In a dark abyss, swallowed by shadows that devoured even the faintest whispers of light, a lone dark pebble began its descent. This tiny fragment of darkness, detached from the crumbling edges of a fractured reality, spiraled downward into the unknown—a silent herald of deeper sorrows.
As the pebble fell, it first encountered a realm cloaked in the bleakness of *Winter*. Here, the air was sharp as shards of glass, a biting cold that pierced through any semblance of warmth. Frost clung to the edges of the pebble, each crystal a testament to the loneliness and isolation that chilled the spirit. Winter's harsh embrace symbolized the arduous journey of growth—unyielding and stark, where only the resilient dared to push through the frozen soil towards the dim light above.
The descent continued, and the pebble then found itself enveloped by the tempestuous winds of *Spring*. This realm was a tumult of transformation, where dark flowers burst through the tough, cold earth in a desperate assertion of life. Thunder rolled in the distance, a constant rumble that spoke of impending upheaval. In these storms, the pebble saw the embodiment of fear and anxiety—violent and sudden changes that tested endurance and belief in rebirth amidst the suffering.
Falling deeper into the abyss, the pebble whirled into the suffocating heat of *Summer*. Flames licked at its surface, a fierce and relentless force that threatened to consume and overwhelm. Here, the struggle for survival reached its zenith, the scorching air thick with the stench of scalded hopes. The pebble, its surface now glossy with a sheen of sweat-like moisture, mirrored the conflict inherent in war—blistering, brutal, and unforgiving.
Finally, the pebble descended into the melancholy twilight of *Autumn*. Leaves of ash fluttered down beside it, each one a dying breath in a world reluctant to let go. The air here was heavy with the scent of decay, a memento mori that spoke to the inevitability of endings. Yet, in this decay lay the poignant beauty of acceptance, a sorrowful preparation for the cycle to inevitably begin anew—each end a precursor to another beginning, each loss an echo of future gains.
As the journey seemed endless, the pebble, now weathered by the trials of every season, drew near its unexpected terminus. With the momentum of its years-long descent, it struck not the ground as one might expect, but the crown of a statuesque figure—a figure carved of stone and swallowed by an empty aura, standing sentinel at the abyss's core.
Upon impact, a resounding clang echoed through the hollows of the abyss, the sound marking the culmination of transformation. The pebble, though small and seemingly insignificant, had moved through darkness and despair, through change and struggle, to finally incite a reverberation of its existence across the boundless void.
There, atop the stone statue's head, the tiny dark pebble rested–a mere fleck on the crown of the statue, a silent testimony to the immense journey undertaken, from unnoticed origins to unforeseen significance.
The abyss, a chasm where whispers and memories entwine in endless dark, cradles a statute both solemn and foreboding. It stands, not upon the cold indifference of rock, but rather atop monumental piles of bones—each a relic of conflicts long past and lives consumed by ambition and despair. The bones are arranged with a deliberate, almost reverential care, creating a macabre dias that elevates the statue above the dark, still air of the underworld.
This statue, carved from the ebony stone of the abyss itself, portrays a boy no older than the cusp of manhood. His features are sharp and striking, carved with painstaking detail that captures a certain poignant defiance. Long hair, meticulously chiseled to appear windswept and wild, cascades down his shoulders, partially obscuring the left side of his face where an eye patch clings—a small yet significant testament to unseen battles and hidden scars.
The boy's right eye is unveiled, a masterpiece of sculpting that seems to glint with an internal light, reflective and deep. It gazes forward, unwavering and intense, as if peering through the veils of darkness that shroud the abyss, seeking a truth only warriors dare to know.
Clutched close to his chest, almost embraced, is a katana. The blade extends upward, aligning with his stoic face, its steel imbued with an ethereal glow that emanates from intricate blood runes etched along its length. These runes pulse softly with a crimson light that casts eerie, dancing shadows over the bone-strewn pedestal. The sword is not merely held; it is cherished, a silent sentinel that shares in the boy's eternal vigil. He was hugging the blade itself, grasping it tight.
The air around the statue hums with an oppressive silence, heavy with the weight of history and the echoes of ancient magics.
This lone figure, with its eye patch and rune-inscribed katana, stood on top of a pile of bones, hundreds of them.
"Bark!"
"Bark!"
Sounds echoed from the statue, and a system window appeared, saying:
[How are you alive, Joon?]
Joon was the statue, holding the katana, but he made no noise, no sound. Dead, but was he really alive?