Redemption's Scars, a Creativity Stone Series Short Story
A Christian Fantasy Short Story
This story asks a difficult question, not whether redemption is possible—but whether someone who believes he is beyond it will accept it when it comes.
Set after the events of Transcendence, Redemption’s Scars follows Dedecus into the aftermath of his choices, where vengeance, repentance, and mercy collide in places that should not exist anymore.
This is a complete short story, best read in one or two sittings.
Wane glared at his imaginary opponent, gripping his sword hilt so tightly his knuckles burned white. His breath came fast and sharp, his body taut with pent-up fury.
“You will finally suffer for what you did to me,” he snarled through gritted teeth.
With all his strength, he lunged forward and swung. His blade cut through the air, colliding with the trunk of a sturdy tree. The impact sent vibrations up his arms, but he didn’t flinch. The blade embedded itself deep into the bark, right into the letter D he had carved into the wood days ago.
Not bad.
When he had first started training, his strikes barely left a scratch, his sword bouncing off like a child’s toy. But now, after months of relentless practice, the tree bore the scars of his dedication. At fourteen, he was no longer the boy who had hidden while his world burned. He was strong now. Strong enough to accomplish what no one else had the courage to do.
Strong enough to kill a monster.
Wane yanked at the hilt, but the blade was stuck fast. He grunted, bracing his foot against the trunk as he pulled harder, straining every muscle in his body.
“Wane! Where are you?”
The voice shattered his focus. His foot slipped, and he tumbled backward. A sharp clang rang out as the sword dislodged, clattering to the ground beside him.
The blade gleamed in the sunlight, mere inches from his ribs.
That was close.
A shadow fell over him. “Oh, there you are, kiddo.” Adia’s voice was warm but laced with concern. “The others said you snuck off again.”
Wane muttered a curse under his breath. “Traitors.”
They never understood why he had to keep slipping away, why every free moment had to be spent training. They had moved on. He couldn’t.
Adia’s gaze flicked to the sword. Her frown deepened as she picked it up by the hilt and rested it casually against her shoulder. “What did I say about using real swords?” she scolded, voice firm but not unkind. “I know you want to join the new guard when you’re older, but this is dangerous.”
Wane scowled but knew arguing with her was useless. Adia wasn’t cruel like some of the other grownups, but she was just as blind. She clung to the same ridiculous notions of forgiveness as the rest of them.
Her eyes lingered on the tree. She traced the carved D with her eyes before sighing. “This is about Dedecus, isn’t it?”
Wane tensed at the name. Even now, a year later, the mere sound of it made his stomach churn. How could everyone act like Dedecus deserved to walk free? Like rebuilding their homes made up for the lives he had stolen?
Adia turned toward him. “Listen, kiddo. I know how you feel. After what happened to Lincoln…”
Wane clenched his fists. “That was your husband,” he interrupted. “Killed in Dedecus’s first attack. Same as my parents, right?”
A flicker of pain crossed Adia’s face, dark and deep. She closed her eyes for a moment, as if bracing herself against the memory.
Then, softly, “Yes.”
Wane stepped toward her, the fire inside him burning hotter. “Then you should want revenge as much as I do.”
Adia exhaled slowly, then opened her eyes. The storm in them had passed, locked away where no one could see. “Revenge won’t give you your parents back, Wane. It will just give Dedecus another grave to carry.” She reached out, resting a gentle hand on his shoulder.
Wane jerked away like her touch burned. “That’s not the point.”
He expected her to argue, but she didn’t. She just studied him for a long moment, then smiled faintly. “Come back to the house. I made lunch.”
Wane snorted. Of course. That was what the grownups always did—ignore the problem, pretend food could fix everything.
He turned his back to her, staring into the woods. “I’ll be there in a bit.”
Silence stretched between them. He expected her to leave. But after a few moments, he still heard no footsteps.
He turned. She was still standing there, watching him. Waiting.
She smiled. “I can wait.”
His jaw clenched, but he knew she wasn’t going anywhere. She was stubborn like that.
Finally, he sighed. “Fine.”
Without another word, he followed her back toward the orphanage. He could always sneak away later.
As they walked, his gaze flickered toward where Dedecus’s lived alone on the edge of the rebuilt village—close enough to be seen, far enough that no one had to speak to him
Maybe Adia and the other in Fides Village were okay moving on and letting him live happily outside the village, but Wane never would.
He couldn’t.
He owed his parents more than that.
Wane crouched behind the thick underbrush, his heart hammering like a war drum. His fingers clenched around the hilt of sword he’d secretly taken from the guard station, the leather grip damp from the sweat slicking his palms.
Through the gaps in the foliage, he could see Dedecus pacing inside his cabin, his shadow shifting restlessly against the dim glow from within. There was something unnatural about the way he moved—agitated, unsettled. Like an animal trapped in a cage, searching for an escape.
Wane’s jaw tightened. Why is he pacing like that? He had expected to find Dedecus asleep, completely unaware of what was coming for him. Instead, the man was on edge. Was he guilty? Afraid?
The thought made Wane’s stomach churn. Dedecus wasn’t supposed to feel fear. He was the monster people feared.
A flicker of movement. Dedecus grabbed a sword.
Wane’s breath hitched. Had he been seen? He ducked lower, pressing himself against the rough bark of a tree as Dedecus pushed open the door and stepped into the night.
He’s leaving?
Wane risked a glance from behind the tree. Dedecus wasn’t heading toward the village. His strides were long, purposeful, cutting westward into the woods.
Where is he going?
Wane hesitated, every muscle in his body tight with indecision. Wait for a better moment? Or follow now?
His grip on the sword hardened. He was tired of waiting.
Keeping low, he moved after Dedecus, matching his steps with the rustling leaves so the wind masked his presence. The trek stretched on, winding through tangled roots and dense shadows. The further west they traveled, the heavier the air became, thick with the scent of damp earth and something faintly metallic.
No one ventured west.
The trees here were taller and darker, their thick canopies swallowing the moonlight. The hunting ground of the tree bears. Wane flicked his gaze upward, scanning the branches for movement. The beasts were known for their patience—waiting, hidden, until their prey wandered too close.
And yet, Dedecus walked on, seemingly unbothered.
He knows exactly where he’s going.
Wane’s legs burned from the relentless pace, the weight of the sword growing heavier with every step. His exhaustion warred with his anger, but his fury refused to be swallowed by fatigue.
