《Apex Of Xenith》 Frustrated A dim, flickering bulb swayed from the ceiling of the abandoned warehouse, its sickly yellow light casting long, jagged shadows across the cracked concrete floor. The air was thick with the stench of rust, damp wood, and stale cigarette smoke. Somewhere in the distance, the faint hum of the city could be heard¡ªmuffled voices, the occasional rumble of a passing transport, the distant howls of the lawless night. But here, inside these cold walls, the world shrank to a single, grimy table where two men sat, playing a warped version of poker. Cards flipped lazily between their fingers, chips clinking together with each calculated bet. A knife embedded deep into the wooden surface served as a makeshift divider between them, its hilt slick with sweat and old blood. One of the men, broad-shouldered with sunken eyes and a scar that ran from his temple to his jaw, let out a huff of irritation as he shuffled the deck. "Where the hell is this damn courier?" he muttered, throwing a glance at the timepiece strapped to his wrist. "Takes a special kind of idiot to be this late." His companion, leaner but no less imposing, leaned back in his chair, exhaling a cloud of acrid smoke. "Had to use an underground one," he said, voice low and raspy. "You know how it is. Special product, special measures. Those government ones ain''t exactly reliable for these kinds of things, you know?" "Tch." The first man spat on the floor, shaking his head. "Bet the bastard ran off with it." "And if he did?" The lean man tapped the hilt of the knife, a cruel smirk playing on his lips. "We''ve got ways of finding his kind. Ain''t worried." Silence stretched between them for a moment, the rhythmic dripping of a leaking pipe filling the void. Then, a knock echoed from the heavy steel door at the far end of the warehouse. Both men paused. Their eyes met. "Finally." The scarred man pushed his chair back with an irritated grunt and motioned for his partner to follow. They approached the door, their boots crunching against scattered debris. The lean man pressed his ear against the metal for a second before unlocking it with a sharp click. The door groaned open, revealing the hunched figure standing in the dim glow of the streetlamp outside. The courier. A ragged, hooded cloak draped over his thin frame, its edges stained with dirt and torn at the seams. Beneath the hood, only the faint glint of black eyes could be seen, sunken deep into a gaunt face smeared with city grime. His hands, pale and bony, clutched a small, wrapped package close to his chest. Scarred Man sneered. "You''ve got to be shitting me. Look at this damn beggar, get out of here. No money for you shits" The lean man, however, raised his hand to stop his friend. And instead, he stepped forward, eyes narrowing at the package. "That it?" The courier gave a single, silent nod. Slowly, he uncurled his fingers and extended the package forward. The lean man took it without hesitation, giving it a quick shake before running his fingers over the wrapping. "Only a bit of dust. No damage," he muttered, satisfied. He turned on his heel, ready to walk away, when the courier coughed. The two men stopped. Scarred Man raised an eyebrow. "The hell was that?" The courier stretched his hand out slightly, palm facing up. Payment. The lean man exchanged a glance with his partner before chuckling under his breath. Scarred Man, however, let out a bark of laughter. "You serious? The guy who gave you this should''ve paid you. Ain''t our problem." "He said¡ª" The courier''s voice was hoarse, barely above a whisper. "He said you''d pay me. I walked a long way to transport this..." The lean man tilted his head, as if considering it for a second. Then, slowly, he reached under his shirt. A flash of metal. The courier froze. The man''s fingers rested on the handle of a knife strapped to his waist. "Figure it out yourself, Outsider." His voice was cold, final. "You think I''m scared of the enforcers? If they saw your corpse in the gutter, they''d thank me for the damn favor." Silence. The air thickened, pressing down on the courier''s shoulders. The courier''s fingers twitched. Stolen novel; please report. A thousand thoughts screamed inside his skull, each one clawing to break free. Take the knife. Smash the package. Tear his throat open. Make him pay. But his body knew better. Because he knew he would just die in a couple of seconds. Slowly, he lowered his hand and turned away. "That''s what I thought," Scarred Man muttered, shaking his head. As the courier stepped away from them, a sudden wet splatter struck his back. Spit. He stopped. His hands trembled at his sides. His breath came slow, controlled¡ªbut only just. His shadow stretched long against the cold concrete, dark and trembling