A hush settled over the ruined alleyway, the kind that spoke of an impending storm. The cold, acrid air thickened with the scent of iron, the remnants of battle dripping from the broken stones beneath his feet. The distorted hues of the world swirled sluggishly, casting surreal shadows against the shattered walls. It was a moment stretched thin, the precipice before the fall. The fractured city around him seemed to hold its breath, as if all the very stones were waiting for the inevitable.
The moment hung in the air like the sharp edge of a sword poised to strike. The clash of steel rang out in the distant distance, but within this chamber, only the quiet hum of dying energy could be heard. The floor, cracked and worn by countless battles long past, trembled underfoot. The faint scent of burning ash mingled with the cold, bitter taste of impending death.
He stood at the center of the chamber, cloaked and shrouded in mystery, his skeletal form concealed beneath the folds of fabric. His breath, if he still breathed, would have been shallow. His heart, if it still beat, would have been ragged. But there was nothing. Only a gnawing emptiness where his soul should have been—until her face filled his vision.
Aya.
Her eyes, wide with the terror of the moment, locked with his. The tears on her face were clear pools, no longer reflecting the vibrant world she once knew, but the harsh, unforgiving void of death closing in around her. The sound of her breath, shallow and pained, echoed through the chamber.
She reached out.
His hand twitched. He wanted to move. To do something. Anything. To save her, but—
The Celestial Herald, with his towering presence and a cruel smirk, lifted his massive sword. The blade was a twisted thing of unnatural proportions, shimmering with the faint glow of celestial power. His dark eyes gleamed with an arrogance that only someone of his stature could afford. The title alone struck terror into the hearts of the weak, but here in the depths of this chamber, beneath the weight of his aura, even the walls seemed to bow.
"Don't thee dare think of saving her," his voice was deep, resonant with the cold certainty of one who knew no fear. "Thy petty efforts are futile. She shall die... and so shalt thou."
With a flick of his wrist, the greatsword descended.
The sound of it—the sickening sound—was unlike any weapon's strike he had ever witnessed. Aya's body jerked as the blade cleaved through her, the force too much for her fragile form. Her scream—a haunting, heart-wrenching scream—tore through the silence before she crumpled into a lifeless heap, the dark blood pooling around her.
His entire being stilled, his heart freezing in the wake of her demise. The void within him grew darker, deeper, as something shattered—a thread that had once bound him to whatever semblance of humanity remained within.
He stood unmoving, his cloak hanging heavy over his frame, his gloved fingers curled into trembling fists. Aya lay still at his feet. Her once defiant, determined gaze was now vacant, lifeless. The soft glow of aetheric embers flickered in the wounds across her small body, fading like dying fireflies. The once vibrant woman whose spirit had so often defied the odds, whose courage had kindled a spark of hope in a dying world, was now nothing more than a cold corpse.
The world around her had fallen silent, as if mourning her passing. The broken city, with its jagged ruins and twisted aetheric energies, seemed to pause in that one agonizing moment of stillness.
A hollow breath rattled within him.
She was gone. There would be no more fighting. No more hope. The world had already consumed her, just as it had consumed everything else. And he had failed.
The sound of footsteps cut through the silence like a knife, each step measured, each movement deliberate. Across from him, the Celestial Herald loomed, his greatsword resting against his shoulder like an executioner's blade. The man's presence was suffocating, his aura pressing down like the weight of an entire world. His pristine, battle-worn armor gleamed beneath the shifting aetheric sky, reflecting back the twisted hues of the broken city.
The Herald's face, once coldly composed, now carried a shadow of finality. There was no satisfaction in his gaze, no joy in the act of triumph. His expression was one of quiet certainty, like a judge preparing to pass a sentence. "There is no redemption for the wicked," the Herald's voice rang out, carrying a solemn certainty, edged with something like disappointment. "Thy time ends here."
The words tolled like a death knell. They weren't a warning. They weren't even a threat. They were the cold, unyielding truth of a world that had already decided. There was no offer of surrender, no hesitation, no cruelty in his voice—only an immutable decree, as though he were merely delivering the inevitable. There was no anger, no fire. The Herald spoke as though he were already nothing more than a footnote in the world's dark history.
He did not move. He simply stared at Aya's lifeless form, his heart hollowing further with each passing second. The space between them stretched, a chasm of emotions too vast to articulate. A hollow pit yawned inside him, deeper than despair. The sensation was unfamiliar, foreign, wrong. His fingers twitched.
