THE VILLAIN'S POV Chapter 859 Grace (1)

Deep within the Grave of Darkness—the very burial site where a significant soul met its end, and an even more formidable one was reborn…

A tremor ran through the grave, and the obsidian substance enveloping Frey began to dissipate, receding as if his very form was absorbing it.

The mask of Nameless, once shattered by the blow from Agaroth, miraculously reformed—this time presenting a more robust, sophisticated, and terrifying visage.

Its eyes, sharp as those of a raptor, featured deep, jagged etchings along the sides. Its color remained constant, as it always had been... black. The shared hue of both Nameless and Frey.

Frey's formerly white hair started to emit a faint luminescence, as though imbued with a consciousness of its own.

Witnessing this before her tear-filled eyes, Shiva, still grieving the demise of Gehrman, saw her king's figure beginning to materialize.

The Armor of Peak Night enveloped him like an ancient artifact of war, presenting him as a warrior birthed from the eternal abyss.

Simultaneously, the Sword of Shadow Dominion awakened, its hilt wrapping around his hand as if yearning—nay, pleading—to be held once more.

Finally, Frey's hair underwent a transformation… shifting to a dark gray hue, a flawless synthesis of his mother's midnight black and his father's brilliant white.

In mere moments, the black substance vanished completely, leaving no trace behind.

Nothing… save for Frey, lying inert upon the cold, stony floor of the ancient sepulcher.

Still. Motionless. Yet undeniably present.

Shiva advanced slowly, with trepidation, her aged countenance etched with apprehension and disbelief.

She struggled to comprehend the spectacle unfolding before her.

Had her king truly returned, just as Gehrman had foretold? Had his efforts culminated in success?

Had all the agony endured... the ceaseless, silent struggle of the blue-eyed man... finally borne fruit?

She remained uncertain.

From her vantage point, Frey—or rather, Nameless—emanated no discernible aura, no pressure, absolutely nothing.

She could sense the presence of Wesker beyond the entrance. She sensed Maskith. She could feel Alexander Ryback ferociously engaging them, holding them at bay with unyielding might.

But Frey… felt utterly insubstantial. Like an ordinary individual, entirely devoid of presence.

For a fleeting instant, a chilling fear gripped her—the dread that all had been in vain.

Until… those eyes flickered open.

From the sharp confines of the mask's eye slits, violet irises emerged... entirely distinct from the dark void they once resembled.

Eyes that now perceived the world through a profoundly new lens.

With measured movements, Frey ascended to his feet, scrutinizing his physique with quiet intensity.

Limbs that had been severed... miraculously rejoined. Legs... restored to wholeness. His torso, his visage... all perfectly intact.

It was as if he had been a disembodied spirit, wandering for eons... lost, without direction, formless.

But now, he had returned.

Returned to the very world his own actions had once shaped.

With deliberate, heavy strides, Frey commenced his advance.

Shiva remained transfixed, her mind a blank slate, her gaze riveted upon him as if the fabric of reality itself had momentarily ceased to exist.

She had anticipated this moment for an immeasurable duration... ever since the day she pledged her allegiance to Gehrman.

Ever since the day the Shadow Sect was fractured.

Countless times, she had envisioned it—her jubilation, her speechless awe, the profound wave of relief.

Yet, in its actual arrival... it was nothing akin to her imagined scenarios.

She felt happiness, yes.

But concurrently... a deep, poignant sorrow washed over her.

For someone essential had departed. Permanently.

At long last, her faculties returned as Frey halted directly before her.

Without a moment's hesitation, she sank to one knee, lowering her head, her gaze fixed firmly on the ground.

"My king… welcome. Welcome back."

Tears traced paths down her cheeks as she bowed, prepared to fully prostrate herself...

But Frey intervened instantaneously, gently taking her arm and aiding her in rising.

"Lift your head, my dear. Your knees should bend to no one… and that face of yours ought never to touch the ground."

His hand cupped her cheek, tenderly brushing away her tears with quiet affection.

Shiva met his gaze, holding his stare in silent contemplation for several seconds… before grasping his hand firmly, nodding repeatedly.

