The air in the ruins felt heavier than before, as if the world itself knew what had just happened. Ash sat on a crumbling stone slab, staring at his palm where the shard had embedded itself. The crystal glowed faintly, its light pulsing in sync with his heartbeat. It wasn't just stuck to him—it was a part of him now.
The thought sent a shiver down his spine. He clenched his fist, hoping it would stop the light, but it didn't. He could still feel the strange, warm energy coursing through his veins. It wasn't painful anymore, but it was there, always there, like a second pulse.
"What have I done?" he muttered, his voice barely above a whisper. He looked around the ruins as if expecting an answer, but there was only silence.
The voice from before lingered in his mind, distant but unmistakable. "Embrace it… Power is your birthright…" It sounded calm, almost soothing, but Ash could feel the hunger beneath the words. He shook his head, trying to clear his thoughts.
"This isn't me," he said firmly, as if speaking the words would make them true. "I didn't ask for this."
But deep down, he knew the shard didn't care what he wanted. It had chosen him—or trapped him. Either way, there was no going back now.
Ash stood, brushing dirt off his clothes. He couldn't stay here. If the stories about the shards were true, someone would come looking for this one sooner or later. People always did. And if they found him with it… he didn't want to think about what would happen.
He adjusted his pack and started walking, heading for the edge of the ruins. The fading sunlight cast long shadows across the broken stones, making the place feel even more desolate. The shard's glow provided just enough light to guide him through the maze of crumbling walls and overgrown paths.
But with every step, the shard's presence grew harder to ignore. It wasn't just the glow or the warmth—it was the whispers. They were faint, like a distant wind, but they were there, tugging at the edges of his mind.
"Why run? You are stronger now. They should fear you."
Ash clenched his fists, trying to drown out the voice. "Shut up," he growled, his voice echoing through the empty ruins.
The whisper faded, but he knew it would be back. The shard wasn't going to let him go so easily.
Ash had barely made it to the edge of the ruins when he heard voices. He froze, his instincts kicking in. Years of surviving in a broken world had taught him to be cautious. He crept toward a large chunk of fallen stone and crouched behind it, peeking out to see who—or what—was coming.
Three men stood near the ruins' entrance, their rough voices carrying through the quiet evening air. They were armed—one with a sword, another with a rusted axe, and the third with a bow slung over his back. Their mismatched armor and wild looks marked them as bandits.
"Think anyone's been through here?" one of them asked, kicking a loose stone.
"Doesn't matter," the man with the sword replied. "We search every ruin we find. The boss says there's a shard around here, and we're not leaving until we've checked every inch."
Ash's heart skipped a beat. They were looking for the shard—the one that was now part of him.
The third man, the one with the axe, laughed. "If we find it, maybe we should keep it for ourselves. What's the boss gonna do, kill us? With a shard, we'd be untouchable."
The swordsman glared at him. "Don't be an idiot. You know what happens to people who try to use those things. You've heard the stories."
"Yeah, yeah," the axe-wielder muttered under his breath, "Stories don't scare me. Power like that is worth a little risk."
The swordsman shook his head, clearly unimpressed. "Risk? It's a death sentence. The shards don't just give power—they take something in return. I've seen men go mad from just touching one. You really want that kind of trouble?"
The archer, who had remained silent, scanned the area, his eyes sharp and calculating. "Enough talk," he said in a low voice. "We've got a job to do. Spread out. If someone's already found the shard, we can't let them get away."
Ash felt his stomach twist. He wasn't ready for this. He didn't know how to control the shard, and he definitely didn't want to fight. But if they found him, they wouldn't ask questions—they'd just take it.
"You don't need to run," the voice in his mind murmured again, its tone laced with amusement. "They're nothing compared to the power I can give you."
Ash ignored it, forcing himself to focus. He couldn't let them corner him. Slowly, he backed away, keeping low and silent as he moved deeper into the shadows of the ruins.
But luck wasn't on his side.
A loose stone shifted beneath his foot, the sound echoing through the stillness. All three bandits froze, their heads snapping toward the noise.
"Over there!" the swordsman shouted, drawing his weapon.
Ash cursed under his breath and broke into a sprint. The bandits' shouts followed him, along with the sound of heavy boots pounding against the ground.
"Don't let him escape!"
The ruins turned into a maze as Ash ran, his heart pounding in his chest. He didn't dare look back. His only thought was to keep moving, to put as much distance between himself and the bandits as possible.
But they were fast, and they knew the terrain better than he did. The archer loosed an arrow, the sharp whistle of it cutting through the air. Ash barely managed to duck in time, the arrow embedding itself in a nearby wall.
"Stop running, kid!" the axe-wielder bellowed. "You can't escape!"
Ash's legs burned, and his lungs felt like they were on fire, but he didn't stop. He rounded a corner, only to find himself at a dead end—a collapsed section of the ruins blocking his path.
He spun around, his back against the wall, as the bandits closed in. The shard in his palm pulsed urgently, the light spilling out through the fabric of his cloak.
The swordsman stepped forward, his blade gleaming in the dim light. "End of the road," he said with a smirk. "Hand over the shard, and maybe we won't kill you."
Ash clenched his fists, his mind racing. He didn't want to use the shard. He didn't even know how. But he couldn't let them take it—not when he knew what they would do with it.
"Let me handle this," the voice urged, louder now. "You'll never survive on your own."
Ash hesitated, his breath coming in ragged gasps. The bandits were closing in, their weapons raised.
"Last chance, kid," the axe-wielder growled. "Give it up, or we'll take it from your corpse."
The shard flared, the light blindingly bright. Ash felt a surge of energy, his body moving on its own. His hand shot forward, and a wave of shimmering force erupted from the shard, slamming into the bandits.
The swordsman was thrown back, his weapon clattering to the ground. The axe-wielder and the archer stumbled, struggling to stay on their feet.
Ash stared at his hand in shock. He hadn't meant to do that—it had just… happened.
The voice in his mind laughed, dark and triumphant. "See? You're stronger than them. Use it. Crush them."
"No," Ash whispered, shaking his head. "I'm not like them."
The bandits were recovering, their faces twisted with anger and fear. Ash knew he couldn't stay. Without another word, he turned and scrambled over the rubble, disappearing into the shadows of the ruins.
As he ran, the shard's light dimmed, but its presence was stronger than ever. The voice was silent for now, but Ash could feel it waiting, watching.
He didn't know what lay ahead, but one thing was clear: he couldn't run from this power. Not anymore.