The landscape ahead stretched endlessly, a barren, corrupted wasteland, fractured and scarred by Vaalgorth's influence. Astrael's boots crunched against the brittle, dying terrain as he pressed on. The sky above was an ever-shifting swirl of dark clouds, the sun a mere suggestion behind the layers of decay that cloaked this world. Faint streaks of red and green energy pulsed through the clouds, casting sickly shadows across the land.
But Astrael had not been idle. As the days passed, he had begun to train in earnest, pushing himself harder with each step forward. He practiced his movements—his running becoming swifter, his strikes more precise. He would find open spaces in the desolate landscape and focus on his combat abilities, leaping from rock to rock, using the uneven terrain to sharpen his reflexes. Every swing of his sword was deliberate, cutting through the air with a speed that increased as time went on.
His body, too, was growing stronger. Each day of running through the twisted remains of this world, each movement honed his physical abilities, making him faster and more agile. He would sprint across the open fields of cracked earth, darting between the decaying trees, pushing himself to move quicker with every stride. He wasn't just training for battle; he was training to survive.
However, it wasn't only his physical training that occupied him. Astrael had also focused intensely on mastering his healing abilities. The memory of the young woman still haunted him—the way his powers had barely been able to touch the corruption that had overtaken her. He knew he had to do more. He had to learn to control his healing, to strengthen it so that he could save others, where before, he had failed.
He started small.
Each morning, as the dim light of the corrupted sky rose, Astrael would kneel beside the decaying remnants of the landscape. He would find small patches of life—tiny plants or blades of grass clinging desperately to survival amidst the chaos. Closing his eyes, he would channel the cosmic energy within him, focusing it into his hands, gently pouring it into the dying flora.
At first, it was difficult—his power felt slippery, like water flowing through his fingers, hard to grasp. But with each attempt, he grew more confident. Slowly, the small plants would respond to his energy. A wilted leaf would unfurl, turning a vibrant green once more. A dying stem would straighten, pulsing with renewed life. These small successes filled Astrael with a quiet hope. He could heal the smaller things—restore them fully.
But when it came to larger life, the challenge grew. Every day, after healing the smaller plants, Astrael would turn his attention to the twisted trees that littered the landscape. Their branches were blackened and broken, their trunks warped by the touch of chaos. Astrael would place his hands on the rough bark, closing his eyes and focusing his energy. But no matter how much he poured into them, the trees only responded partially—similar to the way the young woman had.
The bark would shift, small sections of the tree's form reverting to its natural state. A few branches would sprout new, vibrant leaves, their green a stark contrast against the blackened, dead wood. But the deeper corruption remained, refusing to fully relinquish its hold. Astrael could only heal fragments—pieces of the whole—never enough to restore the trees entirely.
Each failure left him frustrated, but not defeated. He knew that mastering his powers would take time. And with every attempt, he learned something new—about the limits of his abilities, about the nature of the corruption, and about himself.
Days passed in this pattern—training his body and honing his healing powers. The corrupted world around him became both his enemy and his teacher. He ran through the crumbling remnants of cities, leaping over chasms and dodging the twisted, jagged rocks that jutted from the ground. His speed increased with every stride, his movements growing more fluid and precise. In battle, he would fight against the corrupted creatures that roamed the land, using them as training for his swordsmanship. He struck with purpose, each swing of his blade carving through the chaos that had consumed them.
At night, as the world around him grew quiet, Astrael would sit beneath the twisted trees, his eyes closed, his breathing steady. He would meditate, connecting with the cosmic energy that flowed through him, feeling its rhythm, its pulse. The whispers of the universe filled his mind, guiding him, teaching him. He had to be patient—his mastery of these powers would not come all at once. But every day brought him closer.
Yet, despite his progress, the memory of the woman's death still weighed heavily on him. Each time he attempted to heal a tree and found himself unable to fully cleanse it, he was reminded of her. The fear in her eyes, the way her body had contorted in pain. Astrael pushed himself harder each day, driven by the promise he had made to her—to become stronger, to save others.
The days blurred together, a cycle of training, healing, and reflection. But Astrael knew that his journey was far from over. The corrupted mountains still loomed in the distance, their jagged peaks a constant reminder of the chaos that awaited him.
And as Astrael's speed increased and his healing powers grew more refined, the pull of the mountains became stronger. He could feel Vaalgorth's influence more keenly with each passing day, a dark presence that called to him from deep within the heart of the corruption. He wasn't ready to face it yet—he still had more to learn—but he could feel the time drawing closer.
One morning, as Astrael successfully healed a small patch of grass, watching as it burst into vibrant life, he stood and looked towards the mountains once more. His body was stronger. His movements were faster. His healing powers were more controlled. But still, there was so much more he needed to understand.
He turned his gaze to a massive tree nearby, its trunk gnarled and twisted, its branches hanging low, weighed down by the corruption. Astrael walked towards it, placing his hands on its bark. He closed his eyes, feeling the pulse of the tree's life beneath the layers of chaos that smothered it.
"Let's try this again," he whispered, focusing his energy.
The cosmic light flowed from his hands, seeping into the tree. He could feel the resistance, the darkness fighting back against his power. But Astrael didn't waver. He concentrated, pushing more energy into the tree. Slowly, the bark began to change—small sections lightened, the twisted wood straightening, patches of green appearing where there had once been only blackened decay.
But it wasn't enough. Astrael could only heal a fraction of the tree. Just as with the woman in the village, the deeper corruption resisted his efforts. The chaos held tight, refusing to let go.
Astrael sighed, stepping back and looking at his handiwork. Half the tree stood in vibrant green, the other half still twisted and black. It was a start, but it wasn't enough.
"I'll get there," he murmured, determination filling his voice.