A warmth… a sensation she had never experienced from him previously.

The once-cold king… had undergone a transformation.

"My king… we have endured such a long wait… an eternity it feels…" she murmured, her voice trembling as she clung to him.

Frey offered a soft nod.

"I am aware, my dear. I am aware."

His voice resonated with a calmness. A gentleness. Utterly unlike any tone she had ever perceived from him before.

"I comprehend that countless lives were sacrificed for my return… we lost every single one.

And among them… our friend with the blue eyes, Perhaps, was undeniably the kindest… the most devoted."

"No…" Frey interjected, briefly closing his eyes.

"He was the most loyal. Without reservation… more loyalty than I ever deserved."

Shiva's eyes welled with tears as those words resonated with her, her emotions churning violently within her chest.

"Is… is there no means to preserve him? Perhaps… with your newfound power, my king—"

She desperately clung to a fragile strand of hope.

But Frey responded with a shake of his head… extinguishing that hope before it could truly ignite.

"That is an impossibility. He no longer persists as an independent entity… what remained of him now resides within me."

Gehrman had offered his absolute all to his sovereign—every final fragment of his being.

His recollections. His arduous journey. His potent abilities.

Frey could feel the echoes of it all.

Gehrman's immense power… his world-shattering capabilities… all of it was now his own.

He truly had bequeathed everything to him.

"He is gone, Shiva… and even if I possessed the means to bring him back—"

Frey's voice trailed off, becoming quiet… yet his resolve was absolute.

"I never would have done so."

"He endured immense suffering… far more than anyone should. He bore a burden that would have shattered any other individual—and in my eyes, he has earned this rest… the right to finally find peace after I bound him to an impossible task."

With a slow movement, Frey withdrew his arm from Shiva's gentle grasp.

A spectral light, a blend of gray and crimson, shimmered around his hand, expanding outward in a silent pulse that widened her eyes with astonishment.

"I cannot restore him to life… but I can, at the very least, grant him this solace."

He swept his hand through the ethereal air, as if an artist were painting across the very fabric of existence.

From the deepest abyss of oblivion, the void of space began to twist and warp… until a dark fissure tore open, unleashing a brilliant cascade of golden light.

A golden luminescence… mirroring the enduring legacy of a man who had departed from this world.

He had relinquished everything. His aspirations, his formidable strength, his very life…

All of it entrusted to the one individual whom he believed in above all others.

The one who was—and would eternally remain—the paramount figure within the Shadow Sect…

Saint Gehrman.

Emerging from beyond that rent veil in reality, Gehrman materialized.

He opened his eyes… no longer the soft blue they once were, but now glowing with a radiant, golden hue.

Shiva erupted into uncontrollable sobs the instant her gaze fell upon him.

As for Frey… he removed his mask, choosing not to confront his most steadfast companion from behind the cold barrier of its iron facade.

Frey offered a smile—open and filled with warmth—and Gehrman returned the gesture.

"I understand that mere words will not suffice, my old friend…"

Frey spoke with a tender cadence, his eyes reflecting profound respect—a deep and genuine appreciation.

There was not the faintest hint of scorn, nor any shadow of lingering bitterness.

"I wanted you to know… you have triumphed. You accomplished it, Gehrman. Your sacrifice was not in vain… and it never shall be."

"I shall bear it all. Your hopes, your dreams… your accumulated strength."

"I will carry them within my being until the very final moment of my existence."

"So find your rest now… my friend. Rest, and allow your spirit to finally embrace peace. You have already bestowed upon me more than I could ever have deserved."

Wielding his newly acquired might, Frey bent the very laws of reality… affording himself a precious few fleeting moments with that loyal soul.

Just enough time… to utter the words that needed to be spoken.

Just enough time… to grant him the sole solace he genuinely sought.

Gehrman's smile widened, his lips curling further.

He was incapable of speaking in that ethereal form… yet his eyes conveyed the entirety of his thoughts.

Slowly, he let his eyelids fall… his spirit finally dissolving, unbound… at peace.

And Frey, in turn, closed his own eyes, repositioning his mask back onto his face.

"Farewell… my friend."