seemed shaken, though her eyes flicked toward Tof.

Tof thrashed in the grip of the Neoterian soldiers, but their enhanced strength held him fast. “Selah! Don’t listen to him!” he shouted, his voice muffled by the cloth wrapped around his mouth.

But his words had the desired effect. Selah blinked and snapped out of the Subjugator’s hold. She looked at Tof. Her eyes were clear, but she looked scared.

Tof tried to communicate strength to her. Selah had been the one to bring him out of the fog. If anyone could break the hold of the Subjugator’s enchantment, it was her.

“No,” she said, her voice regaining its strength. “We will not reject the covenant.”

The Subjugator smiled darkly and took a step closer to her. “And why should you remain faithful to a god who has done nothing for you?”

Selah’s eyes flicked to the crowd, her voice trembling at first but growing stronger. “The Ancient One has not abandoned us. He brought us out of slavery, gave us His covenant, and gifted us with the wyverns. He’s always been faithful.”

“Ahh yes, the wyverns. And where are these mighty beasts now?” the Subjugator mocked. “Gone. Like your god.”

A sudden, powerful gust of wind swept through the village, stirring the dust and whipping through the silent crowd. Heads snapped upward, eyes widening as a vast shadow spread across the ground, blotting out the sky.

Shofar descended, his wings outstretched, scales gleaming like molten gold, and with a mighty roar, he landed near the stage. The earth trembled beneath his weight as everyone took in the wondrous sight of his ancient glory.

The crowd gasped, and the hold of the Subjugator’s words shattered. Eyes widened in disbelief, and hope flared in their hearts.

Shofar turned to the Enlightened One and let out a mighty roar.

She stumbled backward and she glared at the Subjugator. “I thought your soldiers and wyv-droids had wiped out the last of these beasts.”

The Subjugator swallowed hard but said nothing.

“Shofar,” Selah called out, her voice filled with awe. “Fill the well!”

With a mighty breath, Shofar leaned over the dry well and breathed torrents of memory water into its depths, filling it to the brim.

Kinnor was the first to rush forward. He cupped the water in his trembling hands and drank deeply. “I had forgotten,” he whispered, tears streaming down his face. “But the Ancient One has not.”

Others began to move toward the well, but the Enlightened One stepped forward, her voice cold and commanding. “If one more person drinks, I will call my army, and we will slaughter you all.”

The people fidgeted, unsure what to do.

“You still have a chance to reject this foolishness.” The Subjugator held up the blade again. “Turn and we will not harm you.”

“No, we will not cower any longer.” Kinnor grabbed his cane and climbed off the stage. “Why is it that you’re so desperate to force us to reject the covenant? Is it because you know that the Ancient One has promised to always preserve a remnant? That no matter how many soldiers you have, we will always endure?”

The Enlightened One gritted her teeth and stormed forward. “Why must you people be so difficult. All the nations have embraced my freedom and bowed before me. But you stubborn people not only refused my gift, but have cast your curse upon the land with your dreadful drought.”

The Subjugator placed a hand on her arm and she calmed down. “All the world has suffered due to the drought your God has cast upon us. Your ancient ways have caused untold suffering. Reject the covenant and the drought will be over.”

“I thought you said our God didn’t exist.” Selah grinned, her eyes twinkling.

The Subjugator glared at her, but she remained clear and focused.

“It doesn’t matter,” the Enlightened One sneered, her voice laced with a chilling confidence. “I have just completed a device powerful enough to bend the skies to my will. It will tear the clouds apart, force them to spill their rain, and bring an end to this drought—by my hand, not through the will of your ancient god. You’ve prayed and begged for years. I will make it happen in a single day.”

She stepped forward, her eyes gleaming. “This is the future—technology, control, and certainty. Your old ways are nothing more than dust, relics of a world long gone.”

“You think you can replace the Ancient One with machines? You believe you have the right to control the very rain? That arrogance will be your undoing.” Kinnor stood tall. “It was Elder Ugab who spoke the words from the Ancient One, saying ‘O clouds depart from wicked lands, O grass wither and fade to sand. Until the day the song returns, the sky shall cease to gift its storms.’”

“He is dead, as is most of your race. And whether through slaughter or science, I will bring back the rain.” The Enlightened One kicked at the ground, sending up a cloud of sand.

Tof looked around at the Antiquarians and saw a wide range of emotions. Some had the same rage he felt written across their faces. Others had their shoulders held high and hope in their eyes as they looked at either Shofar or the memory well. While others still had unfocused glassy expressions as they stared at the Subjugator. But most were in terror.

The memory water could help ignite people’s passion. But it would only help if they could reach it without the Enlightened One sending in her army. But either way, many were too fearful to stand up.

Tof could see the way Selah’s hands trembled, her eyes darting across the crowd, catching the doubt and fear in their faces. For a moment, she seemed to waver, but then she took a breath, and he watched as her expression hardened, her eyes steadying.

When she lifted her chin to speak, her voice was clear and strong. “You’ve issued your challenge, and now I issue mine. Bring your device that will make it rain. We will call upon the Ancient One to end the drought. If you succeed, we surrender. But if we win, you must surrender and free every one of your soldiers from your control.”

The Enlightened One’s eyes narrowed, and for a long moment, she was silent. Then she nodded. “Fine. But no one drinks from that well, and that beast makes no more water.”

Selah held her ground. “And if we win, you both must drink from it.”

The Subjugator sneered but said nothing.

The Enlightened One smiled. “Very well. We’ll return with the device by tomorrow afternoon.”

The Subjugator stepped toward Selah, grinning. “And when we win, each of you will complete my ceremony and renounce your covenant.” He held out the dagger.

Selah’s eyes went wide. “No that’s not what I agreed to.”

“You said you would surrender.” The Subjugator’s grin widened as he stalked closer, the knife glinting in his hand. He pressed the tip against Selah’s arm, cold metal tracing the delicate lines of her covenant mark. “And I expect complete surrender,” he murmured, his voice low and taunting.

Tof’s heart pounded as he saw the Subjugator looming over Selah, the knife glinting menacingly in his hand. Rage surged through him, hot and blinding, but underneath it was a sick, desperate fear. He thrashed against the iron grips of the Neoterian soldiers, his muscles straining, but it was as if his own body had betrayed him, leaving him powerless to stop what was happening. “Let her go!” he screamed, but the words were swallowed by the chaos around him.

Selah shuddered as the Subjugator stared into her eyes. “Fine. Take your soldiers and go. But leave Tof, he is yours no longer.”

The Subjugator hesitated, then whistled to the soldiers. They released Tof, and he collapsed to the ground as they marched out of the village, the Enlightened One following behind.

As soon as they were gone, the crowd erupted in chaos once more.

“Selah!” The Elder Nebel voice cut through the noise. “How could you agree to such a challenge?”

Selah stood firm. “Because we haven’t tried everything. We haven’t sung the song.”

Nebel looked confused. “The song?”

Selah turned and pointed at Tof. “The song the Ancient One has given to him.”

All eyes turned to Tof.

Excited to see what happens next? Read part seven!

Read Part 7: A Drink of Water