like something barely contained. Behind him, the man who spat placed a hand on his knife again, amused. "Go on. Walk away with your life." His voice was mockingly gentle. "You should be thanking us for letting you keep it." Luxerio, the courier, clenched his fists. How I wish I could fucking make you guys pay. But that was not a possibility. So today, like every other day, he walked away. The steel door slammed shut behind him. An hour later, The city was restless. Luxerio moved through the darkened streets, his footsteps barely making a sound against the worn asphalt. The city stretched endlessly around him¡ªcrumb, ing buildings stacked upon one another like skeletal remains, flickering neon signs casting fractured glows onto the cracked pavement. The air was thick with the scent of damp garbage, burnt metal, and the lingering tang of ozone from distant electrical surges. A few figures lurked in the shadows, faces hollow and eyes sunken, watching him without interest. To them, he was just another ghost in this city of the forsaken. But inside his mind, it was anything but quiet. Frustration gnawed at his insides, curling and writhing like a parasite. He had spent nearly four hours walking, unable to afford transportation¡ªnot just because of the nature of the delivery, but because he had nothing. Not a single lick to his name. And for what? Three days without food, pushing my body past exhaustion, risking my damn life¡ªonly to be cheated out of my payment. He had been cheated outright, spat on, humiliated. But what could he do? His jaw clenched as he turned a corner, stepping over a pile of discarded cans and broken glass. The answer was clear¡ª Nothing. His fingers twitched at his sides, curled into fists before loosening again. He had no money, no strength, and no connections. Reporting those bastards was a joke¡ªhe was the one doing illegal work. And fighting them? That was even funnier. Not only were they armed, but even if they weren''t, he was weak. His ribs still ached from the last time he had gotten into a scuffle, and that was months ago. His body simply wasn''t built for battle. His frame was too thin, his muscles barely enough to keep him standing, let alone fighting. And, of course, the worst part of it all¡ª He was an Outsider. The lowest caste of society. The ones without power, without value, without purpose. They were the leftovers¡ªthe ones who had lost everything when their worlds were swallowed by the Crossever Event. The ones deemed unfit to serve any real function, neither warriors nor workers, neither citizens nor criminals. Too weak to be of use, too insignificant to be protected. Riffraff. Trash. Ghosts. His fists clenched inside his tattered cloak, his nails digging into his palms. He hated it. He hated all of it. This world, this city, this existence, where he was forced to scrape by like a rat in the filth while others thrived. He never asked for this. None of them did. And sure, some had been blessed and given the chance to greatness and to claw their way to power¡ªbut that was the minority. The rest? They either died nameless in the alleys or were ground to dust under the weight of those who now ruled over them. And when they were cheated like he was today? Who would help them? No one. The city streets blurred as Luxerio pressed forward, his thoughts growing darker with each step. How long could he keep this up? The hunger was getting worse. He could feel his body slowly shutting down, his strength fading. If he didn''t find a way to get money soon¡ª He exhaled sharply, rolling his shoulders. No. Don''t think about it. But what choice did he have? He had already sold most of his organs. He had nothing left to give except¡ª No. Not yet. Luxerio stopped near the entrance of a crumbling alley, leaning against a rusted pole as he pressed a hand against his side. His breath was uneven. Which organ could he sell next? One lung? Part of his liver? He had to keep the essentials. His kidneys were already gone. "...How much would an eye go for?" The thought made him sick. But not as much as the idea of starving to death. He let out a shaky breath, pushing himself forward. He needed a distraction. Something, anything¡ª His gaze drifted to a nearby wall, lined with wanted posters. Familiar sight. The city had no shortage of criminals. Murderers, thieves, debt runners. Luxerio barely spared them a glance as he walked past¡ªuntil one made him stop. His pulse skipped. A side-profile of a young, sickly man with short, poorly cut dark hair and hollow black eyes. The quality of the image was awful, grainy and distorted, but it was enough. It was him. Luxerio''s breath hitched. His legs locked in place as he stared, his mind racing. Why? Why the hell am I on a wanted poster? He quickly looked down at the details, his vision blurring as he scanned the numbers. 