[???]
Time hummed softly, a low vibration that pulsed through reality. Mikoto folded his arms against the viewport, his red eyes distant. His white hair was disheveled from the semi-journey through time. Beside him, Azael stood with his ever-present grin.
"Enjoying the view, Mikoto? Or are you busy plotting future heroics?" Azael teased.
Mikoto's rosy lips curled into a smirk. "I'm merely appreciating the artistry of human tragedy," he replied, his voice smooth. "And as for historical figures, they're a dime a dozen. It's the blade I'm after."
The viewport shifted, and a new era unfolded before them. A sprawling kingdom, bathed in the golden hues of sunset, was their stage.
"Ah, the classic," Azael mused, "a kingdom on the brink, a prophesied hero, and a magical sword. How original."
Mikoto rolled his eyes but didn't comment. His gaze was fixed on a young man standing atop a windswept hill. He was tall and lean, with hair as dark as the night sky and eyes that held the color of the ocean. His hand rested on the hilt of a simple sword, but there was an aura of power surrounding him.
"There he is," Azael pointed out. "Our first specimen. The legendary Kael, the Dark Knight."
As they watched, the scene unfolded. Kael was a farmer's son, living a quiet life until a monstrous horde of Astrothians ravaged his village. Driven by rage and grief, he picked up his father's sword and fought back. In that battle, he discovered a strength he never knew he possessed. A strength that resonated with the blade he found buried beneath the ruins of his home—Sabre.
The years that followed were a blur of battles. Kael, now a shadow of his former self, became a symbol of hope. He fought against tyrannical kings, monstrous creatures, and the darkness that threatened to engulf the world. His victories were legendary, but so were his losses. Friends fell, lovers died, and his heart hardened with each passing day.The weight of the world was heavy on his shoulders, but Kael persevered. He was a paradox, a gentle soul trapped in a warrior's body. He yearned for peace, but the sword called to him, a constant reminder of his duty.
"Tragic, isn't it?" Azael commented, his tone laced with genuine sympathy.
Mikoto simply nodded, his expression unreadable. The scene shifted. Kael, old and weary, stood on the same hill where his journey began. The once-vibrant man was now a husk, his eyes filled with a lifetime of sorrow. With a heavy heart, he plunged Sabre into the earth.
"And there you have it," Azael said, "a hero's journey, from humble beginnings to a tragic end. A tale as old as time."
Mikoto remained silent, his mind lost in thought. Then he spoke, his voice barely a whisper: "And yet, they endure."
Azael chuckled. "Indeed, they do. But enough about this brooding shadow knight. Let's move on to something a bit more... colorful."
Time hummed to life once more, carrying them into the next era. Time lurched forward, and the world outside transformed into a vibrant array of green and gold. Forests stretched as far as the eye could see, punctuated by towering trees. A sense of wild, untamed mana hung in the air.
"Ah, a simpler time," Azael sighed dramatically, "before civilization corrupted everything with its petty squabbles and unnecessary advancements."
Mikoto merely rolled his eyes, his attention drawn to the figure emerging from the heart of the forest. She was a woman of beauty, her skin the color of snow, and her hair the hue of gold. Her eyes, however, were the color of storm clouds.
"And here we have Areal of the Sun and Shadow," Azael announced, his voice filled with a mixture of respect and lechery.
The era's story was one of solitude and destiny. Born with an otherworldly power, she was shunned by her village and deemed a monster. Driven into the wilderness, she found solace in the company of ancient spirits and Astrothians. There, she discovered her connection to Sabre; already, there was a pattern here.
Her journey was not one of war and conquest but of inner turmoil. The sword called to her, promising power beyond imagination, but she resisted its allure. She knew that power, unchecked, could be a destructive force. Years turned into decades as Areal wandered the forest, a solitary figure in a world teeming with life. She became a guardian of the woods, protecting the Astrothians and spirits that called it home. Yet the darkness within her grew with each passing year, a shadow cast by the power of Sabre.
Temptation came in many forms. Kings offered her kingdoms, and demonic entities promised unimaginable strength. But Areal refused, her spirit unbroken. She was a beacon of hope in a world shrouded in darkness, a symbol of the enduring power of the human spirit.
"A tragic beauty, huh?" Mikoto murmured, his voice tinged with admiration.
Azael chuckled. "Indeed. But let's not forget, beauty and tragedy often go hand in hand."
As the sun began its descent, Areal stood at the edge of a tranquil lake. With a heavy heart, she raised Sabre, the starlight glinting on its blade. And then, as swiftly as it had appeared, she vanished, leaving behind only the ripples of the lake as a reminder of her existence.
"Another one bites the dust," Azael remarked, a touch of melancholy in his voice. "But fear not, Mikoto; there are countless more tales waiting to be told."
