The Wanderer leaned against the wall of the cell, cloak pooling like spilled shadow around his form. His hood kept his face hidden, save for the glint of white teeth and the gleam of eyes that seemed to catch what little light there was. For a long while, the only sound was the dripping of water in the corridor beyond. Then, softly, almost conversationally, he asked,

"What do you think of Angels and Demons, Mythara?"

The question was tossed lightly, but Mythara felt it strike like an arrow. He had expected challenges, riddles. Not this. He drew a short breath, buying time, then chuckled—a brittle sound that echoed thinly against the sterile wall.

"Three years ago?" Mythara said. "I would've called them fairytales. But now…" He trailed off, shaking his head, his rose-gold irises dim in the gloom. "Now, I'm not so sure."

The Wanderer's teeth flashed in a smile. "Not so sure. A better answer than certainty."

Mythara's chest tightened. There were no records in the Chasers' databases. None in the Persequions' ancient archives either. Only scattered myths—rumors of beings who pretended to be gods, angels, demons. Frauds, every one of them. Yet, as the Wanderer had implied, if there are counterfeits, there must be an original to copy.

He set his jaw, refusing to show how the thought unsettled him.

"Yes, they are real," the Wanderer said, his voice curling with satisfaction. "And they complete what you might call… the trinity of Creation."

Mythara frowned. "Trinity?"

"Three forces that shoulder the burden of existence itself." The Wanderer raised a pale hand from his cloak, ticking off his fingers. "Dragons, at the apex—guardians, protectors, the immovable bulwark between life and oblivion."

A second finger. "The Finixoen, whom your kind call Angels. Guides. The gentle hand that steers Creation down its destined path."

A third. "And the Iwon. Demons. The cleaners. They carve away the tumors of reality before they fester. They do not destroy for pleasure; however, they do find pleasure in destruction. But they destroy to preserve. The rot must be cut away if the body is to live."

He chuckled, a sound that rasped like an old door. "The three pillars. Dragon. Angel. Demon. Together, they maintain the balance of all things."

The words pressed into Mythara like stone weights. He had grown up with fragments of such stories, half-dismissed as myths even by those who trafficked in secrets. To hear them laid out as fact—the very architecture of Creation—shook him in ways no battlefield ever had.

But the Wanderer wasn't finished. His voice grew sharper. "These three can mate with any creature who carries Vaylora. Any at all. A kitsune with an Angel produces a celestial fox. With a Demon, a succubus. With a Dragon—another Dragon, one tinged with illusion. The blood of the Three always dominates."

Mythara's pulse quickened. The Wanderer's tone changed again, darkening. "But never with each other. That law is absolute. Angel cannot breed with Dragon. Demon cannot breed with Angel. Dragons cannot breed with a Demon. All such attempts have ended the same way: death in the womb. Always. Without exception."

He paused. His eyes glimmered under the hood. "Except…"

The word seemed to echo. Mythara's breath caught before the sentence even finished.

"…for you. And for Cefketa."

The Wanderer's teeth glimmered faintly in the dark. "Why do you think Nina was half-dead when she stumbled onto your Earth? Her heart already destroyed, her body breaking. She wasn't just fleeing circumstance — she was running from judgment. From those who would rather see her and Cefketa both destroyed in the womb than allow such a blasphemy to live. Order demanded their death. She defied it."

Mythara froze, the words slamming into him harder than the revelation itself. He saw her again in fragments — the mother who carried him through terror, who shielded him even as her own body gave way. She hadn't simply been broken by fate. She had been hunted, punished for daring to carry him.

"She carved a path through worlds that would see you erased," the Wanderer murmured, almost with pride. "And so, against all odds, you came to be."

The silence that followed was unbearable. Mythara's knees nearly buckled. The cell pressed in around him, the very air suddenly heavy. His mind scrambled, reaching for denial, for any explanation.

"No," Mythara whispered, though the sound barely left his throat.

"Yes." The Wanderer's teeth gleamed in the dark. "You are not merely anomalies. You are a violation. The only true taboo children in all of Creation."

Mythara staggered back a step, his hand tightening on his sword hilt, though he had no intention of drawing it. His thoughts scattered—he remembered Cefketa's impossible presence, the way even monsters bent around him. He remembered his own reflection in moments of fury, eyes burning with more than blood could explain.

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It wasn't just strength. It was wrong.

"How?" The word broke out of him, hoarse and desperate. "How is it possible?"

The Wanderer stilled. His grin widened.

"Because you are my masterpiece."

Mythara's stomach lurched.

"I did not create Dragons," the Wanderer went on, voice suddenly sharp, cutting off the unspoken protest. "Nor Angels. Nor Demons. Their creation predates my very existence. But I… I sculpted you. The impossible given flesh."

He leaned forward slightly, eyes glinting. "I wanted a creature that could adapt perfectly. No ceiling, no fixed destiny. And of all the races, humans had the best canvas. Their blood is muddled, fractured, laced with fragments from everything—predator and prey, servant and sovereign. They are the truest blank slate."

His teeth gleamed as he smiled wider. "You were born from that chaos."

Mythara's heart hammered.

