Sigh...

"It's been so long that I don't even remember," murmured a voice, ancient and fractured, like a threadbare tapestry on the verge of unraveling.

The sound came from a man, hunched on his knees, as motionless as a statue forgotten by time. He seemed more stone than flesh, his body cloaked in layers of grime and patches of green moss, a relic left to the mercy of the ages.

Darkness enveloped him, pressing in like a suffocating shroud. The ground beneath was a testament to forgotten battles—cracked and scarred, littered with rubble and debris. Broken pillars leaned precariously, their purpose lost to history, while the ceiling above hung in defiance, a fragile miracle resisting collapse.

At the heart of the ruined hall, once a grand stage where young warriors had proven their valor, the man remained frozen. Yet, beneath the oppressive silence, his lips trembled, and a faint whisper escaped...

His eyelids, crusted with stone, quivered. Tiny cracks spiderwebbed across their surface, sending delicate plumes of dust cascading to the ground. Slowly, his eyes opened.

They were blue, deep and endless, like the ocean, but their brilliance had faded, dulled by the relentless passage of time.

And then, like a spark igniting in the void, a flicker of light stirred within those weary eyes. Memories began to surface, fragments, fleeting as the wind, yet sharp enough to pierce the fog of oblivion.

...

The great hall pulsed with life, its walls trembling under the weight of an electrified crowd. Thousands upon thousands had gathered, their roars reverberating like rolling thunder, filling the colossal space with an almost tangible energy.

At the center of it all stood two figures, their presence commanding the attention of every soul in the room. The air around them seemed to crackle with anticipation, as if the very atmosphere held its breath.

A man and a woman.

The man appeared to be in his mid-twenties, his dark hair tousled and framing piercing ocean-blue eyes. His sharp, chiseled features exuded an air of unwavering confidence, and his athletic build spoke of years of rigorous training. In his hand, he gripped a katana-like blade, its edge gleaming with a lethal sharpness that caught the light.

Opposite him stood the woman, her presence a stark contrast to his. She was young, her pristine white hair flowing like a cascade of snow, and her icy-blue eyes held a frigid, unyielding gaze. Her beauty was ethereal, almost otherworldly, but there was no mistaking the dangerous edge to her demeanor. She resembled a goddess of war, poised and unshakable. In her hand, she held a spear of ice, its surface glistening with an unnatural frost that seemed to chill the air around her.

The tension in the air was electric, thick enough to choke on. Both figures radiated an overwhelming aura of power, the kind that silenced the crowd and held them captive in awe.

Then, a booming voice shattered the stillness.

"Grey von Alderstein…"

The audience froze, their breath caught in their throats.

"And Calanthir Elyria…"

The names hung in the air like the calm before a storm, heavy with anticipation.

"Their battle begins!"

The silence exploded as the crowd roared to life, their cheers shaking the very foundations of the hall.

In an instant, the two combatants surged toward each other, their movements a blur of speed and precision. The force of their collision sent shockwaves rippling through the air, scattering dust and debris in all directions. Their weapons clashed with a deafening roar, each strike

"WOOOOOO!" The audience roared, utterly consumed by the spectacle of raw power and skill unfolding before them.

Seconds blurred into minutes, minutes into hours. The battle raged on, unyielding, as days stretched into weeks. Yet the crowd, spellbound by the duel, showed no signs of weariness. Time itself seemed to bend under the weight of their clash.

For warriors of their caliber, losing track of time in the heat of combat was not uncommon. Every strike, every dodge, every breath was a testament to their mastery, a dance of destruction that held the audience captive.

But even the fiercest battles must end.

Eventually, after what felt like an eternity, the duel reached its crescendo.

The scene was grim. Grey's blade lay discarded on the shattered ground, its once-gleaming edge now dull and lifeless. He stared at his fallen sword, his expression a mix of anguish and disbelief. The weight of the moment pressed down on him, heavy and unrelenting.

Before him stood Calanthir, her icy spear poised mere inches from his head. Her cold gaze bore into him, unyielding, as she lowered her weapon.

"You lost," she declared, her voice as sharp as the frost she commanded.

Grey raised his head, meeting her piercing eyes. His body trembled as the weight of her next words struck him like a hammer.

"You will not touch that sword again," she said, her tone final.

Grey's breath hitched, his shoulders quaking.

"You are no longer worthy to wield it. You lost the battle."

She stepped closer, her voice an unyielding decree.

