Tap.
Tap.
Tap.
The reverberation of Claude's footsteps echoed in the stillness, each step a lonely sound swallowed by the vast emptiness surrounding him.
Draped in a yellow-brown cloak, he trudged through the wasteland—a barren, desolate expanse that stretched out endlessly before him.
"How much longer...?" Claude murmured, halting briefly. His eyes scanned the horizon, but all he could see was a landscape devoid of life, an endless stretch of parched cracked earth. It felt as if the world itself had given up, surrendering to the weight of its own despair.
The ground beneath him resembled a fractured mirror, its jagged surface reflecting the bleakness above.
Even the moon, pale and distant, offered no solace—its faint light struggled to penetrate the thick veil of clouds that choked the heavens.
Occasionally, a gust of wind stirred the dust and ash that coated everything in sight, creating a choking haze that clung to Claude's skin and clothes. The once-fertile soil had long since turned to a lifeless grey, and any sign of greenery had long since withered away.
The horizon was marked by the silhouettes of dead trees—skeletal remains that reached out with bony fingers, creaking ominously as the wind passed through them.
Scattered throughout this forsaken landscape were the remnants of a civilization lost to time. Crumbling ruins of buildings, half-buried under layers of dust and rubble, hinted at a world that had once thrived but was now little more than a ghostly memory.
Broken windows, rusted metal, and shattered stone littered the ground, the last remnants of a forgotten era.
This wasteland had become Claude's reality for months. Since leaving the temple where he had rescued Gerard and the others, he had wandered this barren world, hoping to uncover something—anything—that might make sense of it all.
Initially, he believed the world to be one of endless forests and towering mountains. But as he ventured deeper into what had once been human territory, the scenery shifted into this lifeless desolation.
Yet, despite the emptiness, his journey hadn't been entirely in vain.
Claude had discovered several ruins along his travels. Though none compared to the first one he had found, they were scattered throughout the land like forgotten relics of a bygone era.
These places were quiet, hollow—grand structures, now little more than empty shells. There were no traps, no hidden treasures, and no secrets waiting to be unlocked.
Just silence.
And as he explored them, something struck him as odd—the architecture didn't belong there. The designs were alien, as though they had been plucked from some far-off realm and dropped into this forsaken world. But despite this, they offered him nothing.
No answers. No power. Only more questions.
Where did these ruins come from?
How did they get here?
Why are they here?
It wasn't just ruins that Claude encountered on his journey. He passed through cities as well—once-thriving metropolises now reduced to rubble, much like the rest of the world. Unlike the ancient ruins, these cities bore fresh scars of conflict.
Gaping holes marred the walls, streets were littered with debris, and blackened scorch marks hinted at fires that had raged through the streets. Whatever had happened here had been swift and violent, leaving destruction in its wake.
Yet, within these cities, Claude found something invaluable—information. Scraps of literature, ancient tomes, and faded parchments told the story of a world that had once flourished, only to be brought to its knees by some cataclysmic event. The more Claude pieced together, the clearer the picture became.
One city, in particular, kept appearing in the fragments of history he uncovered.
Pasargadae.
The ancient capital of the Khorshid Empire—now little more than a legend whispered by those few who still remembered. Through the ruins of Khorshid's cities, Claude had uncovered a disturbing truth.
Pasargadae had been the epicentre of the fall. It was there, within the heart of the city, that a terrible event had unfolded. Something had been summoned within its walls.
This summoning had not been an accident. It had been orchestrated by an unknown organisation—one that had thrived in the chaos that followed. The Shadowfiends.
Karl had mentioned them once, long ago, with nothing but scorn in his voice. They were the architects of this world's suffering, traitors who had orchestrated its downfall.
And yet, despite all the destruction they had caused, they remained a mystery.
Where were they now?
Surely they hadn't simply vanished after everything they had done?
It didn't make sense.
Now, Claude's journey had become a race to Pasargadae. The city hopefully held the answers he sought.
No. It had to.
Step after step, he pressed forward, the barren landscape offering no respite, only a growing sense of unease. Days blurred together, his mind racing as he imagined what might await him.
And then, one day, as he crested a hill, he froze.
"There…" he whispered, breath catching in his throat.
In the distance, something loomed over the wasteland, like a corpse clawing its way from the earth's grip—Pasargadae. Or what little remained of it
From this distance, Claude could make out the city's once-massive walls, now crumbled and broken as if some colossal force had torn through them.
In the heart of the city, where once a grand palace or temple might have stood, there was now only devastation. A massive crater marred the earth, its edges jagged and sharp as if the ground had been violently ripped apart.
At the centre of the crater, a pulsating scarlet rift sat there throbbing. The air around it distorted as the very fabric of reality wrung in its presence. The sight made Claude's skin crawl, as a deep, visceral sense of wrongness settled in his bones.
"This… this is Pasargadae?" His voice was barely a whisper, yet it got drowned out by the low hum of the rift.