5,000 Qulios. His heart nearly stopped. He felt the blood drain from his face. That was enough to secure a decent home in one of the mid-tier cities. Why the hell was he worth that much? He forced his eyes further down. Class C Debt Evasion. His blood ran cold. No. No, no, no¡ª His breath caught. Class C? That meant immediate collection. It meant he was no longer just at risk of being hounded by loan sharks¡ªit meant they had put out a citywide bounty. He thought he had at least another month to scrounge something together. He hadn''t even borrowed one percent of the bounty amount. Luxerio stumbled back, the edges of his vision darkening with panic. They made him a target. A physical wanted poster meant only one thing¡ªit was meant for the poor, the desperate, the ones who didn''t rely on technology to get their information. Which meant most of the city already knew. A bounty like this? It painted a target on his back. He swore under his breath, his mind spiraling through every possible escape route. The city was a maze, but there were ways to disappear. He just needed time, needed to¡ª A deep voice rumbled behind him. "What are you cursing about?" Luxerio froze. The night around him felt suddenly heavier, colder. The kind of cold that sank into the bones, that whispered of something far worse than debt collectors. He felt like maybe tonight was the night. The night he may die. A Prayer Luxerio turned slowly, his heart hammering against his ribs. His eyes met the source of the voice¡ªa bearded old man clad in a heavy trench coat that hung off his frame like a worn-out relic of another life. His face was obscured by the shadows of the dim streetlight, but his presence carried an odd weight, as if he had been there for far longer than Luxerio had noticed. The old man spoke again, his accent thick and strange. "What are you doing standing in front of a wanted poster board in the dead of night?" He tilted his head slightly, his grizzled beard shifting. "Planning to eat the posters?" Luxerio blinked at the bizarre question but said nothing. Before he could even think of a response, the man waved a dismissive hand. "Beggars like you aren''t allowed to eat city property, you know. So best disappear before someone less kind than me finds you." Luxerio almost sighed in relief. This was an out¡ªan easy way to escape the encounter without raising suspicion. He nodded quickly, murmured a small, "Apologies," and turned on his heel, ready to vanish into the darkened streets. But then¡ª "Hold on." His body stiffened involuntarily. His breath caught, a pulse of dread shooting through him. Something felt¡­ off. The way the old man spoke now was slower, deliberate. It wasn''t just idle talk. "You''re heading in a bad direction, boy," the old man continued. "That way leads to the middle-class district. They don''t take kindly to beggars like you. You won''t find peace there." Luxerio exhaled slowly, forcing himself to relax. Just paranoia. That''s all it was. He turned back briefly and gave a quick nod. "Thanks for the warning." Without hesitation, he adjusted his course, veering into a different alleyway. As he left, he completely missed how close the old man had been standing. Close enough to see his face. Close enough to study his eyes. The old man, however, remained by the poster board. His gaze locked onto one specific poster. His eyes narrowed. Half an hour later, Luxerio was panting heavily, crouched behind a rundown building. The alley was tight, walls covered in grime and peeling advertisements from years past. He pressed his back against the cold, damp concrete, trying to catch his breath. His legs ached. His body screamed in exhaustion. But he couldn''t stop. Not yet. He had taken the longest, most indirect route possible¡ªcutting through empty streets, slipping between shadows, avoiding every path where he might be seen. Every fiber of his being screamed that someone was watching. Even if he never saw them, he felt them. Still, he had bought himself time. He just didn''t know how much. He ran a hand down his face, wiping away the layer of sweat and grime that clung to his skin. Now what? He had nowhere to go. No home, no allies. Even after ten years in this forsaken place, he and the others like him were treated like vermin. Like intruders. It wasn''t even their fault. The Crossever Event swallowed their worlds. They didn''t choose to be here. They didn''t want to be here. But that never mattered to the natives of Avarleos. The Outsiders weren''t warriors, they weren''t heroes¡ªthey were baggage. Strays who refused to die fast enough. And now, someone had decided it was time for him to be handled. His jaw tightened as his thoughts turned to the bounty. Did those