Then Dedecus stopped.
Wane ducked behind a gnarled tree, forcing himself to slow his breath. He peered out just as Dedecus stepped into a clearing.
Wane’s pulse stuttered.
The earth had been ripped apart.
A massive chasm carved through the landscape, its jagged edges curling inward like broken teeth. The air here pulsed with a sickening vibration, an almost tangible hum that settled into Wane’s bones, making his skin prickle. The earth itself seemed to whisper, a distant, ghostly chorus that he could almost hear—almost understand.
A cold chill slithered down his spine.
What is this place?
The scent of blood and rust thickened in the air, mingling with something unnatural. Something wrong. Wane could feel it, creeping beneath his skin, coiling around his ribs.
Dedecus stood at the edge, staring down into the abyss. His posture was tense, but his face—his expression—was unreadable.
Was it fear? Fascination? Or something worse?
For the first time, Wane hesitated.
Dedecus looked... haunted. Not the monster Wane had always imagined, but something else. Something broken. What does he see down there?
Wane’s hand trembled as his grip tightened around the hilt of his sword.
And then the anger came surging back, hot and unrelenting.
It doesn’t matter.
Dedecus had stolen too much—Wane’s parents, his home, his childhood. His entire life had been reduced to ash at the hands of this man.
Monster or not, Dedecus had no right to anything else.
Steeling himself, Wane stepped into the clearing, his voice cold as steel. “So, this is what you’ve been hiding.”
The pull had been growing for months. At first, Dedecus had ignored it, shoving down the strange unease that coiled around his ribs whenever he passed near the western forest. But the longer he resisted, the stronger it became.
It wasn’t just a feeling—it was something tangible, something real. A whisper in his bones. A weight in his skull. The hum of something fractured, something that shouldn’t exist but did.
A mistake that never fully died.
And now, standing at the edge of the chasm, he felt it fully—like the breath of some ancient beast, slumbering just beneath the surface of the world.
It was wrong.
And yet… he couldn’t look away.
The jagged tear in the earth stretched before him, uneven and violent, as though the land itself had tried to swallow whatever had once existed here. The air seemed to shimmer around it, the metallic scent of rust and blood thick in his throat. He felt the vibrations in his chest, humming like the strings of an instrument plucked by invisible fingers.
His stomach twisted. He wasn’t sure if it was fear or longing.
Maybe both.
Then a voice shattered the stillness.
“So, this is what you’ve been hiding.”
Dedecus turned sharply, instincts flaring. His eyes locked onto a boy stepping from the trees—small, no older than fourteen, his hands clenched around the hilt of a sword that looked too heavy for him.
Too young to be a threat.
But the look in his eyes—wild, burning—that was dangerous.
Dedecus tensed. “What are you doing here?” His voice came out sharper than intended.
“What am I doing here?” the boy spat, stepping closer, fury twisting his face. “What are you doing here? Plotting some plan to kill more innocent people?”
Dedecus exhaled sharply. Another one. Another kid looking for a fight that wasn’t his.
He had spent the last year trying to make something of the ruins he had left behind, but it didn’t matter. It never mattered. People like this boy would never let it go. They would always see him as the monster he had been, not the man standing here now.
You still are that monster.
He forced himself to stay calm, to ignore the voice in his head. “I didn’t come here to hurt anyone. I don’t even know what this place is.”
“You expect me to believe that?” The boy’s grip on his sword tightened, his knuckles turning white. “You’re out here, all alone, in the middle of the night, staring at this—this thing. What else could you be planning?”
Dedecus hesitated. The truth felt too raw, too absurd to say aloud. That he had been drawn here. That he felt something waiting for him.
Instead, he settled for, “There’s something… wrong about this place.” His voice came out quieter than intended. “I’ve been feeling it for a while now. Like it’s calling to me.”
The words sounded like an admission of guilt.
The kid laughed—a short, bitter thing. “Calling to you? Do you ever stop lying?”
Dedecus clenched his jaw. “I’m not lying.”
“Then why are you here?” The boy stepped forward, blade flashing in the faint moonlight. “If you’re so innocent, why didn’t you tell anyone about this?”
Dedecus’s fists curled. “Because I’m trying to protect the village.” His voice was clipped, tight. “Whatever this is, it’s dangerous.”
At least, that was partially true.
The chasm still whispered to him. What if it’s something more? Something meant for you?
Would you take it back?
No. He swallowed hard, hating himself for the temptation. He wouldn’t go down that road again.
“Or maybe you just wanted to keep it for yourself.”
The accusation made his pulse spike, anger rising fast and sharp.
His voice dropped, low and firm. “I’m not going to stand here and let some kid accuse me of things you don’t understand.”
The boy’s eyes flared with fresh rage. “Don’t call me a kid!”
Then he lunged.
The attack was reckless, all rage and no control. Dedecus barely had to move to deflect the strike, steel clashing against steel.
He’s not a fighter. He’s just angry.
Dedecus stepped back, blade raised defensively. “I don’t want to fight you.”
“You don’t get a choice.”
Another strike. Sloppy. Desperate. Dedecus parried easily, his boots sliding closer to the edge of the chasm as they moved.
“Do you even know who I am?” The kid’s breath hitched, then his voice came, shaking but full of fire. “I’m Wane. One of the children left orphans. You murdered my parents.”
Something inside Dedecus fractured.
His grip loosened. His breath stalled.
He looked at the boy again, really looked at him.
Now… now he could see it.
Memories surged like a flood—the fire, the screaming, the bodies left behind.
His sword slipped from his fingers, landing with a dull clatter between them.
Wane.
The name tasted like ash.
His chest constricted, something sharp and splintering spreading through his ribs.
His breath came rough, uneven. “You’re right. I do deserve it.”
Wane froze. His fury had nowhere to go. “You’re just gonna give up without a fight?”
The chasm thrummed behind Dedecus, the vibrations pressing into his skull.
This is it. The moment.
His hands curled into fists. His voice turned sharp, desperate. “This is what I deserve. What I’m too… too weak to do myself.” His breath hitched, and for the first time in a long time, his voice cracked. “Just do it. Now. Before I change my mind.”
Wane hesitated. The rage faltered, confusion creeping in.
Dedecus swallowed, his whole body rigid. “Do it!” His voice broke, louder now, raw and full of something he didn’t want to name. “I murdered your parents. I’m a monster. Put an end to this!”
