The sky burned crimson, a violent storm of swirling clouds twisting like serpents in the heavens. Jagged mountains pierced the skyline, their peaks jagged and cruel, cutting into the blood-red horizon like the teeth of some monstrous, slumbering beast. Black sludge oozed down their sheer faces, a slow-moving river of decay that seemed alive, leaving a trail of malice in its wake. The air was thick, oppressive, carrying the taste of ash and despair. Breathing felt like inhaling glass shards.
Ryan sat alone on the coarse red sands, his back to the horizon. Sweat plastered his brown hair to his forehead, and his lungs labored under the suffocating heat. Everything around him pressed in—heavy, relentless, and alien. In front of him stretched a void, a vast expanse of nothingness so profound it felt like the end of all things. Its silence roared in his ears, mocking the chaos swirling behind him.
How long had he been here? Days? Weeks? Time felt meaningless in this forsaken place. The moments stretched and twisted, bending under the weight of a reality that didn't obey any natural laws. Memories floated just out of reach, fragmented pieces of a puzzle he could no longer assemble.
His eyes bore the shell shocked gaze of countless battles. His dilated pupils told a story of survival, of victories and losses written in blood and sweat. A sharp, dull throb pulsed in his neck—a wound that should have killed him. It was a cruel reminder: he shouldn't be here. Yet here he was.
The stillness shattered. A coldness seeped into the air, cutting through the oppressive heat like a knife. It crawled under his skin, an unnatural chill that made his muscles tense. He wasn't alone.
Ryan's instincts screamed a warning. His eyes darted to the shadows pooling at the edges of his vision. Invisible eyes watched him, their gaze a physical weight pressing on his back. He clenched his fists, trying to steady his breath. The silence thickened, oppressive and unyielding, until a voice sliced through it.
"You're wasting your time, Son of Ymir."
The words carried a rasping, unnatural cadence—like the crackling of bone underfoot. The sound was both distant and intimate, as if it came from everywhere and nowhere at once.
Ryan didn't flinch. He had faced horrors before, and this voice, though unwelcome, was not unfamiliar. It was a dark echo of a memory he had tried to bury. He sat rigid, his posture defiant. If this voice wanted fear, it would find none.
"What is this place?" he demanded, his voice hoarse from the dry, acrid air.
A mocking laugh answered him, low and grating, like metal scraping against stone. "Still asking questions, are we? Always searching for answers, even when they won't save you. This… is what lies beyond. A realm untethered from time, where truths and lies intertwine. Your kind call it many things, but to me, it is a prison."
Ryan narrowed his eyes. "And what does that make me? A prisoner too?"
"Not yet," the voice replied, each word dripping with malice. "You cling to defiance, but it will fade. They always fade."
Ryan's jaw tightened. His gaze remained fixed on the void ahead, refusing to look behind him where the voice seemed to linger. His fists curled tighter, the scars on his knuckles a stark contrast against his sunburned skin.
"Stop speaking in riddles," he growled. "Tell me what this place is. Tell me why I'm here."
The air grew colder, and the shadows deepened. The voice responded, calm and cruel. "Because you failed. You died, Ryan. This—" it gestured with words to the crimson wasteland around them, "—is the reflection of that failure."
Dead. The word struck like a hammer. Ryan's heart pounded in his chest, his mind racing to deny the possibility. Images of his last moments surfaced unbidden: the chaos of battle, fire roaring through the corridors of the Skeld II, the desperate cries of his crew. He could still feel the heat of the flames, smell the burning metal and flesh.
"No," he muttered, shaking his head. "I was there. We were turning the tide. The Alliance—"
"Dying horrible deaths, one by one" the voice interrupted. "Your fight is meaningless. You were always pawns in a greater game."
Ryan turned sharply, his eyes blazing with fury. "A pawn? I don't think so. Every step I took, every life I saved—none of that was meaningless. Don't you dare belittle it!"
The voice chuckled, its tone condescending. "Oh, Ryan. So noble. So predictable. You think your sacrifices matter? You think your defiance changes the inevitable?"
Ryan rose to his feet, fists trembling at his sides. "If I'm dead, then why am I still here? Why am I talking to you instead of… whatever comes after?"
"Because I have need of you," the voice said simply. "This realm is not final. It is… an in-between. A coordinate. And you, Ryan, stand at the center of it."
The shadows began to shift, moving with an unnatural, fluid motion that made Ryan's skin crawl. He felt the invisible force of the voice pressing closer, encroaching on his thoughts, coiling around his will like a constrictor.
The shadows took the form of a young boy, with dead, pale eyes."You think you have a choice," the voice continued, almost amused. "But you don't. You will serve, because there is no other path forward."
Ryan's breath quickened. The oppressive weight of the voice's words threatened to crush him, but he wouldn't give in. He couldn't. A spark of defiance burned within him, fragile but unyielding.
"I don't serve anyone," he spat, his voice hard as steel.
"Then you will die," the voice replied, its tone chillingly matter-of-fact.
Ryan's eyes narrowed. "Better to die free than live on my knees."
The voice laughed again, a sound that reverberated through the void, cold and hollow. "Such bravado. But tell me, Ryan—how many times can you die before your will breaks? How many times can you watch your world burn before you beg me for release?"
Ryan didn't answer. His hands trembled, not with fear, but with rage. He had faced death before, stared it in the eye and spat in its face. Whatever this entity was, it would find him no easy prey.
"You think you understand hell," the voice whispered, its tone almost tender now. "But you haven't seen true torment yet. I have lingered in this purgatory for 20,000 years, bound by the weight of my own creation. And now, Ryan… now, I need you to end it."
The admission hung in the air, heavy with unspoken implications. Ryan's mind raced, piecing together fragments of the puzzle. Was this being a prisoner, like it claimed? Or was it the architect of the crimson wasteland that surrounded them?
"You're insane," Ryan muttered, stepping back toward the edge of the void.
"Perhaps," the voice conceded, a trace of amusement returning. "But I am also your only hope."
The shadows surged, enveloping the void and the crimson sky above. Ryan felt the ground tremble beneath him, as if the very fabric of this realm was unraveling. He stood his ground, his defiance burning like a solitary flame against the encroaching darkness.
"Do your worst," he said, his voice steady.
The laughter that followed was deafening, a cacophony that swallowed the world. Ryan braced himself, knowing this was only the beginning. Whatever fate awaited him, he would face it on his terms.
As the crimson sky churned and the void beckoned, Ryan prepared for the battle ahead. His will was unbroken, his spirit unyielding. Against the malevolent forces closing in, he stood alone—but not defeated.
This was his fight. And he would see it through.