loan sharks put it up early because he was an Outsider? That would make sense. Slavery was alive and well in this city. And Outsiders were prime targets. But something didn''t add up. They didn''t need to trick him to sell him. They could have just taken him without giving him a single Qulio. No one would have cared. "No one would care," he muttered to himself bitterly. "That''s true." A voice. Not his. His heart stopped. The blood in his veins turned to ice as he whipped his head toward the sound. If you discover this narrative on Amazon, be aware that it has been stolen. Please report the violation. A woman stood at the edge of the alley, her white longcoat pristine even in the dim lighting. Embroidered on her chest was a golden insignia¡ªa piggybank, swollen with wealth. His stomach twisted in horror. Debt collector. His body moved before his mind could catch up. He threw himself to the side, bolting in the opposite direction without a second thought. He didn''t have time to think. Didn''t have time to hesitate. But he barely made it three steps before the shadows ahead shifted. Something massive blocked his escape. A hulking woman loomed in his path, muscles thick as cables, her arms crossed as she watched him like a predator amused by a cornered rabbit. He skidded to a halt, heart hammering in his chest. He was trapped. The first debt collector clicked her tongue, crossing her arms as she watched Luxerio instinctively back away from the hulking woman behind him. "Where do you think you''re running to?" she asked, her tone mocking yet cold. Luxerio took careful steps, trying to keep both of them in his line of sight. His back pressed against the rough, damp wall of the alley, offering no escape. His mind raced, trying to figure out how they''d found him so quickly. He had taken every precaution, avoiding anyone, slipping through shadows, changing routes randomly¡ªyet here they were. Almost as if she had plucked the thought right from his mind, the woman smirked. "A little old birdie tipped us off," she said, amusement dancing in her sharp eyes. Luxerio''s stomach churned. That old bastard. He clenched his jaw, cursing the old man''s existence. He should have known better than to trust a random stranger''s kindness. He wished for all the Qulios in the city to come crashing down and crush that piece of shit geezer. Clicking her tongue again, the woman strode forward with slow, measured steps. Luxerio swallowed, fighting the urge to retreat any further. "Look, I swear, I didn''t know I had to pay back so soon," he stammered, hands raised in a feigned display of surrender. "I only just found out today. Give me a week, no¡ªa few days! I can get the money, double, even triple! Just give me a chance." He hated how pathetic he sounded, how he had to grovel. But what choice did he have? The woman didn''t falter. Her expression didn''t change, save for a slight tilt of her head, as if she were merely indulging him. Then, she shook her head slowly. "If we cared, we wouldn''t have put up the wanted poster to begin with." Luxerio''s breath hitched. "What?" "Your debt''s already been paid," she said, now standing directly before him, so close he could see the subtle scars on her fingers. Luxerio blinked. "What?" he repeated, his voice barely above a whisper. His mind scrambled to make sense of her words. "And then some," she added, leaning down ever so slightly. Confusion mixed with dread. "Why¡ªwhy would¡ª" The woman''s lips curled into a cruel smile as she leaned into his ear. "Because we were paid even more to get rid of you." A sharp, searing pain exploded in Luxerio''s chest. His mind failed to register what had just happened. He only realized when he looked down and saw her hand buried deep inside him, fingers twisted cruelly through flesh and bone. The pain finally hit. He gasped, a wet, choking sound, and coughed out a splatter of blood. His vision blurred, his knees buckling. The woman twisted her wrist ever so slightly before pulling her hand free, letting him collapse onto the cold ground. Luxerio''s limbs trembled. His vision wavered. Blood pooled beneath him, soaking the filth of the alley. He tried to breathe, but each inhale felt like razor blades scraping his lungs. A handkerchief drifted onto his chest. The woman wiped her bloodstained fingers clean before tossing it at him like discarded trash. "It''s none of our business who you pissed off," she said. "But they really wanted you dead." She straightened, dusting off her jacket. "Their words were ''Get rid of the failure.''" Failure. Something inside Luxerio cracked. Through the haze of agony, a sick realization clawed at him. It was him. That man. Even now, even at his lowest, he wasn''t even worth the effort of being killed directly. He had to send people