Wane let out a scream, lunging forward—
A blur of motion.
The sword Dedecus had dropped.
Wane’s foot caught on the hilt.
A stumble.
Wane’s body colliding into his.
The edge of the chasm beneath them.
A moment of weightlessness.
The ground vanished.
The scream tore from Wane’s throat as they plummeted into the abyss.
Dedecus didn’t scream.
For a single, fleeting moment, he thought—maybe this is justice.
Then the chasm swallowed them whole.
Dedecus hit the ground hard. The impact jolted through his ribs, pain lancing up his side as he rolled to a stop. The air rushed from his lungs in a strangled gasp, his mind sluggish, disoriented. For a moment, all he could do was lie there, staring up at the impossibly dark sky above. His body ached, but panic burned hotter beneath his skin.
He forced himself upright, breath still uneven, and took in his surroundings.
The chasm walls loomed high around them, made of packed dirt and jagged rock. But the ground wasn’t normal. Unlike the rough terrain above, this surface was eerily smooth, as if something had scorched it into glass. Long, fractured cracks webbed across it like veins of black lightning.
This place… I know this place.
Dread coiled in his gut. This wasn’t just any chasm. This was Layer Six—the top floor of Transcendence, the throne room where he had played god.
But Transcendence is gone.
He swallowed hard, his pulse thudding violently in his ears. Then why is it here?
A faint shimmer caught his eye.
A figure stood motionless a few feet away.
Dedecus stilled, his throat tightening. The man was small, bald, draped in a long white robe. His form was frozen, as if time had stopped just before his next breath. A thin layer of glittering red dust coated his skin, his robes, his unmoving fingers.
Dedecus’s stomach dropped.
No. No, no, no.
It couldn’t be. It wasn’t possible.
But it was.
Smith.
His servant.
His creation.
A tremor ran through Dedecus’s body, cold and violent. His breathing turned shallow, his vision narrowing. Transcendence is dead. Josh and Namid destroyed it.
So why was this here?
This has to be a nightmare. Please, let this be a nightmare.
But he knew better. The air smelled too sharp, the cold against his skin too real.
Somehow, impossibly, a fractured remnant of his greatest failure had survived. And now he and Wane were trapped inside it.
I have to get out.
The thought roared through him, overpowering everything else. Adrenaline flooded his limbs, numbing the pain from the fall. He lurched forward, closing the distance to where Wane lay unconscious.
He grabbed the boy by the shoulders and shook him.
“Wake up.” His voice came out harsher than intended.
Wane’s eyes shot open. “Get away from me!”
Dedecus barely had time to step back before Wane rolled and snatched his sword from the ground, pointing it at him with wild, panicked energy.
“What did you do?!”
Dedecus threw up his hands. “This isn’t me. We fell into the chasm, remember?” He jerked his head toward Smith’s frozen body, his own breath coming fast and uneven. “And we need to get out of here. Now.”
Wane’s eyes flickered around the space, his grip tightening on the sword hilt. “What is this place? Who’s that?”
“It doesn’t matter.” Dedecus took a step toward the chasm wall, scanning for a way up. “We need to go—”
A crack echoed beneath him.
He froze, heart leaping into his throat.
He looked down. Black cracks spiderwebbed outward from where his foot had landed.
The ground is unstable.
And if this is layer six… then layer five is beneath us.
His gut twisted. Layer five.
Wane shifted his stance, and more cracks splintered out beneath him.
Dedecus’s panic surged. “Stop!” He tried to keep the alarm from his voice, but it still came out raw, sharp.
Wane scowled. “Why should I listen to you?”
Dedecus clenched his teeth. “The ground is unstable. Do you want another fall?”
Wane hesitated. The tension in his posture wavered. “…Fine. How do we get out?”
Dedecus exhaled, forcing his body to stay still, to not make things worse.
“Very carefully.” His voice dropped to a whisper, as if speaking too loudly would make the entire world collapse beneath them.
He moved toward the cliff wall, each step deliberate, slow.
Every time his foot pressed down, the cracks deepened.
His pulse pounded.
God, I don’t know why you’d listen to me, but please don’t let us fall. I can’t go to layer five.
He reached the wall. Loose dirt. No solid footholds.
His hands dug in, but the earth crumbled under his grip.
Above him, just out of reach, a thick root protruded from the cliffside.
If I can get to that—
He turned back toward Wane. “Give me the sword. I can wedge it into the dirt so we can climb up.”
Wane laughed bitterly, clutching the hilt tighter. “Not a chance. This is my protection against you.”
Dedecus’s patience snapped. “I’m trying to rescue you, you idiot.”
Wane didn’t budge. “I don’t need your help. I can do it myself.”
“Fine. Then do it.”
Wane stepped closer to the wall, trying to wedge the blade into the dirt. He twisted, shoving it deeper, searching for an anchor point.
A sound split the air.
A deep, resonating crack.
The floor beneath them shuddered.
Dedecus’s stomach clenched.
No. No, not now.
They both froze.
The silence stretched, suffocating.
The ground collapsed.
A deafening roar of crumbling earth filled the air as the entire surface gave way beneath them.
Dedecus’s stomach dropped.
Wane’s eyes went wide as he flailed, trying to grab onto anything.
The world ripped away beneath them, and they plummeted into the stark white room below.
Layer five.
The floor beneath them shattered.
A rush of weightlessness gripped Dedecus as he and Wane plunged into layer five.
Dedecus hit the ground hard. He pushed himself up, teeth clenched, every nerve screaming at him to move.
The ground was smooth—unnaturally so, like polished stone, but riddled with cracks. Jagged, spiderwebbing fractures split across the stark white floor, pulsing faintly, as if the room itself were breathing.
White.
Everything was white.
The walls stretched high around them, blinding and endless, featureless but suffocatingly close. The cracks slithered up the walls and ceiling, as though something beneath the surface was trying to break free.
The space was empty—devoid of doors, of shadows, of anything except them.
But it wouldn’t stay that way.
Dedecus knew what was coming.
Wane groaned nearby, sprawled on the ground, clutching his ankle. “All this falling is getting old.” He exhaled sharply, pain flashing across his face. “I think I broke it.”
Dedecus barely spared him a glance. They had bigger problems.
“Get up, kid. We don’t have time to complain. We need to get out of here, before—”
He stopped.
The space ahead of them rippled, a distortion in the fabric of the room. A mass of dark energy crackled against the white void, forming something—no, someone.