And with that, Astrael continued forward, his training relentless, his resolve unshakable. He knew that the path ahead would only grow more dangerous, but he was ready to face it. He had to be. For the woman he couldn't save, for the world that had been lost, and for the countless lives still at risk.
Astrael would not stop until he had mastered the powers within him. Until he was strong enough to stand against the chaos of Vaalgorth.
The sky remained a swirling mass of chaos above Astrael, its hues of sickly green and crimson casting a pallor over the barren wasteland. As the days passed and his training continued, Astrael could feel his body becoming stronger, more agile. His movements were more precise, his reactions sharper. He could run for longer distances without tiring, his limbs flowing like water as he danced between the jagged outcroppings of twisted stone that littered the landscape.
But no matter how much he honed his body or focused his healing, the corruption that blanketed this world remained relentless. His ability to heal smaller plants had become almost second nature—he could restore them with ease, bringing life back to patches of grass or small flowers. Yet, when faced with larger, more complex life, like the massive, blackened trees that dotted the land, Astrael still struggled. His healing was enough to restore parts of them, to bring brief flashes of life, but the deeper roots of the chaos held firm, refusing to release their grip.
It was a harsh reminder of the limits he still faced, a frustration that simmered just beneath the surface. But Astrael didn't let it overwhelm him. Instead, he used it as fuel, pushing himself harder each day, determined to break through those limitations.
The corrupted mountains loomed ever closer, jagged peaks rising like dark spears against the roiling sky. The air here was thicker, heavier with Vaalgorth's influence. Astrael could feel the weight of it pressing down on him as if the very atmosphere were alive with chaos, resisting his every step.
And then he saw them.
Emerging from the shadow of a nearby ravine, five figures moved with unnatural, jerking motions. Astrael tensed, his hand instinctively reaching for his sword. These were villagers—or they had been, once. Their bodies were twisted beyond recognition, their limbs elongated and misshapen, their skin cracked and leaking dark energy. They moved as one, their glowing red eyes fixed on Astrael with a malevolent intent.
He had encountered corrupted beings before, but these felt different. There was a sense of coordination, a deliberate focus in their movements that made his skin crawl. They had once been innocent people, inhabitants of this now-broken world, their lives consumed by the chaos that had overtaken them. Astrael's heart ached at the sight of them, knowing that their fate had been sealed the moment the corruption touched them.
He had tried, in the village, to save someone like them—to heal them. But his powers had been too weak. The chaos was too deep, too strong. Astrael's hand tightened around the hilt of his sword, a knot forming in his chest. He could feel his limitations again, like a physical weight bearing down on him.
The corrupted villagers staggered toward him, their movements growing more erratic, their bodies twitching as they neared. Astrael's heart pounded in his chest. He didn't want to fight them. He didn't want to kill them. But he knew, deep down, that there was no other choice. His power wasn't enough to save them—not yet.
"I'm sorry," he whispered under his breath.
The first villager lunged forward, its grotesque form moving with surprising speed. Astrael dodged to the side, drawing his blade in one fluid motion. His strike was swift and clean, cutting through the corruption that had twisted the villager's body. Dark energy sprayed from the wound as the villager collapsed to the ground, lifeless.
Another followed, its limbs flailing as it charged. Astrael swung again, his blade finding its mark with practiced precision. Each movement felt heavier than the last, not from physical strain, but from the emotional toll of what he was doing. These weren't monsters. They were people—people who had once had families, lives, hopes. And now, they were nothing more than puppets of chaos, their fates sealed by Vaalgorth's dark influence.
One by one, the corrupted villagers fell beneath Astrael's blade, their bodies crumpling to the ground, dark energy dissipating into the air. When the last one fell, Astrael stood amidst the bodies, his sword dripping with the remnants of the corruption that had consumed them.
He sheathed his sword, his chest rising and falling with heavy breaths. His hands trembled slightly, though whether from the exertion or the weight of his emotions, he couldn't tell. The sense of failure gnawed at him. He hadn't been strong enough to heal them, to save them from the chaos that had taken their lives. Instead, he had been forced to end them, their final moments consumed by the very force he sought to destroy.
The scene reminded him painfully of the woman in the village, of her final, terrified plea as the corruption overtook her. He hadn't been strong enough then either. He hadn't been able to save her. And now, these five villagers had fallen the same way—victims of his own limitations.
Astrael sank to his knees, his hands pressed against the dry, cracked earth. His mind raced, flashes of the villagers' twisted faces, their hollow eyes, filling his vision. For a moment, he felt utterly helpless, trapped in the shadow of Vaalgorth's chaos. No matter how much he trained, no matter how hard he pushed himself, the corruption always seemed one step ahead, always stronger than he was.
"I'm not ready," he muttered under his breath. "I'm not strong enough."
His fists clenched against the dirt, his frustration bubbling to the surface. He had promised himself he would become stronger, that he would save those who had been lost to the chaos. But every time he tried, it felt like he was hitting a wall, his power insufficient to make a real difference.
But as the weight of his despair threatened to consume him, a small voice within pushed back. Not yet, but you will be.
Astrael exhaled deeply, his mind clearing. He had come too far to stop now. He couldn't let these failures break him. If anything, they were a reminder of why he had to keep going—why he had to continue pushing his limits, training harder, mastering his abilities.
Slowly, Astrael stood, his eyes lifting to the mountains that loomed ahead. The corruption was stronger here, yes, but so was his resolve. He wiped the sweat from his brow, his jaw set in determination. He wouldn't let this defeat define him. He would use it, fuel it, let it drive him forward.
Astrael turned to continue his journey, the shadow of the mountains growing ever closer, and with it, the promise of even greater challenges ahead. But then he heard a noise behind him...