to do it. Luxerio wanted to laugh. But he couldn''t. The pain was too much. His body felt so cold. So numb. His breath grew weaker, his thoughts more sluggish, slipping between the haze of pain and looming darkness. "Long way till sunrise," the woman mused, glancing up at the dim sky. "Guess you''ll get to enjoy the peaceful silence of death for a while." Silence, huh? A thought emerged¡ªno, a realization. He had nothing to lose. If he was already dead, then... His lips moved, breath shallow. Words spilled out in a whisper. The woman frowned, stepping closer. "Huh? What was that?" His voice was barely audible, weak, and choked. But he repeated himself, this time clearer, more deliberate. "Since I''m going to die... I have nothing to lose." The woman scoffed. "Tch. You Outsiders really are pitiful." And then¡ªLuxerio began to pray. The woman''s smirk faltered. It started as a soft murmur, words slipping between wet, ragged breaths. The prayer, at first, seemed incoherent, a mess of syllables blending into the next. The woman sneered. "Really? Praying?" She scoffed, rolling her eyes. "The Eight Above aren''t going to do a damn thing for someone like you. How insulting." Yet¡ªsomething felt... wrong. Her words faltered as a shiver ran down her spine. The larger woman beside her¡ªusually an unmoving wall of silent menace¡ªshifted ever so slightly. A strange pressure hung in the air, thick and suffocating. Luxerio''s prayer continued, the words low, guttural, crawling into the very marrow of the night. "Tch." The debt collector curled her lip in disgust. "Enough of this crap." She lifted her boot, prepared to crush his skull beneath her heel¡ª Then she heard it. "...In my prayer, I seek not the world but what is false. I seek not the illusion but what is true..." The air grew heavy. Reality itself seemed to tremble. "I seek the night and day, the power and control, the life and death..." A shudder ran through her as the words vibrated against something deep, something primal. "As the world holds no balance and all the balance before thou contradictory nature..." Her boot froze mid-air. A terrifying realization hit her. She had made a mistake¡ªa grave, irreversible mistake. She moved to end it quickly¡ª But Luxerio''s lips parted one final time, and the last thing she heard before everything collapsed was: "I pray... that my wish is not met and truly granted." And then¡ªthe world changed. And it didn''t. Darkness swallowed the alley, and the night bled into something else that couldn''t be comprehended. Mythgraves Descent Time froze. The heel of the debt collector''s boot hovered mere millimeters from Luxerio''s forehead, the motion halting as if the universe itself had seized. The world became a tableau of suspended violence. The woman''s sneer remained frozen on her lips, her foot caught in an unnatural pause, while her hulking companion stood mid-motion, her massive arm inches away from swatting away some unseen force. Then, reality cracked. A shudder rippled through the air, the stillness unraveling in jagged distortions. The buildings groaned as if something immense had shifted behind the fabric of the world. The very air seemed to bend, stretching in elongated warps as if space itself was being pulled into a vortex. And Luxerio''s body was gone. Not erased. Not destroyed. Just¡­ absent. As though existence had misplaced him in an error too great to comprehend. Time seemed to return once more, albeit extremely slowly. The debt collector barely had time to process what had happened before her companion lunged. The muscular woman, driven by pure instinct, threw herself forward, trying to knock her leader away from whatever unseen force was warping reality. Too late. A sphere of energy, a grotesque distortion of mismatched colors, exploded into existence where Luxerio had been. It was wrong¡ªnot merely light or energy, but something fundamentally incomprehensible, colors that shouldn''t mix yet did, a vortex that should have been visible but somehow wasn''t. It pulsed in chaotic, flickering instability, each second stretching and twisting in unpredictable surges. Cracks spiderwebbed from the point of emergence, fracturing the ground in perfect geometric patterns. The concrete beneath their feet pulsed¡ªnot as a reaction, but as if it had been waiting to breathe all this time. The sky, once dark, rippled like liquid, shifting colors and textures, morphing into something that defied reason. The very concept of up and down struggled to remain relevant. Then the shockwave came. It wasn''t sound. It was force¡ªan unrelenting burst of energy that turned glass to dust and steel to ribbons. Every window in the vicinity shattered instantly, sending lethal fragments in every direction. Buildings buckled, their concrete exteriors