The tension in the room was suffocating, a storm of energy swirling between me and the figure as we squared off. His aura burned like a furnace, but mine—mine was changing. I felt it deep in my core, the dark passenger stirring, clawing its way to the surface.
"Walk away?" I echoed, my voice colder than I'd ever heard it. "You have no idea who you're dealing with."
The smirk faded from his face as my body began to shift. My arms darkened, turning an obsidian black that seemed to absorb the light around them. Cracks of faint crimson energy ran along my skin, glowing like molten lava. The blade in my hand pulsed in response, as if it, too, was feeding off this newfound power.
Before I could think, I was already moving, faster and more ferocious than before. I closed the distance between us in an instant, my blade slashing toward his chest. He barely managed to block with his remaining arm, but the force of the impact sent him skidding back, his boots grinding against the floor.
I didn't stop. My movements were no longer calculated—they were wild, brutal, and relentless. I struck again and again, each attack more savage than the last. My mind was a blur, overtaken by the passenger's hunger for destruction.
The taller figure struggled to keep up, his defenses cracking under the sheer ferocity of my assault. He tried to counter, throwing a burst of energy in my direction, but I dodged it with inhuman reflexes, slamming my blade into his shoulder and forcing him to his knees.
He let out a pained grunt, blood—or whatever it was—dripping from his wounds. Despite his condition, he didn't seem afraid. If anything, there was a glint of something akin to respect in his eyes.
"Enough," I growled, my voice distorted, deeper, almost unrecognizable. I grabbed him by the collar, lifting him to his feet with ease. "You're going to talk. Now."
His eyes narrowed, but he didn't resist. "You think you can handle the truth?" he spat, coughing slightly. "Fine. I'll tell you. Let's see how far that dark side of yours is willing to go."
The name Mercier slipped from his lips like poison, and my grip on him tightened. The passenger surged within me, its rage barely contained, but I forced myself to listen.
"Mercier," the man began, his voice strained but steady, "was born into pain. His mother died giving birth to him, and his father—broken, useless—took his own life not long after. He was alone before he even had a chance to understand what life was."
I didn't respond, my glowing green eyes locked on his as he continued.
"He was adopted," the man went on, his tone darkening. "By a family that should've saved him. Instead, they broke him further. Abuse became his world—physical, emotional. By the age of fifteen, he'd had enough. He ran. But running didn't save him."
I could feel my grip shaking, the passenger's fury swelling as if it fed on the story.
"He learned" the man said, his voice softening, almost mocking. "He learned that the only way to survive his own pain was to make others feel it. By the time he was twenty, he'd carved his way into the government, manipulating it to serve his twisted needs. He wasn't a leader; he was a puppeteer, and the world danced on his strings."
"Manipulating?" I muttered, my voice barely audible. "Why? Why the Blade?"
"Because," the man said with a weak chuckle, blood staining his teeth, "the Blade is the ultimate answer malfunction itself. To control it is to control salvation—or destruction. For someone like Mercier, it's a way to ensure no one escapes the suffering he endured. I don't know how he did it." The figure said frightened. "But, he somehow managed to forge a blade from the remnants of a GOD."
I tightened my grip, the passenger screaming for me to end him, to silence him forever. But I needed more.
"And the mass murder?" I demanded.
The man gave me a hollow look. "Pain eases pain. At least, that's what he believes. The more he inflicted on others, the less he felt himself. For a time, anyway."
His words hung in the air, heavy and suffocating. Mercier wasn't just a name anymore. He was a force, a shadow stretching over everything I'd encountered so far. And now, the Blade—the key to this chaos—was at the center of it all.
The taller figure coughed again, slumping against my grip. "Now you see," he murmured. "You're caught in his web. You can't stop it. None of us can."
I let him fall, his body collapsing to the floor. The passenger's rage was still boiling inside me, but I forced it back, returning my focus to the mission.
"Maybe you can't stop it," I said, my voice steady again. "But I will."
I turned away from the fallen figure, my obsidian arms beginning to return to their normal state. The room pulsed one last time as I walked toward the exit, the Blade's
Purpose was clearer now than ever.
Mercier's plan might've shaped him, but I wasn't going to let it shape the world.
Reverting this world back to what it was will take some time. Especially with Mercier's essence scattered all over it.
As I walked away from the crumpled figure, his story clinging to the air like frost, my thoughts churned in turmoil. Mercier. The name echoed in my mind, a ghostly toll of a bell reverberating through the corridors of my consciousness. A man born in pain, forged in despair, and tempered into a weapon wielding the shattered remains of a god.
But what am I?
The passenger stirred in my chest, coiled like a predator ready to pounce. Its hunger had quieted, though not sated. It whispered with a venomous intimacy, its voice intertwining with mine. We are more than him. Stronger than his suffering, his hatred. He is ash. We are fire.
I stepped into the icy winds outside the ruin, the cold gnawing at my skin but never finding purchase. The world of NIA stretched out before me—an endless expanse of white and gray, broken by jagged peaks of ice that once were mountains. A world suspended in winter's grip, its heartbeat slowed to the barest pulse. The sun was a pale smear behind the clouds, its light too weak to reach us anymore.
The snow crunched underfoot as I walked, the Blade thrumming softly in my hand, a metronome for the chaos ahead. Its weight felt different now, heavier, as if it bore the weight of the truth I had just uncovered. Mercier's sins weren't just a stain on history; they were the cracks in the world itself.
The Blade of a god, I mused, my breath misting before me. What kind of being had fallen to this earth, leaving pieces of itself to be twisted into this weapon? And why did I feel as though I was meant to carry it?
