THE VILLAIN'S POV

Chapter 859 Grace (1)

Within the Grave of Darkness—the very tomb where a great soul perished, and an even greater one was reborn…

The grave trembled, and the black substance that had engulfed Frey began to recede, slowly fading as though his body itself was devouring it.

The mask of Nameless, once shattered by Agaroth, reformed anew—this time stronger, more refined, more terrifying.

Sharp eyes like those of a predatory hawk, deep, jagged engravings along its sides… and its color remained as it always had been ... black. The color both Nameless and Frey shared.

Frey's white hair began to glow faintly, as if it had gained a will of its own.

Before Shiva's tear-filled eyes, still mourning Gehrman's death, her king's form began to emerge.

The Armor of Peak Night wrapped around him like an ancient war relic, making him appear as a warrior born from the depths of eternity.

And the Sword of Shadow Dominion stirred on its own, coiling around his hand as if yearning—no, begging—to be wielded once more.

At last, Frey's hair shifted… turning into a dark gray, a perfect fusion of his mother's abyssal black and his father's radiant white.

Within mere seconds, the black substance vanished entirely, leaving nothing behind.

Nothing… except Frey, lying silently upon the cold stone floor of the ancient tomb.

Still. Unmoving. Yet undeniably present.

Shiva approached slowly, cautiously, her aged face filled with unease and disbelief.

She could not comprehend what she was witnessing.

Had the king truly returned, as Gehrman had promised? Had he succeeded?

Had all that suffering ... the endless, silent struggle of the blue-eyed man ... finally borne fruit?

She could not tell.

Frey ... no, Nameless from her perspective—gave off no aura… no pressure… nothing at all.

She felt Wesker outside. She felt Maskith. She felt Alexander Ryback clashing with everything he had, holding them back with relentless force.

But Frey… felt like nothing. Like an ordinary man, devoid of presence.

For a fleeting moment, fear gripped her—that everything had failed.

Until… those eyes opened.

From behind the sharp slits of the mask, violet eyes emerged ... utterly different from the dark void they once were.

Eyes that beheld the world from an entirely new perspective.

Slowly, Frey rose to his feet, examining his body with quiet intent.

Arms that had been severed… restored. Legs… whole. His chest, his face… all intact.

As though he had been nothing but a wandering soul for an eternity… lost, aimless, without form.

But now, he had returned.

Returned to the world his own hands had once written.

With heavy, deliberate steps, Frey moved forward.

Shiva stood frozen in place, her mind blank, her gaze locked onto him as if reality itself had ceased to function.

She had waited for this moment for so long… since the day she chose to follow Gehrman.

Since the day the Shadow Sect was torn apart.

She had imagined it countless times—her joy, her reaction… the overwhelming relief.

Yet when it came… it was nothing like she had imagined.

She was happy.

And yet… deeply, painfully sad.

Because someone had left. Forever.

At last, she regained her senses as Frey stood before her.

Without hesitation, she dropped to one knee, lowering her head, her gaze fixed upon the ground.

"My king… welcome. Welcome back."

Tears streamed down her face as she bowed, ready to prostrate herself completely ...

But Frey stopped her instantly, grasping her gently and helping her rise.

"Raise your head, my dear. Your knees should bow to no one… and that face should never touch the ground."

His hand rested against her cheek, wiping away her tears with quiet tenderness.

Shiva stared at him in silence for a few seconds… before clutching his hand tightly, nodding again and again.

Warmth… something she had never felt from him before.

The cold king… had changed.

"My king… we have waited for so long… so very long…" she whispered, her voice trembling as she held onto him.

Frey nodded softly.

"I know, my dear. I know."

His voice was calm. Gentle. Unlike anything she had ever heard from him.

"I know that countless lives were lost for my return… we lost them all.

And among them… our blue-eyed friend Perhaps was the kindest… the most loyal."

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

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

Shiva's eyes reddened as those words struck her, her emotions crashing violently within her chest.

"Is… is there no way to save him? Perhaps… with your power, my king—"

She clung to hope.

But Frey shook his head… extinguishing it before it could grow.

"That is impossible. He no longer exists… what remained of him now lives within me."

Gehrman had given everything to his king—every last fragment of his existence.

His memories. His struggle. His power.

Frey could feel it.

Gehrman's strength… his world-breaking abilities… all of it now belonged to him.

He had truly given him everything.

"He is gone, Shiva… and even if I could bring him back—"

Frey's voice fell, quiet… yet absolute.

"I never would."

"He suffered… more than enough. He endured what no one else could, bore a burden that would have crushed any other—and he earned this rest… the right to finally be at peace after I chained him to an impossible task."

Slowly, Frey pulled his arm free from Shiva's grasp.

A gray-crimson light flared around his hand, expanding in a quiet pulse that made her eyes widen in shock.

"I cannot bring him back… but I can at least grant him this much."

He moved his hand through the air as though painting across the canvas of existence itself.

From the depths of oblivion, space twisted—warped—until a dark fracture split open, radiating a brilliant golden light.

A golden light… reflecting the legacy of a man who had left the world behind.

He had left everything. His dreams, his strength, his life…

All entrusted to the one he believed in above all others.

The one who was—and would forever remain—Number One within the Shadow Sect…

Saint Gehrman.

From beyond that fractured veil, Gehrman appeared.

He opened his eyes ... no longer blue, but glowing with a radiant gold.

Shiva broke into uncontrollable sobs the moment she saw him.

As for Frey… he removed his mask, refusing to face his most loyal companion from behind cold iron.

Frey smiled—openly, warmly—and Gehrman smiled back.

"I know words won't be enough, my old friend…"

Frey spoke with a gentle warmth, his eyes filled with genuine respect—true appreciation.

There was no trace of contempt, no shadow of resentment.

"I wanted you to know… you succeeded. You did it, Gehrman. Your sacrifice was not in vain… and it never will be."

"I will carry it all. Your hopes, your dreams… your strength."

"I will carry them within me until my very last day."

"So rest now… my friend. Rest, and let your soul find peace. You have already given me more than I ever deserved."

With his newfound power, Frey bent reality itself ... granting himself a few fleeting minutes with that loyal soul.

Long enough… to say what needed to be said.

Long enough… to give him the only thing he truly sought.

Gehrman's smile deepened.

He could not speak in that form… yet his eyes said everything .

Slowly, he closed them ... his spirit dissolving at last, freed… at peace.

And Frey, too, closed his eyes, placing his mask back upon his face.

"Goodbye… my friend."