rippling like cloth caught in a hurricane. People, those unfortunate enough to be nearby, were thrown like ragdolls, some slamming against walls, others sent skidding across asphalt, skin peeling from the sheer force of impact. And the Mythgrave expanded. Across the city, the unease had already settled. A creeping, insidious dread crawled into the bones of those who knew how to listen. A beggar curled in an alleyway under a pile of damp newspapers stirred, his weathered fingers tightening around his thin blanket. The rats around him were silent, unmoving. He blinked blearily at the sudden chill in the air, his breath now visible. "The hell¡­?" His voice trembled as his mind screamed for him to run, though he had nowhere to go. A mother and her daughter, walking home from a late shift at a diner, paused. The young girl, no older than six, tugged at her mother''s coat. "Mommy¡­ something''s wrong." The mother frowned, gripping her daughter''s hand tighter. She glanced up, noticing how the neon lights of nearby signs flickered erratically. Then she felt it¡ªthe undeniable pull, a compulsion to look eastward, toward the lower districts. Her heart hammered against her ribs, a primal fear sinking its claws into her. "It''s¡­ it''s nothing, baby." But her voice held no confidence. Further down, a group of gang members gathered outside a smoky bar, laughing and exchanging stolen goods. The leader, a man with cybernetic enhancements along his jaw, suddenly stopped mid-sentence. His cigarette fell from his lips. "Shit," he muttered, eyes widening. "What the hell is that?" One of his subordinates turned. "What are you¡ª" Then they all saw it. The orb had grown. What was once a small, localized anomaly had surged outward in unpredictable bursts. Entire buildings vanished within its reach, devoured whole as though they had never existed. The district''s skyline had changed in seconds, entire streets replaced with an unearthly void, tendrils of flickering, colorless light writhing at its edges. Support the creativity of authors by visiting Royal Road for this novel and more. People screamed. They ran. Some stood in stunned silence, unable to process the scale of the catastrophe unfolding before them. The night, once filled with the regular hum of city life, had become a cacophony of terror. The Mythgrave pulsed again, and another violent expansion tore through the city. What was once an alley became a crater. A crowded intersection became nothingness. A district''s worth of human life blinked out of existence, swallowed by the Mythgrave''s insatiable hunger. And still, it grew. As the expansion finally slowed, the chaotic sphere morphed, its erratic nature stabilizing into something worse¡ªsomething alive. A dome. Towering over half of the entire city, black as the void, yet shifting with an oil-slick iridescence, it loomed in terrifying silence. The few survivors on its outskirts could only stare, their faces pale with disbelief. The Mythgrave had settled. Luxerio was gone. And the city would never be the same again. Elsewhere, in the other half of the city, The grand dining hall of the mayor''s estate was bathed in the warm glow of an ornate chandelier, the golden light reflecting off the polished silverware and exquisite china. The rich aroma of expertly prepared cuisine filled the air as the mayor and his family enjoyed a luxurious meal. His wife sat beside him, poised and elegant, while his two daughters occupied the seats opposite. Their laughter and idle chatter painted the picture of a family untouched by hardship, their world isolated from the struggles of those beyond the walls of the high-class district. "I was thinking of learning to play the piano," the younger daughter mused, idly twirling her fork between her fingers. "Or maybe the violin. They say mastering classical instruments refines the soul." The mayor smiled at his youngest, his voice warm with encouragement. "You would excel at it, my dear. If that is what you wish, I will ensure you receive the best instruction available. We can have a grand piano brought in by next week." She beamed, momentarily abandoning her food to express her gratitude. Meanwhile, her older sister remained quiet, her hands folded neatly on the table, her gaze distant. It wasn''t until her father took note of her silence that he turned his attention toward her. "What''s on your mind?" he asked, setting his goblet down. The young woman took a deep breath, straightening her posture before responding. "I''ve decided. I want to apply to the Academy of Higher Arts." The room stilled. The warm, familial atmosphere shifted instantly as the weight of her words sank in. Her father''s expression crumpled, his voice laced with disbelief. "Which one? Politics? Healing? Engineering?" he