"Now kneel."

As though her command had stripped him of all strength, Grey's legs gave way, and he sank to the ground.

Calanthir took his sword, placing it atop a small rock pillar. Her movements were deliberate, as if sealing his fate.

"You will not leave this place. You will kneel here until the autumn of your life has arrived, until time itself erodes you."

With that, she turned and walked away without looking back. Her footsteps echoed through the silent hall as the crowd looked on, speechless.

Was she cruel?

No. She wasn't.

Grey had lost, and her words were law. He could rise, defy her, and leave, but he didn't. He knew he deserved this fate, yet a question lingered in his mind.

Why?

Why had she done this to him?

Why impose such a test of endurance and resolve, a test that felt insurmountable?

The crowd whispered, speculated, and mocked. Some laughed at his plight, while others offered pity.

"Grey, let's go. You don't have to endure this," some urged.

"Still here? You're a fool," others taunted.

But he remained unmoving, steadfast in his silent penance.

As time passed, visitors dwindled. The hall became desolate, its grandeur reduced to rubble. Earthquakes shook its foundations, dust and debris cascading from the once-mighty ceiling.

Grey stayed. Through the passage of days, months, and years, he knelt, unyielding.

Time seemed to stand still, yet it marched on, indifferent to his suffering.

How did he endure? How did he resist the flow of time, the gnawing despair?

Only he knew.

And so, he remained, a monument to resolve, a tragic figure etched into the annals of forgotten history.

...

"This feeling is definitely... not great," came the voice from the man.

It wasn't a normal sound, no vibrations of the throat or movement of lips. Perhaps it was a spirit's whisper or a magical resonance that echoed from his very being.

Cracks began to form on his cheeks, spreading like fractures across ancient stone. His entire body shuddered, the stillness of ages breaking as he finally moved.

Dust cascaded from his frame as he slowly stood, stretching limbs that hadn't known motion in countless years.

"Ah!" he groaned, rolling his shoulders and flexing his fingers.

"It feels good to move again... but my legs ache, and they feel so sore." He winced slightly, rubbing his knees. "I must be nearing the end of my time in this realm."

His gaze drifted around the hall, now a shadow of its former glory. Broken pillars lay scattered, and cracks webbed across the once-proud walls. Amidst the ruins, something caught his eye—a sword hilt protruding from a stone pillar.

He walked toward it, each step leaving faint imprints in the dust. Reaching out, he grasped the hilt and, with a firm pull, dislodged the blade.

The sword was weathered, its surface dulled by time. He wiped away the layers of grime with his hand and pressed the blade's hilt gently against his forehead.

In that instant, the sword vanished, disappearing into thin air as though absorbed by his very essence.

"I'll repair you," he murmured, his tone resolute, "but first, I need to understand my situation."

Turning, he surveyed the desolation once more before heading toward the massive gates of the great hall.

When he arrived, he found them blocked, piles of debris and broken stones barricading his path.

With a deep breath, he clenched his fist, the muscles in his arm tightening like coiled steel.

Then, with a single punch...

BOOM!

The impact resonated like thunder, sending debris flying in all directions.

He moved forward, stepping into a vast, dark space.

It was a cave, a massive one.

"A dungeon," he murmured.

The moment the words left his mouth, he heard it.

WHOOSH!

Something shot toward him at incredible speed.

He sidestepped, his hand pulling back, and struck with precision.

BAM!

A dull thud followed as the attacker hit the ground.

He looked at the fallen creature. Small, black, and faintly breathing...it was a cat.

He crouched, picked it up, and placed it on his shoulder.

"The way out must be at the end of this dungeon."

He walked deeper into the cave.

The surroundings felt unfamiliar. Time, or perhaps magic, had changed this place into something unrecognizable.

The dungeon was unlike any he had seen before.

The soil was completely black, fine and powdery, as though it had never known light. The air was thick with strange, dense mana that seemed to pulse with life.

He moved on.

Around him, the dungeon unfolded like a living thing. Jagged rocks lined the walls, their surfaces slick and dark, reflecting the faint glow of distant, unknown sources. In the shadows, roots of some ancient plant curled and twisted, their bark a deep, unnatural red.

Pools of liquid, shimmering faintly, spread across the ground, their surface disturbed by something unseen.

In the distance, a mist swirled, hiding what lay further within. The air felt charged with an unspoken presence.

Everything around him was both beautiful and unsettling—an eerie calm, hiding something far darker.