Dedecus’s stomach knotted.
It’s happening.
The flickering mass twisted, stretched, distorted—a smear of unnatural movement, shifting between shapes, possibilities. It wasn’t solid yet, but it was becoming.
Wane stiffened beside him, his breathing shallow. “What is that?” His voice wavered.
Dedecus didn’t answer. Didn’t need to.
He was already moving, snatching up Wane’s sword from where it had landed.
“Hey! Give that back!” Wane protested, scrambling to his feet despite his injury.
Dedecus ignored him. This wasn’t a battle the kid could fight.
The distortion thickened, solidifying bit by bit.
The shifting mass expanded, contorted, growing taller, denser. The light in the room dimmed, as though the very presence of this thing was draining the space around it.
Then—a shape.
A towering, imposing figure.
The body came first—unnaturally muscular, built like a god sculpted from fire and stone. His skin took on a red tint, veins pulsing beneath the surface like rivers of molten power.
The air grew heavy.
A crushing weight settled over Dedecus’s shoulders, pressing into his bones.
This wasn’t real.
But it felt real.
The figure fully took form, the last traces of flickering energy snapping into place.
Then, it opened its eyes.
Red. Glowing. Hungry.
And smiling.
A slow, deliberate, cruel grin. “Thought you could escape me?”
Dedecus couldn’t breathe.
The figure standing before him.
It was the him he feared.
The him he had been when he had the power of the Creativity Stone.
The him he still feared he could become.
The monster-Dedecus grinned, his red eyes gleaming with dark amusement.
A sharp inhale from behind.
Wane gasped. His entire body went rigid, his fists clenching so tight they shook. “You!” He lunged.
Dedecus moved before he could think, grabbing the kid’s shirt and yanking him back. Wane stumbled, crashing to the ground just behind him.
“Whatcha gonna do, boy?” The monster version of himself sneered down at Wane, voice smooth as silk, dripping with mockery. “You gonna punch me?”
Wane tried to push himself up, but Dedecus stayed in front of him, sword gripped so tightly his fingers ached.
“He’s just a projection,” Dedecus muttered, forcing steel into his voice. “This is all in our heads.”
The monster chuckled, shaking his head. “Oh, but I’m very real.” He pointed at Dedecus’s temple. “Sure, this layer gave me form, but I’ve always been here. Isn’t that why you hate yourself so much?”
A flicker of heat crawled up Dedecus’s spine. “Shut up.”
The monster laughed, slow and indulgent, like this was all some private joke. Then his gaze flickered downward.
“Touchy, I see.” His grin widened. “But those scars across your arm give you away.”
The air thinned.
Dedecus went completely still.
A sharp inhale from behind. “What is he talking about?” Wane asked, voice wary.
Dedecus resisted the urge to pull his sleeves down. He wished he’d worn something long-sleeved today.
The monster took a step closer, tilting his head. “Oh, come on, Dedecus. I know you. I am you. You didn’t think you could keep this secret forever, did you?”
His voice was silk, smooth and sharp, digging under Dedecus’s skin.
It had started small. A week after he had finished rebuilding Fides.
At first, it had been just thoughts.
Left alone with his mind, with the whispers, with the pull.
The Creativity Stone had been hidden, and yet—he could still feel it. The temptation, the voice in his head that said “You’re nothing without it.”
He had needed a distraction. A way to release the pressure, the rage, the constant weight of his own existence.
At first, it had been small—just enough pain to drown out the voices. But it had become a habit. A routine. A necessity.
A daily punishment.
One he deserved.
No one knew. Not Joshua. Not Namid. Not anyone.
And he needed to keep it that way.
The monster watched him.
Studying him.
Savoring the silence.
“What’s wrong? No clever retorts?” His voice dipped into something softer, almost mocking sympathy. “Does it feel good, Dedecus? Hurting yourself? Does it help?”
Dedecus’s hands shook. He tightened his grip on the sword.
“Just let us leave.”
The monster-Dedecus scoffed, tilting his head like a predator considering a wounded animal. His red eyes gleamed with something cold, calculated.
“Pathetic,” he drawled. “Maybe I should just kill you right now. Put you out of your misery.”
Dedecus’s breath hitched.
“After all, you already tried to let this kid finish the job. But wouldn’t it be more fitting for me to do it?”
“Shut up!” The words ripped out of him, raw and ragged. His hands shook, his entire body taut with rage. Not fear—rage.
But the monster only smiled, his voice turning smooth, laced with venom.
“You stupidly let go of your anger toward God, didn’t you?” He rolled his eyes, feigning boredom. “You forgave Him after everything He did to us.”
“God wasn’t the one holding the stone,” Dedecus said.
“Exactly,” he said. “You were.” A slow chuckle. “And after everything you’ve done, you can never forgive yourself.”
The words slammed into Dedecus like a hammer, knocking the breath from his lungs.
“All those horrible feelings,” the monster continued, “the screams echoing in your ears, the faces of the ones you slaughtered—you will never escape them.”
As if the words carried weight beyond sound, the air itself twisted.
The white void fractured.
Distant voices rose from the cracks in the floor. Screaming. Crying. Pleading.
Dedecus’s chest tightened.
He could hear them—his victims.
The voices overlapped, a thousand tortured echoes.
His hands clenched into fists. His breathing grew ragged, his pulse hammering against his ribs.
“You here to make me feel worse?” Dedecus spat, his voice hoarse. “Nothing you can say compares to what I already think about every moment of my life.”
The monster only smirked.
“Oh, I’m not here to make you feel worse.”
He took a slow step forward.
“I’m here to show you how to make it stop.”
With a sickening rip, the monster reached into his own chest and tore something out.
The room dimmed, the light warping around the object in his hands.
The Creativity Stone.
The power that had let him reshape reality—and had reshaped him into a monster in the process
It pulsed.
The swirling red energy twisted between his fingers, humming with raw, limitless power.
Dedecus couldn’t look away.
It was right there.
Within reach.
He felt it in his bones, the pull that had never left him, the whisper that had never truly been silenced. For a year, he had fought it, resisted it—but he had never stopped feeling it.
Every dream. Every moment of silence. Every waking thought.
It was always there.
And now—it was in front of him.
His body betrayed him first.
His breathing hitched. His fingers twitched. His muscles coiled with a need so deep it felt like drowning.
It’s not real.