And then—
Something snapped.
A surge of something raw and unrelenting burst forth from within. It wasn't anger. It wasn't revenge. It was rage—a pure, primal rage. The world seemed to tilt on its axis, his surroundings narrowing until only the Herald remained in focus. His body reacted without thought, without hesitation. It was instinct, an animal instinct.
The skeletal fingers hidden beneath his gloves clenched tight, aether pulsing erratically around him.( The surge of power that coursed through his veins, dark and violent, throbbed in time with his heartbeat.)
Rage. It burned. It howled. It was not a cry of sorrow, nor one of righteous fury—it was something deeper, something primal, something born of loss. The pain of losing Aya merged with the primal need for destruction, twisting into an all-consuming hunger.
His vision narrowed, locking onto the Herald. His mind, clouded by something beyond reason, gave itself over to a singular instinct.
Kill.
The next moment, he was moving.
The air cracked as he lunged forward, his cloak billowing in his wake like a dark storm. His dagger gleamed in his grip, flashing like a striking fang. The world blurred around him. Every strike, every movement was one driven by an overwhelming desire to tear, to destroy. To make the Herald feel the loss he felt. The first blow landed—not a test, not a warning, but a killing strike aimed at the throat.
The Herald barely had time to lower his greatsword before the dagger tore through the air. The Herald's armor screamed as the blade scraped against it, sparks flying with the force of the blow. The Herald ,calm with minimal movement, his eyes narrowing, but the moment of surprise quickly turned into focused combat. His massive greatsword swung in a wide arc, fast—too fast for him to avoid.
A sharp, searing pain bloomed across his ribs as the blade clipped him, sending him skidding across the broken ground. His cloak was torn, the impact ringing through his entire frame, but his body did not falter. His eyes burned with a ferocity that ignored the pain. The pain barely registered in his mind.
The Herald was no longer the one in control. He was.
Is what he thought.
He launched forward again.
This time, he did not hold back.
The alley became a slaughterhouse. The once quiet air filled with the clang of steel, the sound of flesh meeting metal, the splash of blood against stone. He moved with an eerie precision, his every strike fueled by pure, unrelenting instinct. The dagger in his hand flicked and darted like a striking serpent, carving through armor joints, slipping past defenses with a deadly grace. The Herald blocked, parried, countered, with ease but it was as if he were fighting a force of nature.
Blood sprayed across the stone, painting it in thick, wet streaks. The Herald , his massive blade sweeping in arcs to deflect, to counter. The celestial Herald which is not a name but a term given to the power he represented, he was fast. Too fast. The Herald was no longer fighting like a man.
He was hunting.
And yet...
The Herald was stronger.
An opening—too small, too brief—but enough.
A blinding arc of silver—
A sharp, brutal pain speared through his chest.
He froze. His dagger slipped from his fingers, clattering against the stone. His knees buckled.
The Herald's blade had pierced deep within his torso, carving through cloth, flesh, and bone. The force of the blow drove him to his knees, his cloak pooling around him like a broken shroud. His body seemed to collapse in on itself, a hollow shell filled with nothing but pain. No. Not like this.
His vision blurred. His senses dulled. The world around him seemed to distort, spinning and swaying as if he were underwater. Sounds faded into distant echoes, and he realized with a sickening certainty that the world was slipping away from him.
Was this it?
He had failed. Again.
Aya was dead. He had fought, had killed, had slaughtered. And yet, in the end—
It had changed nothing. A faint breath of laughter escaped him—a bitter, hollow sound. It wasn't a laugh of triumph or joy, but one of pure futility. His body slumped forward. His senses continued to slip further, dissolving into the blackness.
Then—
Darkness.
Silence.
Everything—ceased.
...But then, the world flickered. A pulse.
A distortion.
A faint, familiar sensation—like static crawling beneath his nonexistent skin. The void shuddered.
And then—
A screen appeared before him.
"You have DIED."
The words burned into the empty space, stark and unyielding. There was no question, no ambiguity. It was a fact.
Another line followed.
"Confirming if the goal is reached..."
A long, suffocating pause. The world felt like it was holding its breath, waiting for the next words to come.
And then—
"Goal not reached."
Silence.
Error.
Error... Error...
A flickering distortion rippled through the void, reality itself groaning under its weight. The screen glitched, its letters twisting, breaking apart, reforming. It was as if the universe itself was unraveling.
And then—
The world lurched.
A breath.
A sensation.
A pulse of something returning.
And then—
His eyes opened.