"And when you awakened as a Chaser," the Wanderer continued, "your body did more than mimic Cefketa's composition. It also copied another's. Dr. Shaila."

The name struck Mythara like lightning. His throat tightened, breath quickening.

"Genetically," the Wanderer said, savoring the words, "Shaila and Cefketa are more your parents than those who birthed you. They are the roots of your impossible tree."

"No." Mythara's voice cracked. Images flooded him—Cefketa's sneer, Shaila's bright eyes, the vision of her death, and that radiant halo blazing behind her. He clenched his fists. "What does Shaila have to do with this?!"

The Wanderer's teeth gleamed brighter. "You've already seen it, haven't you? In the memory Cefketa showed you. The halo. That was no trick of light. Shaila carried the exalted blood of the Finixoen, stronger than any that came before her."

Mythara's breath shuddered.

"She was no Angel," the Wanderer continued. "But the angelic bloodline runs deep in humanity. I placed it there myself. As well as the blood of orcs, leviathans, demons, and dragons. I seeded them all. That is why humanity wields such a wild spectrum of powers, why some can challenge even Dragons. Shango's wave manipulation, that Manic's Mind Matter, and your Amaterasu's manipulation of Thermodynamics, for example, are abilities unseen anywhere else but at the apex."

The Wanderer tilted his head. "The Finixoen's exalted gift is mastery of space itself. Do you wonder why those with spatial gifts sit in Heka's highest throne? That is the angel's mark. Whether they realize it or not."

The words carved into Mythara's skull like fire. His memories reeled—Manic, Shango, Selistar, Amaterasu, his mother. All the little threads he had never tied together. Now, every knot drew tight, strangling him.

He swallowed, his throat dry as bone. "If… if Dragons and Angels can't breed, then what about—" His voice faltered. "Cefketa and Shaila. Could they…?"

The Wanderer's laughter was low, humorless. "No. The rules would forbid it. But Cefketa himself is a paradox. He should not exist, and so the rules do not apply to him. He breaks the bindings of Creation simply by being."

The laughter died. His eyes glinted, predatory. "That is why you stand here at all. You are the only two to ever survive what should be impossible."

Mythara felt the world tilt beneath him. His balance faltered, and for a moment, he thought the floor itself had shifted. He pressed a hand against the stone wall to steady himself.

The Wanderer's voice dropped to a whisper, though it carried like thunder in Mythara's ears. "You are a Celestial Dragon. Angel's light married to Dragon's fury. And Cefketa—he is its opposite. A Demonic Dragon. Demon's destruction married to Dragon's Might."

Mythara's breath tore raggedly from his lungs.

The Wanderer leaned forward, teeth gleaming. "The only Taboo children. The impossible twins of Creation. You and he. Born to shatter laws that should never bend."

Silence fell. Mythara's heart pounded in that silence, heavy and suffocating. The words pressed down on him until his knees threatened to give. His mind screamed against it, searching for denial, for escape, but the cracks were already there. Shaila's halo. Cefketa's overwhelming presence.

Taboo. The word would not leave him.

He clenched his fists until his knuckles split, blood dripping onto stone. He wanted to scream, to fight, to bury the truth beneath rage. But the Wanderer's eyes were on him, gleaming in the dark, and in them he saw no lie, no hesitation.

Only satisfaction.

Only pride.

Only the gaze of a creator looking on his masterpiece.

Mythara's pulse thundered in his ears. For a moment, the chaos inside him roared—rage, fear, despair, all colliding until he could scarcely breathe. The cell closed in tighter, as if the walls themselves mocked him.

But then—quiet.

And in that quiet, Mythara saw Cefketa's face. The sneer. The laughter. The promise of ruin he carried like a crown. He saw the storm that would come if Cefketa was left unchecked. Worlds burning. Chains broken. Creation devoured by its own contradictions.

And he saw himself, standing opposite.

Not as Cefketa's twin. Not as his mirror. But as his foil. His chain.

The realization cut deeper than despair, but steadier too. He was impossible because he needed to be impossible. He was taboo because only taboo could bind taboo.

The chaos inside him coiled, then steadied, like a storm finally finding its eye.

When Mythara raised his head, his rose-gold eyes burned with a new steadiness. "I am not him." His voice was low but unshakable. "I am not Cefketa. I never was."

The Wanderer's teeth glimmered faintly in the shadows, curious.

"I am what I chose to be. His opposite. His chain." Mythara stepped forward, every movement measured now, grounded. "Whatever Cefketa plans—whatever destruction he believes is his destiny—I will be the one to stop it. That is why I exist. That is why I survived."

The words hung in the stale air of the cell like an oath etched in iron.

The Wanderer tilted his head, eyes glinting. "Yes. Exactly as I intended."

Mythara's jaw clenched, but he did not look away. He would never give the Wanderer the satisfaction of claiming his resolve. This was his choice. His path. If there was anything to take credit for, it was creation itself. It must have balance, and since the impossible exists, then its opposite must too.

Inside, the chaos had not vanished. It would never vanish. But it no longer ruled him. It burned in his chest as fuel, as resolve sharpened to a single point: he was not a mistake. He was the necessity Creation itself had demanded. And Cefketa would learn that.

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