Without warning, an indescribable presence flooded the ravaged valley. At first, it felt languid, almost drowsy, nothing like the tyrannical aura of the Soul Devourer. Yet its arrival felt inevitable, as though it had always filled every inch of sky, finally noticed only now.
Above, the swirling cloud of wailing spirits rippled like water struck by stone. The howling wind fell silent, as if an unseen palm pressed it flat.
An aging figure materialized on the rim of the crater, stepping between Jared and Sylvia in utter silence. His robe was plain, even threadbare, his hair loose and unkempt—Zevon Swanson, and no other.
He had not torn the sky, nor shattered mountains. He simply arrived, like a passerby who happened upon catastrophe and decided, at last, to intervene.
The moment his boots touched the cracked flagstones, the howling black hand that could have flattened even a Heavenly Immortal froze in mid-descent, fingers splayed, unable to drop another inch.
Invisible force shimmered between that claw and the crater below, forming a silent wall that separated predator from prey.
High overhead, the roiling clouds of demonic vapor dimmed. The lazy sneer on Soul Devourer’s face vanished, replaced by a tight, measuring stare.
His pupils narrowed to slits as he studied the newcomer, Zevon, and for the first time felt an aura equal to his own, perhaps deeper, older, far more unfathomable.
“So…” the Soul Devourer said, voice low and cold, “Someone worth my time finally shows up.”
Zevon paid him no mind. He knelt beside Jared, whose blood soaked the dust but whose spine remained straight. A quiet flicker of approval crossed Zevon’s eyes. Then he angled toward Sylvia.
Two fingers touched the center of her brow. Warm, gentle power, brimming with impossible vitality, poured into her body, wrapped her failing heart, steadied her shredded breath, and began stitching torn meridians back together.
Color returned to Sylvia‘s paper-white cheeks. Her lashes trembled open, and relief mingled with surprise.
“S-Sir…” she whispered.
Zevon lifted a hand, wordless, bidding her rest. He rose slowly, surveying the Nethergate Sect, now a wasteland of shattered halls and smoldering rubble, before lifting his gaze to the Soul Devourer, hovering in mid-air.
“Tch… You made quite a mess,” Zevon drawled, idly flicking dust from his ear. “Tell me, does terrorizing children really amuse you?”
The Soul Devourer’s eyes chilled. “Who are you to meddle in my affairs?”
“Me?” Zevon pointed at his own nose, flashing a bright grin. “Just a passer-by. But you touched Mr. Chance, and that I cannot overlook.”
His eyes slid back to Jared. “Mr. Chance, you and the others escaped Heaven Gate Sect’s ruins. Did you gain anything there?”
Blood dripped from Jared’s lip as the weight on his chest finally eased. He forced the words out. “Sir… We met the last sect leader’s lingering soul. Ms. Vale… has inherited the legacy of Heaven Gate…”
Zevon’s brow arched, genuine wonder flickered, followed by a soft, nostalgic smile. “So the Heaven Gate legacy has found its heir at last. Good, very good…”
