The journey toward the obelisk began with uncertainty. Each step felt both foreign and familiar, as though their body had walked this path before, but their mind lagged behind, trying to catch up. The land was barren, twisted by fire and conflict. Shadows of war lingered in the silence, in the burned-out husks of war machines, in the skeletal remains half-buried in soot.
The presence followed.
It was subtle at first—a sensation creeping along the edges of awareness. Then, it sharpened. Footsteps, just beyond sight. A shift in the air. The weight of unseen eyes pressing down.
The being tightened their grip on the sword. Their body moved instinctively, adjusting their stance, angling the blade. Something deep inside knew how to fight.
A whisper of movement. Then a blur.
A figure lunged from the smoke, a shadow with glowing red eyes and jagged limbs. No words, no hesitation—just attack.
The being reacted without thought. Their body twisted, the sword swinging in a perfect arc. Steel met resistance, a clash of metal and force, the shock reverberating through their arms. The enemy recoiled, but only for a second.
They came again.
The being ducked, pivoted. Muscle memory took over. Their movements were precise, efficient—too practiced to be accidental. They were a warrior. A weapon.
A strike landed. The enemy staggered, then fell. The red glow in its eyes flickered, dimmed, then died.
Silence returned, but the realization lingered.
They had fought before. Many times.
As they stood over the fallen figure, something flickered at the edge of their consciousness. A jolt ran through their mind like lightning striking a dead tree, igniting something buried deep. The battlefield blurred, the present dissolving into something else entirely.
A memory.
They were in a different place—somewhere sterile, metallic, illuminated by cold white lights. Figures moved around them, faceless shadows in pristine uniforms. A voice, deep and authoritative, echoed through the space.
"Vassek, again. You must be faster. Stronger. Precise."
A sparring room. They stood across from an opponent, mirroring their stance. A blade clashed against theirs. Sparks flew. Movements were calculated, mechanical, perfect.
"You are not a soldier," the voice continued. "You are a weapon. A blade given thought."
The memory wavered, distorted, then shattered.
They gasped, stumbling back into the present, breath coming in ragged bursts. The battlefield returned, the corpse of their fallen enemy lying motionless at their feet.
Their name was Vassek.
And they were not just a warrior. They were something more—something created, shaped, honed. The weight of the realization settled over them, heavy as the sword in their grip.
The obelisk still loomed ahead, pulsing with purpose. There would be more answers there. More truths buried in the ruins of whatever had come before.
Vassek exhaled, steadying themselves, then took another step forward, toward destiny.