He knew that. Somewhere in the back of his mind, he knew this was just another trick of the Mind Prison, the layer he’d created in Transcendence designed to bring one’s deepest pains and fears to life.
But it looked real.
Felt real.
And if it was real, then all he had to do was take it.
One step.
One reach.
And the agony would stop.
He wouldn’t have to wake up every day with this weight in his chest. Wouldn’t have to feel the emptiness, the misery, the sickening self-hatred.
All he had to do was take it back.
His hand twitched.
Then—a flash.
Not from the outside. From within.
A memory.
The Creativity Stone burning inside his chest. The searing pain, the way it had consumed him, turned him into something uncontrollable.
The swirling tornado, the storm of power, ripping through everything.
The way he had lost himself.
The moment before the end—Joshua and Namid’s outstretched hands.
Not to fight him.
Not to destroy him.
To pull him back.
To save him.
And above even that—a hand he had never fully understood.
The hand of God that offered redemption.
Dedecus’s entire body trembled and his hand clenched into a fist.
“No,” he said, the word barely a whisper.
The monster-Dedecus tilted his head. “What was that?”
Dedecus inhaled shakily, pressing his palm against the scar over his heart. The place where the Creativity Stone had once been.
He tore his gaze away from the pulsing energy. “No.”
His voice rose, stronger now. “No!”
The monster laughed. “Suit yourself.”
He lifted the stone—and pressed it back into his chest.
The red energy fused into him, his form flickering for a moment like a living ember before he became solid again.
The temptation was gone.
But it had left something worse.
The monster-Dedecus’s smirk deepened.
“I saw it.”
Dedecus’s breath was uneven, his pulse hammering in his ears.
“Saw what?” He forced through gritted teeth.
The monster’s gaze pierced through him, eyes gleaming with cruel amusement. “The desire.”
A single step forward. “The way your body trembled.”
Another step. “The way you looked at it.”
His voice was a whisper now, low and full of satisfaction. “Don’t pretend I’m not still a part of you.”
Something inside Dedecus collapsed.
Self-loathing seared through him, hot and unbearable, suffocating him from the inside out.
He had rejected it.
But he had wanted it.
Even after all the lives he had destroyed.
Even after swearing he would never let it consume him again.
His fingers dug into his palms. His throat burned.
God, why am I still like this?
He wished God would strike him dead, right there. It’s what he deserved.
He longed to make himself pay with blood with the sword in his hand, but he refused to show weakness in front of the monster standing before him, the monster still inside him.
The monster watched him, drinking in his self-loathing like it was the sweetest thing in the world.
And he laughed.
Wane’s breath came in sharp, uneven gasps. His ankle ached but he ignored it. He just… sat there.
Staring.
His mind whirled, unable to process what he was seeing.
Two Dedecuses.
One was exactly as he had always imagined—the monster from his nightmares, the red-eyed demon who had torn his life apart. The murderer who had killed his parents, who had destroyed his life without a second thought.
And then—
The other.
The one he had tried to kill.
The one he had hated for a year.
The one who looked nothing like a god, nothing like a demon—just a man. A man who shook with the weight of his own existence.
His arms, scarred. His face, pale and drained. His breath, unsteady.
Wane had pictured this moment so many times. The confrontation. The rage, the blood, the revenge.
But this? This wasn’t how it was supposed to be.
Wane swallowed, his mouth dry as dust.
He should still want to kill him.
He had spent an entire year feeding that hatred, sharpening it like a blade. He had trained, planned, dreamed of the day he would face Dedecus the Destroyer and make him pay.
And yet…
The man standing before him looked nothing like a destroyer.
He looked like someone who had already been destroyed.
Wane had told himself that Dedecus thrived on pain, that he loved power, loved destruction.
But this Dedecus?
He had rejected the Creativity Stone.
The power was right there. And he didn’t take it.
If Dedecus was truly everything Wane believed him to be, he wouldn’t have hesitated. He would have taken it without a second thought.
So why had he turned away?
Why had he looked so sick with shame?
Why did he seem more tortured by his past than even Wane was?
Wane’s stomach twisted, the solid foundation of his hatred cracking, crumbling beneath him.
But… his parents were still dead.
A sickening grin spread across monster-Dedecus’s face as he lifted his hands.
“Fine,” he drawled. “If Dedecus is too much of a coward to use the Creativity Stone, then I will.”
The air rippled.
The stark white room fractured, its cracks crawling outward, consuming everything.
And the world changed.
The blinding white vanished, replaced by the vibrant hues of Fides—before the destruction.
Wane gasped.
The town was alive—the sun shining down on gravel paths, people bustling about their day, merchants calling out their wares. The scent of freshly baked bread drifted from the bakery, blending with the crisp forest air.
It was exactly as it had been.
Before he came.
A tremor ran beneath their feet.
The peaceful sounds of village life were shattered by a deep, inhuman roar.
The ground shook violently, sending people stumbling, screaming. Dust and debris rained from rooftops.
The sky darkened, twisting.
From the heart of the village, a figure stood.
The real Dedecus flinched at the sight of his past self—his monstrous self.
The Dedecus of the past—the one consumed by the Creativity Stone—stood tall, wreathed in unholy power. His skin shone with dark radiance, his eyes burning a searing red.
He didn’t look human anymore—only power wearing his face
The voice that erupted from his lips was a bellow of pure rage.
“You and your perfect village,” he roared, “are finally going to feel what I experienced my entire life.”
A crack of energy split through the sky.
“Bow to me as your god,” monster-Dedecus commanded, “or I’ll show you who you should have been praying to all this time.”
The ground exploded beneath him as he launched forward, slamming his hand into the earth. A pulse of red energy erupted outward, a shockwave tearing through the earth.
Buildings collapsed like paper. Stone walls crumbled, burying those beneath them.
The village descended into chaos.
People ran, screaming. Some fell, crushed beneath the weight of their own homes.
And Wane?
Wane could only stare.
It was happening again.
The day his parents died.
His body moved before he could think.
His broken ankle throbbed, but he didn’t care.
I can save them.
His father had charged forward that day, sword in hand, trying to stop Dedecus.
Wane had pleaded to go with him—but his father had refused, telling him to stay hidden.
That had been the last thing he ever said to him.
But now—now he could change it.
Now he was older, stronger.
He could stop it.
Wane’s breath hitched as he saw him.
His father.
Leading a small group of villagers, swords drawn, creeping closer to the monster.
He was alive.
I can reach him.
