He was strikingly young, perhaps in his early twenties, with blond hair, fair skin, and sharp blue eyes. His face was almost unnaturally perfect.
"I haven't been called that for forty years."
"And for the record," he added lightly, "we could both be asking questions here."
"For example—how am I still alive?"
"I can choose the targets of the smoke," the demon answered simply.
"So you are an eldritch."
"I already answered that," the demon replied. "I am not."
"Hmm… interesting," the blond man murmured. "Then my next question—why am I still alive?"
"That answer depends on my question."
The demon paused before asking, "How long would it take you to weave me a new body?"
The man smiled faintly.
"Straight to business, huh? Well… the problem is, I can't weave without proper material."
"Oh," the demon said calmly. "We have more than enough material."
As he spoke, his gaze drifted toward the corpses scattered across the cell.
The blond man followed his gaze and understood immediately. A slow smile crept onto his face—one of pure amusement. It had been far too long since he had woven anything of significance.
And now, at last, he had the chance.
Quickly, the Weaver set to work.
"Oh ho, this is good—this is very good," he muttered with delight. "I haven't seen corpses this easy to cut in ages. Is it the smoke that softened their flesh?"
Utterly exhilarated, the Weaver treated this task as his greatest project yet. He carefully selected the finest components Monolith had to offer—the best eyes, the smoothest skin, the strongest nails, the most pristine bones, the thickest hair. From these, he crafted a hollow shell of a body. Using strands of his own hair as thread, he stitched everything together.
The magic lay in the binding itself: the seams were nearly invisible to the naked eye. It was as though nothing had ever been cut apart, as if every piece had always belonged exactly where it was placed.
He worked throughout the night.
By the time the sun began to rise, the creation lay complete. The body was absolutely flawless—so perfect that no one could ever tell it had been assembled from fragments of other corpses.
"Oh… this is beautiful," the Weaver whispered. "Absolutely beautiful."
At the sound of his voice, the old man returned to the cell. He had stepped out earlier to retrieve his belongings—his stick and his book. Now he stood before the newly formed body and, without the slightest hint of emotion, asked,
"Can this body endure heavy attacks, rapid movement, and prolonged battle?"
"Don't you dare mock my creation," the Weaver snapped, irritation flashing across his face. "This is the perfect body. It can withstand anything. It's not just flesh—it's a weapon."
The Weaver paused, then asked, "Now… what shall I name the new you?"
"A name?" the demon replied.
"Yes. A name," the Weaver said firmly. "To complete the ritual, the body requires one."
The demon fell into deep thought. Names drifted through his mind, yet none seemed fitting.
Then, at last, one surfaced.
"Hmmm… then…"
"Charles Welsh."
"Huh?!"
The Weaver froze in stunned silence. Then, suddenly, his composure shattered into uncontrollable laughter.
"Ha ha ha ha ha! Seriously? Ha ha ha! You are ruthless!" he roared.
The laughter echoed throughout Monolith—though by then, there was no one left alive to hear it.
The Weaver then laid the old man upon the ground, at the center of a ritualistic circle drawn with blood as ink. Carefully, he draped the newly created shell over the old man's body, covering him like a macabre blanket.
"Now then, Mister Charles Welsh," the Weaver said softly. "Shall we begin?"
He started to chant.
The words were spoken in a tone different from the old man's chants, yet they carried the same alien quality—gibberish to any listener, but rich with meaning and intent. As the chanting intensified, flames erupted from beneath the body, engulfing both the ritual circle and the old man himself. The fire burned fiercely, consuming flesh and bone alike.
After a time, the chanting ceased.
From the ashes of the old body, a new form rose.
It was flawless—perfect in every sense. But then, thick black smoke surged forth, wrapping around the body and reshaping it. The long dark hair faded into pale white. The eyes turned colorless and cold. The fair skin lost all warmth, becoming deathly pale.
It was as though the demon had reclaimed his original body—only younger, stronger, and far more refined. He now appeared to be in his early thirties.
"And he says he is not an eldritch," the Weaver muttered bitterly, watching his masterpiece vanish before his eyes. His disappointment was evident, but survival mattered more than pride, so he held his tongue.
With the rising of the sun, it was time for them to leave Monolith.
Together, they descended through the silent lower levels and opened the massive main gate of the prison.
"Well then, Mister Charles Welsh," the Weaver said, breaking the quiet. "I suppose this is where we part ways. For the record—where will you go now?"
"THERUS ," the man replied softly.
"Hm. THERUS?" The Weaver chuckled lightly. "You're not planning to walk all the way there, are you? Ha ha—"
He stopped laughing.
One look at the man's face was enough to drain all humor from him.
"Oh… you're serious," the Weaver said quietly. "You really are planning to walk."
He stepped back, forcing a grin. "Well then… see you never. Goodbye."
Without another word, the two parted ways, disappearing into the snow-covered mountains.
On the sixth day of NAMELESS's arrival at Monolith, everyone inside the prison was dead—
Except two demons.