Footsteps echoed from within the castle.
The world outside had fallen into a silence that only follows destruction—like the calm after a storm that has already decided its victims.
A tall man stepped into the open.
Long blond hair rested on his shoulders, cyan pupils reflecting the pale light. He wore a black jacket over a red sweater, blue jeans stained faintly with dust.
It was HIM.
The moment Neil and the Quils saw him, time seemed to fracture.
One minute stretched into something endless—twelve hours trapped inside a single breath.
HIM removed his hand from the scarf around his neck and spoke, his voice steady.
“Neil. Stop everything here.”
His gaze did not waver.
“You can make Huraha your own place, brother. There is no need for these useless conflicts. I will revive Steve and Tony.”
Neil smiled—wide, arrogant, like a man who believed the world already belonged to him.
“A god,” he said softly, mockery dripping from every word,
“is begging me?”
He leaned forward, his lips twisting into a smirk.
“You say you can revive them? Then do it. Right now. In front of my eyes.”
Neil did not feel as if he spoke those words himself.
It was as though something else had forced his mouth open.
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HIM’s expression darkened.
“I could kill you here,” he said calmly.
“But you are not even worthy of death.”
The air itself slowed. The proof was undeniable.
“I can revive them,” HIM continued. “But not now. Leave my sight.”
And just like that—
Neil found himself lying on a white and grey bed inside one of the castle’s chambers.
Outside, Huraha resumed its rhythm.
The Quils returned to their routines—selling fruits, trading tickets for a strange magician’s pravachan, the traditional concert that echoed through the streets like a ritual older than memory.
HIM stood alone, gazing upward.
The sky above Huraha mirrored the inner lining of the moon—pale, distant, unreal.
“We should live,” he whispered,
“even when heaven wants to take us.”
Yet an unease crept into his chest.
A presence—something darker than Neil—waited somewhere beyond sight.
HIM turned and walked back into the castle.
A Quil ran toward him, breath unsteady.
“Master… a letter has arrived. From an unknown sender.”
Suddenly, the Quil reached into his pocket and pulled out a pistol, lifting it toward himself.
Before a sound could escape—
HIM struck the weapon aside.
“Not more,” he said, his voice breaking with confusion.
From the Quils’ perspective, Huraha returned to normal.
HIM moved to his throne and sat down, drawing in a long breath as if his lungs themselves needed convincing to continue.
He whispered instructions to his minister, who bowed and left immediately.
Then HIM clapped his hands twice.
The letter was placed before him.
It was wrapped in a strange blue cloth, embroidered with a single star.
The paper inside was filthy, as if dragged through mud and time itself.
The sender’s name read:
No Name
Elsewhere in the castle, Neil clutched his head.
It felt heavier than steel.
A scream tore through the walls.
The minister rushed into the room, asking what was wrong. Neil said nothing. He joined his hands together, silently begging the man to leave.
But the minister did not listen.
His presence became invasive. His intentions unmistakably wrong.
Neil’s breathing shattered.
“Stop!” Neil shouted. “Get away from me!”
His voice echoed through Huraha.
Two figures burst into the room.
They threw the minister to the ground.
Tony.
Steve.
Neil collapsed into them, crying so hard the air itself seemed to tremble. He hugged them desperately, as if letting go would erase them again.
“So you’re alive, intelligent nerd!” Tony laughed, half-choked.
“We’re already on—no, in—the moon!” Steve said, tears spilling freely.
Slow clapping echoed from the doorway.
HIM stood there.
He revealed the truth quietly:
the act had been staged—to give Neil joy sharper than despair.
A god who forces survival and happiness together.
That is why—
He is HIM.