Mikoto remained silent, his gaze fixed on the empty space where Areal had once stood. Then, with a sigh, he turned to face Azael. "Let's move on," he said, his voice flat.
Time lurched forward once more, and the world outside transformed into a stark, monochromatic landscape. A wasteland stretched to the horizon, punctuated by towering structures. The sky was a perpetual twilight, and the air was thick with the scent of decay.
"Ah, the aftermath," Azael sighed dramatically. "A time period ravaged by war and magic. Truly, a masterpiece of our lots folly."
Mikoto remained silent, his gaze fixed on the horizon. A lone figure emerged from the ruins of a once-great city. He was a man of immense stature, his body scarred and weathered. His eyes, though, held a flicker of defiance that defied the bleakness of his surroundings."Behold, the last remnant of everything," Azael announced, his voice filled with a touch of reverence. "Kaelan, the Iron Heart."
Kaelan's was a survivor. He had lived through the cataclysmic war that had destroyed his nation and more, a war fought with magic and steel. He had seen empires rise and fall and civilizations crumble to dust. Yet he endured.
He was a warrior, a protector of the few remaining survivors. His sword, Sabre, was more than just a weapon; it was a symbol of hope in a world devoid of it. He fought against monstrous Astrothians and remnants of a dark magic unleashed during the war. He battled warlords and tyrants who sought to dominate the shattered remnants of what was left.
But his greatest battle was against despair. The weight of the world was on his shoulders, and it was a heavy burden. He saw friends and comrades fall, their lives extinguished like candles in a storm. He felt the creeping cold of loneliness seeping into his soul.
Yet he persisted. For in the darkest of times, he found a flicker of light—the hope that one day, those who have fallen would rise from the ashes. He was a beacon of resilience, if anything.
"Another tragic hero," Mikoto murmured, his voice filled with a strange respect.
Azael chuckled. "Tragic, yes, but also inspiring. He is a reminder that even in the face of overwhelming adversity, the hero's spirit will prevail."
As the last rays of twilight faded, Kaelan stood atop the highest point of the ruined city. He raised Sabre, the blade catching the last remnants of light. Then, with a heavy heart, he plunged it into the ground.
The world around him began to crumble, and as the last vestiges of his reality disappeared, Kaelan stood defiant.
"And so, another chapter closes," Azael said, his voice filled with a sense of finality. "But fear not, Mikoto; we've much to see."
Mikoto nodded. "Right," he replied.
Time lurched forward once more, and the world outside transformed into a vibrant collection of color and light. Towering structures of crystal and metal pierced the sky, and floating cities adorned with glowing flora drifted through the air.
"Ah, the old Vel'ryr empire," Azael sighed dramatically. "A utopia of progress, and... well, let's hope not too much perversion."
Mikoto shook his head, his tinged with a hint of curiosity. His gaze was fixed on a figure standing on the precipice of a floating city. She was a woman of striking beauty, her skin pale and her hair a color of silver. Her eyes, however, held the depths of an ocean.
"Behold, the guardian of humanity," Azael announced, his voice filled with a touch of reverence. "Emerald, the Starweaver."
In a world that had forgotten the darkness, she was a keeper of knowledge. She had been burdened with eternal life and had witnessed the rise and fall of civilizations and the birth and Death of more. And yet, she remained a silent observer of the mortal condition.
She had found Sabre in the ruins of an ancient temple, its power dormant, waiting for a worthy wielder. But Emerald was no warrior. Her strength lay in her mind. She used Sabre not as a weapon but as a tool to heal and restore. She traveled the world, tending to wounded worlds, reviving dying nations, and guiding lost souls. She became a symbol of hope, a beacon of light in the vast expanse of the world.
Yet her heart was heavy. She had seen too much and experienced too much pain. The weight of her existence was a burden she carried with grace. She was a lone figure, a guardian of a realm that had forgotten its own fragility. And yet she persisted, her spirit unbroken and her hope undying.
"A tragic end again," Mikoto mumbled.
Azael chuckled. "She is a reminder that even in the face of overwhelming knowledge and power, the spirit of a hero can find solace in hope." As the last rays of the sun dipped below the horizon, Emerald stood at the edge of the city. She raised Sabre, the blade glowing with a soft light. Then, with a heavy heart, she plunged it into the crystal structure beneath her feet.
"And so, another one ends," Azael said. "But the show must go on."
Time lurched forward, and the world outside dissolved into an old grandeur. Rolling hills stretched to the horizon, dotted with quaint villages and bustling towns. A gentle breeze carried the scent of freshly baked bread and blooming wildflowers.
"Ah, this one," Azael sighed dramatically. "Much more tragic."
Mikoto looked around with a curious blend of detachment and empathy. At the heart of a small village, a young girl with hair the color of ripe wheat and eyes as blue as the summer sky was tending to a small garden. She was a picture of innocence, her laughter as clear as a bell.