Wane limped forward, his injured ankle screaming in protest.
Dedecus’s voice shouted behind him.
“Wane, stop! There’s nothing you can do! This is just a—”
“I can save him!” Wane shouted back. “And you can’t stop me!”
The pain in his leg didn’t matter.
The ache in his chest didn’t matter.
The only thing that mattered was getting to his father.
The monster-Dedecus stood at the ruins of the church, his hands glowing with red-hot energy.
The real Dedecus stared in horror.
Wane stumbled forward, gasping as he tried to close the distance, but he was moving too slowly.
His father was so close now.
The past version of him—the younger Wane—was still hidden in the shadows, watching his father prepare to charge.
But Wane wasn’t that scared little kid anymore.
He was here now.
He could warn him.
He could stop him.
“Dad!” His voice ripped through the chaos.
His father’s head turned and for a split second, their eyes met.
Wane felt his breath catch, tears stinging his vision.
His father lifted a finger to his lips. A silent warning to stay quiet and hidden.
But Wane wouldn’t. Not this time.
He pushed himself harder, faster.
But his ankle buckled.
He crashed to the ground, gasping in pain.
He lifted his head just in time to see his father charge.
No. No, no, no!
His dad swung his sword, sending it straight into the monster’s chest.
He doubled over and grasped at the hilt. Blood gushed from the wound.
He stood up straight and laughed. He rolled his piercing red eyes and ripped the piece of metal out, flinging it off to the side where it clanged against the ground. The wound healed instantly. He brushed the blood off his chest.
Wane scrambled back to his feet. It was happening exactly as he remembered.
“Really?” The monster laughed, “Did you really think a little weapon could stop a literal god?” He held out his hand and grinned. “But if it’s a sword fight, you want.”
He held out his right hand, and a black hilt entwined with red spirals appeared in it. Shiny metal grew out of the hilt, glowing red.
Wane cried out, immediately recognizing the blade that had killed his dad.
He tossed the blade once, caught it, and the point angled toward Wane’s father’s chest—exactly like the memory
Here it comes.
Wane’s breath hitched, his body frozen in place. This was it. The moment he’d relived a thousand times.
The blade tore through the air, aimed straight at Wane’s father’s chest.
A blur of motion.
Steel met steel.
The resounding clang rang through the ruined village as Dedecus blocked the strike.
Wane’s eyes widened.
What?
Dedecus stood firm, his sword locked against his monstrous past self’s blade. His body shook with the impact, but he didn’t falter.
This wasn’t right.
Dedecus was fighting.
Not just fighting—protecting.
The same man Wane had hated, the same man he had spent a year preparing to kill, was now shielding his father from death.
Monster-Dedecus laughed. “You cannot change the past, your actions change nothing about this man’s fate.”
Dedecus’s voice was hard as stone. “Maybe not, but I will not let this boy watch his father die again. Once is already too many times.”
Too many times.
Wane’s heart pounded.
His father was still there—alive, retrieving his sword.
I can still reach him.
Ignoring the pain screaming from his ankle, he pushed forward, shoving his way over rubble, past the burning remains of what used to be homes.
Monster-Dedecus struck first.
A wave of raw energy erupted from his blade, slamming Dedecus backward. He skidded across the gravel path, barely regaining his footing before the monster charged again.
Wane flinched at the force of it. The air itself felt like it was burning.
His sword lashed out, a red-hot arc slicing through the air. Dedecus twisted, barely dodging, the heat of the blade singeing his skin as he moved.
He retaliated, swinging his own sword in a sharp counterattack.
The two clashed violently, their blades sparking with every strike. Each impact sent shockwaves rippling outward, kicking up dust and debris.
Monster-Dedecus laughed, eyes glowing with un-contained power.
Wane shielded his face from the dust.
Faster. I have to move faster.
But he couldn’t, every step felt like someone was stabbing him in the leg.
His father was still ahead, waiting for the perfect moment to strike. The same moment that had killed him before.
The two Dedecuses fought like gods, each strike cracking the illusion of Fides itself.
Monster-Dedecus’s sword blurred, too fast, too brutal.
Dedecus blocked, dodged, countered—but he was struggling.
Wane could see it now.
The real Dedecus was tiring. His movements were sharp, but slowing. Every strike he deflected came closer and closer to breaking through his defense.
And all the while, Wane’s father moved.
Creeping closer.
Ready to strike.
No. Not again.
The monster lunged, his blade slicing downward in a brutal arc. Dedecus caught it mid-swing, locking their swords together.
For a moment, they were face to face.
Red eyes met haunted ones.
Monster-Dedecus grinned, his voice dripping with mockery.“You’re fighting a battle with yourself you’ve already lost. You think anything you do now will change things? Lessen that self-loathing? It’s too late.”
Dedecus’s jaw clenched. Blood trickled from a cut on his arm, his grip on his sword tighter than ever. “I don’t care.” His voice was steel.
“You don’t get it, do you?” His voice was softer now, almost mockingly pitying. “I’m stronger. I always have been. You gave up what made us powerful.”
He gestured at his glowing chest, the pulsing stone embedded within.
“You think rejecting this makes you noble? It makes you weak. I was the version of you that no one could touch. No one could hurt. And now? You’re nothing.”
Dedecus exhaled sharply, steadying his stance. “If power is all you have, then you were never strong at all.”
“Then what does that make you?” The monster broke the deadlock.
The world burned around them as they fought.
Each strike sent cracks splintering through the illusion of Fides. Buildings wavered like mirages, as if the village itself was breaking under the weight of their battle.
Monster-Dedecus fought with relentless fury, his blade a blur of red light, his movements inhumanly fast.
Dedecus barely had time to react before a wave of power slammed into him.
He was sent flying back, crashing into a half-destroyed building.
Wane reached the battle empty-handed, his sword still in Dedecus’s grip. He desperately searched around for anything he could use to defend them.
Dedecus forced himself upright, coughing dust from his lungs.
Monster-Dedecus spun on his heel, locking onto Wane’s father.
His father lifted his sword, lunging.
The monster moved faster.
Wane saw the blade swing upward.
Saw it glow red.
Saw it cut through the air—
And plunge into his father’s chest.
“NO!”
Wane collapsed, his legs buckling as if the sword had pierced him instead.
His father choked, eyes going wide.
Monster-Dedecus twisted the blade.
Blood spilled over the steel.
His father staggered, then fell.
