The air shattered.
A soundless rupture, like the breaking of reality itself.
Alaric felt it before he saw it—the tremor in his bones, the slow collapse of the world's fabric as something beyond comprehension forced its way through. The sky bent, colours twisting in unnatural spirals, as if the heavens themselves were recoiling from what was about to emerge.
Then, the darkness split apart.
And they arrived.
The Unseen Becomes Seen
At first, there were only shadows—long, stretching tendrils that slithered through the burning air. Then came the shapes, shifting between the known and the impossible. They were figures, but not like men. Beings, but not like beasts.
Their forms were fluid, part solid, part void, their outlines flickering as though they existed on the edge of existence itself. Some were tall as mountains, their heads scraping the heavens, their limbs draped in cloaks of flowing night. Others were small, hunched, and compact, but their very presence sent a ripple through the land, as if the weight of their mere existence was enough to crack the earth beneath them.
Alaric's breath caught in his throat.
He had heard of them.
The Guardians.
Not protectors.
Not saviours.
But watchers.
Judges.
And executioners.
"You have been seen."
The voice did not belong to one of them.
It belonged to all of them.
It echoed from nowhere and everywhere, a chorus of whispers layered upon screams, layered upon silence itself. It did not simply speak—it reached into his mind, carving its meaning into the marrow of his bones.
Alaric stepped back. His instincts screamed to run, but where? There was no escape from something that could appear without warning, something that was not bound by space or time.
"You have walked the path."
"You have defied the order."
"You have trespassed upon the realm of the forgotten."
The sky cracked, a thin fracture of white splitting the eternal blackness.
"And now, you will be judged."
The Weight of Their Eyes
One of them moved.
Not with steps, but with presence.
One moment, it was distant. The next, it was towering over him, its shape shifting, stretching, becoming something nearly human—nearly, but not quite. Its face was smooth, devoid of features, but Alaric felt its gaze.
Felt it like knives carving into his soul.
Every memory, every action, every failure, and every triumph—laid bare beneath that gaze.
Alaric's knees buckled.
He had faced death.
He had endured the trials of the forge, the puzzle of glass, and the river of ash.
But this?
This was annihilation.
The Guardian reached out a hand—if it could be called that. Its arm was liquid shadow, its fingers stretching, curling, reshaping.
"You seek purpose," it said.
"But purpose is not given. It is taken."
Alaric gritted his teeth, forcing himself to his feet.
"What do you want from me?" he demanded.
The guardian tilted its head.
"We do not want. We do not take. We decide."
"Decide what?"
The chorus of voices whispered as one.
"Whether you are worthy to exist."
The Trial of Judgement
The world collapsed inward.
Alaric was no longer standing. He was falling, tumbling through a void that had not been there moments before. Fire and shadow twisted together around him, forming walls, forming a prison, forming—
A battlefield.
He landed hard, dust and ash swirling around him. The ground beneath him was scorched, riddled with the bones of things long dead. The sky was blood-red, streaked with the remnants of something ancient, something broken.
And before him stood his past.
Every enemy he had ever slain.
Every nightmare he had ever fled from.
Every failure is given form.
They moved toward him—faces familiar, yet twisted. Eyes hollow, mouths stretched into jagged grins. Some carried weapons. Others were weapons, their bodies warped into blades, chains, and fire.
"You seek rebirth?"
The Guardian's voice echoed from the heavens.
"Then die as you were, or fight as what you will become."
The horde charged.
Alaric roared.
He met them head-on, his body moving before his mind could even register the action. He struck, kicked, spun, and dodged—his instincts honed by every battle, every wound, and every lesson carved into his flesh.
But they were endless.
For every one he struck down, another rose.
For every wound he inflicted, they laughed.
Because they were him.
Every version of himself that had failed.
Every weakness made manifest.
And he was losing.
The Fire Within
A sword pierced his side.
A fist shattered his jaw.
Claws tore across his chest.
Pain.
Pain beyond anything he had ever endured.
He fell to his knees.
The Guardians watched.
"You are weak," they whispered.
"You are broken."
"You are not worthy."
Alaric's vision blurred. His hands trembled. His breath came in ragged gasps.
But beneath the agony, beneath the despair, beneath the overwhelming certainty that he was doomed—
A spark.
Small. Faint.
But burning.
He clenched his fists.
He had died before.
And he had risen.
"I am not weak."
He forced himself up.
"I am not broken."
He gritted his teeth, tasting blood.
"And I am not done."
The fire within him ignited, spreading through his veins, his bones, his very soul.
And when he opened his eyes, they burnt like molten gold.
The Verdict
The battlefield disintegrated.
The enemies vanished, their twisted forms dissolving into dust. The sky returned to black, the air to silence.
Alaric stood alone.
The Guardians loomed before him, watching. Waiting.
"You have burnt away the past," they said.
"You have forged something new."
"You may yet be worthy."
The tallest of them reached forward, placing a hand of pure darkness against Alaric's chest.
Pain.
Not the pain of wounds, but of transformation.
His flesh seared. His bones cracked. His soul shifted.
"You will walk the path ahead," the Guardian murmured.
"But understand this—rebirth is not an en
d. It is only the beginning."
Alaric gasped as the world split apart once more—
And he fell into the unknown.