The cathedral stood silent, its once-majestic spires now crumbled, stained glass shattered, and pews reduced to splinters. The air was thick with the scent of blood and the remnants of sacred incense.
Vale lay amidst the ruins, his body broken, breath shallow. The weight of his choices pressed upon him, each one a step away from the man he once was.
Memories flooded his mind—faces of those who had believed in him, those he had failed, those he had destroyed. Their voices echoed, a cacophony of judgment and sorrow.
As darkness enveloped him, a thought surfaced, clear and resolute:
"In my whole life, I didn't know if I really existed… but I do."
From the depths of despair, a spark ignited. Flames consumed his form, not of destruction, but of rebirth. Ashes swirled, coalescing into a new shape, a new purpose.
Vale rose, transformed. Gone was the man who sought redemption, replaced by one who embraced his destiny—not as a hero, but as a force to be reckoned with.
He looked upon the world with new eyes, seeing its flaws, its hypocrisies, its lies. He understood now that heroes were bound by rules, by expectations. They lived for others, died for others. But he? He would live for himself.
He understood he couldn't be a hero; his life had never allowed him to be. So why force himself into a role he was never meant to play?
With a final glance at the ruins behind him, Vale stepped into the night, the flames of his rebirth lighting the path ahead.
And in that moment, the very fabric of his quest shattered like glass, dissolving into a mist of blood-red hue, signaling the end of one journey and the ominous beginning of another.