The world blurred.
The sounds of battle faded into static.
All Wane could hear was his own ragged breathing.
All he could see was his father lying on the ground, unmoving.
It happened again.
He hadn’t saved him.
He hadn’t changed anything.
It was a fight that could never be won.
Dedecus rose from the rubble, slowly, painfully. His body ached with exhaustion, his limbs trembling from the sheer weight of the battle—not just the physical fight, but the one raging inside him.
He was fighting against himself.
And he was losing.
His breath came in ragged gasps as he took in the sight before him.
Wane’s father lay still, lifeless.
And Wane—the boy who had spent a year dreaming of getting revenge for this moment—knelt beside him, broken.
The sobs cut through Dedecus like a blade.
Behind him, Monster-Dedecus laughed.
The sound was deep, victorious, cruel.
“You failed.”
The words hit harder than any blade.
Dedecus swallowed, his throat burning.
“You thought you could change the past, but you can’t.”
No. He couldn’t.
And he was tired.
So, so tired.
Dedecus turned back toward his past self.
The monster’s red eyes blazed, his expression twisted in pure amusement.
They weren’t done yet.
Monster-Dedecus lunged forward, sword raised high, going for the kill.
Dedecus met him head-on, blocking the strike with the last of his strength.
Their swords clashed in a violent spark of power, but Dedecus was losing ground.
His muscles burned, his movements slowing.
The monster fought with pure, unrelenting fury, but Dedecus wasn’t angry anymore.
He wasn’t fighting for atonement.
He wasn’t fighting to prove himself.
He wasn’t fighting to punish himself.
And somehow, that made him stronger.
The battle raged, the illusion of Fides splintering around them, the very world trembling under their clashing blows.
But Dedecus wasn’t fighting to win.
He was fighting to end it.
Then, in one final movement, he let go.
Dedecus dropped his sword.
Not because he’d given up—but because he refused to feed his demons any longer.
The clang of steel hitting stone echoed through the dying illusion.
Monster-Dedecus hesitated, blinking in surprise. “What are you doing?”
Dedecus turned away. His breath was shaky but steady. “No.”
Monster-Dedecus’s face contorted with rage.
“Fight me!” he bellowed, his voice twisting the very air around them.
“No.” Dedecus didn’t look back.
“You don’t get to walk away from this!” The monster’s voice was a snarl, desperate now, like he could feel himself fading.
But Dedecus did walk away.
Because he couldn’t keep fighting with the past.
Dedecus stumbled forward, barely keeping himself upright, until he reached Wane.
The boy looked up, red-eyed, tear-streaked, shattered.
For the first time, Wane didn’t look at him with hatred.
He just looked at him like someone lost.
Dedecus lowered himself to his knees beside him, his heart pounding as he searched for the right words.
He found none.
So instead, his voice cracked with the only truth he could give.“I’m sorry.”
Wane hesitated, his whole body tense.
Then, finally, his lips parted.
“Thank you.”
It was quiet. Almost too quiet.
But it was real.
Dedecus exhaled a shaky breath. “I know it doesn’t make up for what I did, but...”
His voice trailed off. Because what could he say?
There was no right thing. No words that would make Wane’s pain disappear.
Wane wiped his sleeve across his eyes. His voice was still hoarse when he spoke.
“I thought maybe God was giving me a second chance.”
Dedecus’s breath caught.
The words pierced deeper than he expected.
Not a second chance at the past.
But maybe—maybe a second chance at the future.
He nodded slowly, the realization settling over him like a weight lifted.
“You know, maybe He has.”
Wane stared at Dedecus for a long time. “You really have changed, haven’t you?”
Dedecus opened his mouth, but Wane kept talking.
“That monster died a year ago.”
Dedecus flinched. His voice was rough when he finally spoke.“That monster is still in me. Tempting me. Every day.”
“But you didn’t listen.” Wane shook his head. “You two don’t look anything alike.”
Dedecus pressed his tongue against the roof of his mouth, trying to keep from breaking.
His throat burned.
His eyes stung.
But for the first time in a long, long time...
He felt like he could breathe.
After a long silence, Wane swallowed hard. “I’m sorry I tried to kill you.”
Dedecus let out a small, dry laugh. “I think you had a fair reason.”
A hint of a smirk ghosted across Wane’s face before it faded into something solemn. “And I...” He swallowed hard. “I forgive you. Or at least I’m trying to.”
The words settled over Dedecus like a weight.
“And I hope one day you can forgive yourself.”
Dedecus’s chest tightened.
Wane wasn’t finished. “Because I think God saved you for a reason.”
For a long moment, Dedecus just sat there.
Feeling.
Breathing.
After a year of screaming voices in his head, it felt strange to have silence.
It wasn’t the numbness of despair.
It wasn’t the whispers of temptation.
It was just quiet.
And for the first time in a long time, that quiet felt like peace.
He exhaled and ran a finger absentmindedly over one of the scars on his wrist.
The world around them shifted.
The ruins of Fides blurred, faded—until they were back in the stark white room.
The monster was gone.
Dedecus blinked, feeling strangely light.
He pulled himself to his feet, offering a hand to Wane.
“Come on.” His voice was steady. “We need to get out of this place.”
Wane took his hand.
And together, they walked forward.
Dedecus drove his makeshift pick into the dirt, the impact sending small tremors through his already aching arms. Though the walls of layer five were still unnaturally white, beneath the surface, they were just dirt.
That had been his advantage.
He had torn up fragments of the fractured ground, shaping them into rough picks. They weren’t perfect, but they were strong enough to climb with.
Wane had been amazed by his quick thinking, his breathless voice carrying a hint of something close to admiration.
“You know,” Wane had grunted between movements, “you should do more building. You’re annoyingly good at it.”
Dedecus had chuckled, more at himself than anything else. The idea wasn’t bad.
In fact, it was the first time something had sounded good in a long time.
Something to do.
Something with purpose.
They had been climbing for hours.
Slow, grueling progress. Wane’s injured ankle made every movement a struggle, forcing Dedecus to keep to a very slow pace.
But finally—finally—they had reached layer six.
And now, they were climbing the final stretch, clawing their way out of the chasm itself.
Dedecus gritted his teeth, pushing upward, his fingers raw from gripping the stone.
He was ready to be free of this place.
Ready to escape what he had already named in his mind—Transcendence’s Shadow.
“Dedecus…”
He froze at the echoing whisper.
