Two weeks had passed since the day of magical survival—the day that changed everything. The group, battered and broken, had returned to the capital of Aetherium, Arcanova, their bodies bruised, their minds still reeling. Now, in the wake of their victory, they had to prepare for a different kind of reckoning: the funerals.
Aetherium, the country they had fought so fiercely for, was a nation born from the ashes of a fallen world. History, as it was taught, told of a forgotten land—one that had once thrived but had perished when the sun itself had been smothered by the thick cloak of a sudden, brutal ice age. Oceans froze. Even the trees were stripped of their life, their sap solidifying into frost.
Some had tried to survive underground, carving cities into the belly of the earth, but even the orb of the planet was not immune to the cold's grasp. The very heart of the world froze, and humanity's survival became a desperate scramble. But just when it seemed like everything was calming down, the earthquakes came—violent, relentless, throwing those who had sought refuge in the bowels of the earth back into the frozen wasteland. With no food, no water, and nothing left to lose, the survivors turned to cannibalism, their once human instincts now corrupted by hunger.
Monsters appeared in the frozen wastes—creatures born of darkness and fear, with writhing tentacles and teeth like daggers. They tore through the remnants of humanity, devouring anything that moved. But these monsters were not the only terror that haunted the land. Humanoid mutants, known as Kings, rose from the carnage. These creatures were different—they were intelligent. They didn't simply hunt for food; they hunted for sport. They bred humans like cattle, keeping them alive for their flesh and blood, their twisted mockery of humanity ensuring their reign of terror.
Then, as suddenly as it began, the sun returned. The dark cloud that had swallowed the sky retreated, and warmth slowly returned to the earth. The monsters vanished as if they had never existed, and the world began to heal, though the scars it bore were deep. This period of destruction was known as the "Three Years of Doom." Humanity, broken but not defeated, crawled out of the ruins and rebuilt, though the memory of those terrible years never quite faded.
Yet, the world was not done with its cycle of destruction. Thousands of years later, after the rise and fall of countless civilizations, the same calamity struck again—this time in the span of only ten days. The world crumbled in mere moments, and once again, no one knew the true cause of the catastrophe. This period, the "Ten Days of Doom," was short but devastating, leaving the new world in tatters.
From the ashes of that second collapse rose Aetherium, a country defined by progress, technology, and ambition. The people of Aetherium were driven by a singular purpose: to create a society that would never again be vulnerable to such destruction. Over the course of a thousand years, countless inventors emerged, their genius fueling the nation's rise. At the heart of Aetherium stood Arcanova, a city of brilliance, where the most visionary minds and all sorts of genius, of the age gathered to build the future.
It was here, in Arcanova, that Moros and his group returned—injured, weary, and carrying the burden of loss. They had survived the latest trial, but two of their own had not. The funerals were now upon them, and the weight of grief settled heavily on the shoulders of those who remained.
The sky above was an ominous gray, the clouds thick and swollen with sorrow. The rain fell relentlessly, as if the heavens themselves mourned the loss of the fallen. It was a heavy, unyielding downpour that soaked the earth, drowning everything beneath it in grief. The funeral procession was slow, deliberate, each step a reminder of the finality of death. Figures cloaked in black moved silently through the storm, their umbrellas offering little shelter from the cold, biting rain. Water pooled at their feet, but no one seemed to notice. They were numb, caught in a moment where the world felt muted, as though even the earth itself was holding its breath.
Around them, the cemetery stood like a silent witness to their mourning. The graves were freshly dug, the earth dark and rich, awaiting the bodies that would never return. The flowers placed on the coffins were already wilting, their petals heavy with water, their vibrant colors fading in the face of the storm. The air was thick with the scent of earth and sorrow, the kind of smell that clung to everything and made it impossible to forget.
The crowd gathered around the graves, some sobbing quietly, others lost in their own thoughts. Even Voltra had come, though his presence was a hollow thing. Sitting in a wheelchair, his face an impassive mask, he stared ahead with empty eyes. He had witnessed much, and though the loss of his comrades might have stung, he showed no outward signs of grief. He refused the offer of new robotic limbs, preferring the pain of his old, damaged ones. He will never, feel even with new limbs, real warmth of the heated iron in the blacksmith.
A pastor, standing at the head of the graves, began to pray, his voice a steady rhythm against the rain. "Oh merciful spirits," he intoned, "guide these souls, Lawless, Heart Over Height. Solutus, the Edgewalker. Together they faced the trials of this life with courage and loyalty. May they find peace beyond the veil, as inseparable in the afterlife as they were here. Though their bodies are not here, and that's why coffin's are empty, they will not be forgotten."
The words hung in the air, absorbed by the rain. A chorus of murmurs followed, voices raised in unison, offering their own prayers for the lost. "Grant them rest, unburdened by the pain of this world." "Let their friendship endure, even beyond the reach of death." "May their memories remain a light in the darkness they leave behind."
The rain fell steadily, almost as if it were the earth itself continuing the prayer. There was no escape from it—no comfort to be found in the storm. It was as though the universe had conspired to drown out every sound, every word, until only the endless drip of water remained. In that silence, the weight of loss settled even deeper.
Misa knelt on the ground, tears streaming down her face as she mourned the loss of her friends. Despite all her training, her wisdom, her strength, she could not hold back the grief. Her hands trembled as she clasped them together, her body wracked with sobs. Moros stood nearby, his expression unreadable, but there was something in his eyes—something cold and distant, a flicker of madness that threatened to surface. In that moment, he was both present and absent, his mind far away, trapped in a labyrinth of his own thoughts.
"It's not my fault," he thought, his mind spiraling. "They died because they were weaklings. If they hadn't died, I might have found something more interesting. More useful."
The funeral came to an end, but the mourners lingered for a time, caught in the weight of their sorrow. Slowly, one by one, they began to leave, each person retreating into the darkness of the night. Only Sandro remained, standing at the graves, a twisted smile on his face. His thoughts were not of sorrow but of satisfaction. Everything had gone according to plan. "We'll meet again one day," he whispered to the graves, "in hell. Save me a good spot."
With a final toss of a rose onto the freshly buried soil, Sandro turned and left, his silhouette disappearing into the storm. The rain continued to fall, the world growing quieter with each passing moment. Only the graves remained, standing alone in the cold, darkened evening, the names of the fallen engraved on stone—Lawless and Solutus—friends who had never been separated in life and, perhaps, would never be truly separated in death.
In the stillness, the inscription on their graves glowed faintly under the light of a distant flash of lightning. "Here are buried two friends who never were separated, Lawless and Solutus."