The passenger's voice slithered through my thoughts. Meant to carry? No, destined to wield. You are not a victim of this war—you are its answer.
But that answer came with a cost. I could feel the passenger digging deeper into my soul with each use of the Blade, its claws sinking into the fragile remnants of my humanity. Was this power mine, or was I merely the vessel it had chosen?
I stopped atop a hill of frozen rubble, the ruins of some forgotten town buried beneath. Below me, the remnants of what was once a river lay still, a glacial sheet of ice stretching into the horizon. The wind howled around me, a lonely requiem for a dying world.
And yet, somewhere beneath the layers of frost and ruin, I could feel the pull of something vast. Mercier's essence wasn't just scattered—it was woven into the very fabric of this frozen wasteland. Each fragment of him a thread in the tapestry of destruction he'd created.
But why?
Why turn the world into this endless winter? Why shatter it if not to rebuild it? I clenched the Blade tighter, the crimson cracks on its surface pulsing faintly. If Mercier's pain had led him to this madness, what was to say mine wouldn't lead me down the same path?
You're different, I told myself. But was I? The passenger laughed softly, a cruel reminder of my own doubts.
Somewhere in the distance, I saw the faint glow of firelight—a camp, perhaps, or a settlement struggling to survive in this hellscape. I adjusted my grip on the Blade and began my descent toward it.
Each step felt heavier than the last. The Blade hummed louder, sensing the approach of something significant. As much as I hated to admit it, the passenger was right about one thing: I wasn't just fighting Mercier. I was fighting the reflection of what I might become.
The world didn't need another Mercier. But it might need me to become something worse.
For now, though, I walked.
The firelight flickered faintly in the distance, a trembling promise of life amidst the endless tundra. Each step closer felt like descending into the unknown, where warmth did not guarantee safety, and survival often masked ulterior motives. The Blade's hum grew deeper, resonating not just in my hand but in the very marrow of my bones. It was as though it recognized something ahead—a threat, or perhaps a kindred force.
The passenger stirred again, less ravenous now but no less insistent. Its voice was a low growl in my mind, not spoken but felt, like the tension in the air before a storm. You hesitate, even now. What are you hoping to find? Redemption? Meaning? Weakness.
I clenched my fist tighter around the Blade. "I don't need to find anything," I muttered under my breath, my words lost in the howling wind. "I need to end this."
Lie to yourself all you want, it sneered. But you're already addicted to this. To the power. To the pain.
The snow beneath my boots crunched louder as I neared the camp. Makeshift barricades of steel and wood ringed the fire, their edges jagged like teeth. Figures moved beyond them, shadowed silhouettes against the flame. Survivors. Or scavengers. The distinction in this world often feel academic.
I stepped into the camp's edge, deliberately loud enough to announce my arrival. A figure emerged from the shadows, weapon raised—a rusted rifle patched together with scraps of tape and desperation.
"Who's there?" the man barked, his voice hoarse and shaky, but his aim steady. "You alone?"
I raised one hand, keeping the other firmly on the Blade. "Alone," I said, my voice carrying more authority than I intended. "I'm not here to fight."
"People who carry weapons like that don't come looking for peace," he shot back, nodding toward the Blade at my side.
He's right, you know, the passenger whispered. You don't belong here, among these fragile things. This is a detour, a waste.
I ignored it, stepping closer, letting the firelight touch me. The man tensed, his grip on the rifle tightening as he took in the faint traces of crimson energy still lingering on my arm.
"You look like trouble," he said, though his voice faltered.
"I'm looking for someone," I said, my tone unwavering. "A name. Mercier."
The reaction was immediate. The man's expression darkened, his eyes flickers with fear before he quickly masked it. Around the fire, the others—a ragged group of survivors, some clutching weapons, others simply watching with hollow gazes—exchanged wary glances.
"Why are you looking for him?" the man asked cautiously.
"Because I'm going to stop him."
The camp fell silent, save for the crackling of the fire and the ceaseless howl of the wind.
"Stop him?" the man repeated, almost incredulous. "You don't stop someone like Mercier. You avoid him, you hide from him, and you pray he doesn't notice you. That's how you survive."
"That's how you die," I countered, stepping closer. The Blade pulsed faintly at my side, as though feeding off the tension in the air. "If you know where he is, you'll tell me. Otherwise, you're already dead—you just don't know it yet."
The man's hands trembled, his rifle lowering slightly as my words sank in. He glanced back at the others, searching for some kind of support, but they remained silent, their faces pale.
Finally, he spoke, his voice barely above a whisper. "There's… a place. North of here. We call it the Veil."
"What's in the Veil?" I demanded.
"A fortress," he said, his tone bleak. "A frozen nightmare. If Mercier's anywhere, it's there. But no one who's gone to the Veil has ever come back. Not alive, anyway."
I felt the passenger stirring, eager, as though the very mention of this place awakened something within it.
The Veil, it hissed. A fitting grave for him. And for you.
The man stepped back, his rifle forgotten in his hands. "You're insane if you think you can face him there. Even if you do, you'll never survive."
I turned away from him, the Blade thrumming at my side. "Then I'll die trying," I said simply.
The camp behind me faded into the distance as I walked northward, the firelight swallowed by the endless white. The Veil awaited, a shadow on the horizon of this broken world.
And in that shadow, I would find him. Mercier. The architect of this frozen hell.
One step closer, the passenger whispered. One step closer to the truth.
But whose truth? His? Or mine?