His grip on the pick tightened as his eyes snapped downward, searching the abyss below them.
Nothing.
No movement. No shifting shadows.
Just emptiness.
A shiver crawled up his spine.
Then it came again.
“How far the great god has fallen.”
The voice was low, steeped in contempt, curling through the chasm like smoke.
Familiar.
But not.
Dedecus’s breath hitched. He stopped climbing, his heart pounding against his ribs.
“You good?” Wane’s voice snapped him back to the present.
Dedecus’s fingers dug into the dirt. “Did you hear that?”
Wane cocked his head. “Hear what?”
A sharp chill settled in Dedecus’s chest.
The voice came again.
“Enjoy Fides while you can. My reckoning is coming.”
His pulse slammed through his veins.
A distant pressure pulsed beneath his skin—something looming.
Watching.
Waiting.
Dedecus squeezed his eyes shut, forcing his breathing to steady.
It’s just in my head.
It’s exhaustion. It’s this cursed place playing tricks on me.
He forced his shaking fingers to grip the rock again. “Nothing,” he muttered. “It’s just... nothing. Let’s get out of here.”
But the feeling of dread didn’t leave him.
They climbed the final ledge just as the first light of dawn broke across the horizon.
The warmth of the sun should have been comforting.
But Dedecus still felt cold.
The whisper lingered in his mind, echoing.
It wasn’t the voice of his past self.
It wasn’t the voice of the Creativity Stone.
It was something else.
Something that knew him.
But he didn’t know it.
He shoved the thought aside as he helped Wane to his feet. “Come on.”
Since Wane couldn’t walk properly, Dedecus had to alternate between carrying him and acting as a human crutch.
It took them another three hours to make their way through the western forest, their exhaustion pressing heavier with each step.
But eventually, through the thinning trees, the rooftops of Fides came into view.
The streets of Fides were bustling in the late morning, but the orphanage stood like a beacon at the edge of the village.
The home for the children who had lost everything.
Most of them were there because of him.
Dedecus hesitated.
They had finally made it back. Wane was safe. There was nothing more for him to do here.
“You can make it from here, right?” Dedecus said, shifting awkwardly. “I should get going.”
Before Wane could answer, the door flew open.
“Kiddo, you’re alive!” Adia rushed out, relief radiating from her—until her eyes locked onto Dedecus.
Her expression darkened instantly.
“Get away from him!” She stepped protectively toward them. “Haven’t you already done enough damage? I don’t know what you did to him all night but—”
“He saved me.”
Adia’s breath hitched. She turned to Wane, startled. “He what?”
Wane shifted uncomfortably, looking away. “I was being dumb and got us into a dangerous situation.” His voice was quieter now, but firm. “He saved my life.”
Adia’s expression softened—just slightly. She turned to Dedecus. “Is this true?”
Dedecus sighed. “He’s a good kid. He’ll make an excellent guard one day.” He glanced at Wane’s swollen ankle and smirked. “But first, he needs to get some ice on that ankle before it falls off.”
Adia crossed her arms, eyes still wary, but she exhaled. “Well… thank you.”
Dedecus nodded once, uncomfortable with the unspoken tension in the air.
But at least one more person today, compared to yesterday, was glad he was there.
He smiled to himself.
Correction. Two people.
Wane… and himself.
Adia wrapped an arm around Wane’s shoulder. “Let’s get you to the hospital, kiddo. You’ll have plenty of time to let that injury heal, because you’ll be grounded for at least that long.”
Wane groaned but didn’t argue. “Real quick, though, can I have a minute to talk to Dedecus?”
Adia hesitated, glancing between them.
“…Fine. I’ll go grab some wrapping for your ankle.”
She stepped inside, leaving just the two of them.
Wane turned back, his voice quieter but unwavering.
“Look, I know this isn’t my place… but you need to talk to someone.”
Dedecus stiffened.
Wane held his gaze. “About... the scars.”
Dedecus looked away, resisting the urge to pick at one of the scabs.
“Joshua, Namid, Pastor Don… Someone. Just—” Wane hesitated. “You’re not alone.”
Dedecus’s jaw clenched.
For a long moment, he didn’t respond. Then, finally, ”I know...”
“So you’ll talk to someone?”
Adia returned, kneeling down to start wrapping Wane’s leg.
Dedecus chuckled. “It’s just the ankle, I’m not sure his knee needs to be wrapped.”
Adia shot him a glare. “Better safe than sorry.”
Wane snorted, shaking his head as Adia continued her overzealous bandaging.
A few villagers had gathered nearby, their whispers low but sharp.
Some glares burned into his back.
That wasn’t new.
Dedecus ignored them.
“Well, I should get back to my place.” He took a step back, then smirked. “Feel free to stop by sometime, Wane—once you’re ungrounded, of course. I could give you some sword-fighting pointers for next time you want to try and skewer me.”
Adia’s face paled.
Wane laughed. “I’ll be there!” Then his expression turned serious. “But you didn’t answer my question.”
Dedecus hesitated.
Wane narrowed his eyes. “Will you talk to someone?”
Dedecus rubbed his arm. “…I’ll think about it.”
Wane nodded.
Dedecus turned, heading back toward his cabin.
His body ached. His mind was exhausted.
But for the first time in a long time, he was actually thinking about talking to someone.
The idea of opening up still terrified him.
But the idea of continuing like this forever?
That terrified him more.
His thoughts drifted back to the chasm. Even now, as he walked away, he could still feel it. That faint pull. That whispered presence.
Still waiting.
Still watching.
Still plotting.
Dedecus swallowed hard. Whatever was down there wasn’t done with him yet.
But then he thought of Wane’s words.
I think God saved you for a reason.
Maybe he had.
And maybe, for the first time, Dedecus was finally willing to find out what that reason was.
The world of The Creativity Stone Series is built around consequences that linger—and redemption that costs something.
Redemption’s Scars bridges the space between Transcendence and what comes next, both thematically and narratively.
If you’d like to explore the larger story:
Downfall — where Dedecus’s fall begins
Transcendence — where the cost of power is fully revealed
You’re welcome to share this story or leave a comment below. I’m grateful to everyone who takes the time to sit with it.
— Caleb
Content Note:
This story touches on themes of despair, self-punishment, and the struggle to believe redemption is possible.If this brings up difficult emotions for you, help is available. In the U.S., you can call or text 988 to reach the Suicide & Crisis Lifeline.