"Behold, the chosen," Azael announced. "Anya, the Sunlit Maiden."
Anya's life was a simple one. She lived with her parents, a kind and loving couple who owned a small bakery. Her days were filled with the aroma of fresh bread, the warmth of family, and the joy of childhood. She had a heart as pure as the driven snow and a spirit as free as the wind.
Her world changed irrevocably when she stumbled upon a hidden cave while exploring the woods. Inside, nestled on a bed of moss, lay the legendary Sabre. The moment her hand touched the hilt, a surge of power coursed through her veins.
News of Anya's discovery spread like wildfire. People flocked to the village, drawn by the promise of magic and power. Her once peaceful life was invaded by strangers, their eyes filled with greed and ambition. Her parents, fearing for their daughter's safety, tried to hide her, but it was futile. Anya was taken from her home, her heart shattered by the betrayal of those she loved. She was thrust into a world of danger, where every shadow held a threat. She was trained to harness her power, to become a weapon, a tool to be used by those who sought to control her.
Her innocence was replaced by a hardened violence. The girl who once loved to laugh now lived in a world of darkness. She became a skilled warrior; but the price was high.
Friends became enemies, and lovers turned into betrayers. She watched as those she cared about were sacrificed on the altar of power. Her spirit, once as bright as the sun, was eclipsed by a growing despair. She became a shadow of her former self, a hollow shell filled with a void that no amount of power could fill.
With each victory, she felt a growing emptiness. The world she had once longed to save was now a desolate wasteland, a barren landscape devoid of hope. She was trapped in a cycle of violence, a puppet dancing on strings controlled by an invisible master.
One cold, moonless night, she stood on the edge of a cliff, the wind whipping at her face. The world below was a sea of darkness, a reflection of the abyss within her. In her hand, she held Sabre, the source of her power and her torment.
With a heavy heart, she closed her eyes and let go. The world seemed to slow down as she fell, a shooting star descending into the endless night
."I'm beginning to see a pattern here with this tragic crap," Mikoto murmured.
Azael sighed, his eyes filled with a mixture of sorrow and respect. "A tale as old as time," he said, "the innocent corrupted by power, the light extinguished by darkness."
Everything dissolved into a collection of color, reforming into a landscape. Bioluminescent flowers of every hue imaginable stretched to the horizon, their petals unfurling.
"Well, we're back," Azael remarked, his voice laced with amusement.
Mikoto stood in silence, his gaze fixed on the endless expanse of floral. His expression was one of detached curiosity, but there was a flicker of something else in his red eyes, a hint of longing.
"A fitting end to our journey," Azael continued, his voice softening. "A place of beauty and tranquility, far removed from the chaos and suffering we have witnessed."
Mikoto turned to face him, his voice a whisper. "Beauty is meaningless," he said, "worn by tragedy and more messed up crap."
Azael chuckled, with a touch of sadness in his tone. "A pessimist to the end, are we? But perhaps you have a point. The heroes we have seen were all forged in the fires of adversity. Their strength was born from pain, their courage from despair."
Mikoto nodded, his gaze returning to the floral expanse. "And the sword?" he asked, his voice barely audible. "What does it truly represent?"
Azael paused, his expression thoughtful. "Sabre is a symbol, a conduit. It is a vessel for the spirit, capable of both creation and destruction. It is a mirror, reflecting the soul of its wielder."
Mikoto was silent for a long moment. Then, with a conviction that surprised even himself, he spoke. "I understand the sword," he said. "It is a tool, a weapon, a symbol of hope. But it is also a burden, a test, and a crucible for the soul."
As he finished speaking, a blinding light erupted behind him. He turned, his eyes widening. Standing before him were the spectral forms of the heroes they had witnessed: Kael, the Dark Knight; Areal, the Sun and Shadow; Kaelan, the Iron Heart; Emerald, the Starweaver; and Anya, the Sunlit Maiden
.Each of them held out a hand, their palms open, revealing the familiar shape of the Sabre. Their eyes, filled something profound, looked upon Mikoto with a mixture of hope and resignation, as if they were passing on a burden.
"You have seen our journeys." Kael's voice echoed in the still air, his spectral form shimmering.
"You have witnessed our triumphs and our failures. Now, it is your turn."Areal, her voice a gentle whisper, added, "The blade chooses its wielder, Mikoto. It has chosen you."
One by one, the heroes kneeled before him, offering Sabre. The weight of their expectations was immense, but Mikoto did not falter. With a steady hand, he reached out and took the blade from their outstretched palms. The moment his fingers closed around the hilt, a surge of power coursed through him, an energy that connected him to the fabric of something unknown.
This sword was no doubt a start to a journey, maybe one he did not want.