asked, though he already knew the answer. "The actual Academy of Higher Arts, not the ones they push on the public," she said, her voice firm and unwavering. Her father''s face darkened as he leaned forward, his tone turning sharp. "Absolutely not. You know what that entails! Do you have any idea what you''re asking?" "I''ve already prepared for this," she countered. "I know what it requires of me." Her father slammed his palm against the table. "You have no idea what you''re asking for. You aren''t a noble. You haven''t been trained since birth to withstand what that place demands. This isn''t just some scholarship exam¡ªthis is life or death! You¡ª" "I''ve trained," she interrupted. "Caius has been teaching me." Her father scoffed. "Caius? Do you think he has your best interests at heart? That boy is just trying to bed you. You''re being na?ve." "That''s not true," she shot back. "I''ve put in the work. I''m almost an adult. If I don''t take my chance now, I''ll lose my only opportunity!" Her mother, who had remained silent until now, finally interjected. "Darling, listen to your father. If you want to serve the Empire, there are other ways. You could study war tactics, join the army¡ªthere are safer paths." The girl''s fists clenched beneath the table. "Safer paths won''t change anything," she muttered, frustration bubbling beneath her breath. Before she could argue further, the doors to the dining hall burst open. A disheveled man stumbled inside, his breath labored and his clothes in disarray. The mayor immediately rose from his seat, his anger at the intrusion swiftly replaced by concern. "What in the name of the Emperor are you doing barging in like this?" the mayor demanded. The man could barely get the words out between gasps, his face stricken with fear. "A¡­ a Mythgrave¡­ it has¡­ descended." Silence. The very air in the room seemed to freeze. The mayor''s eyes widened in horror. His lips moved as if trying to form words, but none came. When he finally found his voice, his tone was urgent, desperate. "How close?" The messenger swallowed thickly, sweat dripping from his brow as he gathered the courage to answer. "It''s¡­ not outside the city. It''s inside. It swallowed half of it." The mayor''s heart lurched in his chest. The blood drained from his face as he staggered forward, gripping the messenger''s shoulders. "Half of my city?" he whispered, his voice shaking. "Half of my city is gone?" The man could only nod, unable to meet his superior''s eyes. "Have we contacted the Empire?! The Coalition?!" The man shook his head. "We... we can''t. The Empire doesn''t trust us enough to respond without your direct request and official channels, and the Coalition? They''ll demand weeks of negotiation before even considering sending help!" The mayor slammed his forehead with his palm. "Damn this bureaucratic nonsense!" The mayor turned sharply to his wife. "Get the children. Prepare to evacuate." His wife nodded, immediately pulling the girls from their seats. His youngest clung to her mother, terrified. His eldest, however, remained still, her eyes wide¡ªnot with fear, but something else entirely. Excitement. As the mayor ran towards his office to establish contact with the Empire or the Coalition, cursing under his breath, his daughter stood rooted in place. She had spent years yearning for something greater. For the chance to prove herself. And now, as the city trembled under the weight of catastrophe, she felt the opportunity whispering to her. This was it. Her chance. Meanwhile, in a lightless yet light-filled incomprehensible void... A Forbidden Battlefield Luxerio found himself in a void beyond comprehension. There was nothing¡ªno sound, no sight, no texture, yet somehow, he could still see, hear, and feel. The contradiction itself gnawed at his mind like an unsolvable puzzle. The space¡ªor lack thereof¡ªfelt eerily familiar, like a forgotten dream lurking at the edges of his consciousness, teasing him with its familiarity while denying him any recollection. His thoughts drifted to what had just transpired. He had actually done it. He hadn''t expected the prayer to work, but here he was, floating in the wake of its aftermath. It was a last-ditch effort, a desperate plea before death consumed him, something he barely understood himself. Yet, despite its absurdity, it had worked. A Mythgrave had been unleashed. Whatever happened to the city didn''t concern him in the slightest¡ªhe held no love for it, nor for its people. If it was swallowed whole, he wouldn''t shed a single tear. But those two debt collectors? They were certainly devoured, and that thought brought him a quiet sense of satisfaction. I hope whatever happened to them was painful But what exactly had he done? Avarleos had many rules about prayer. Luxerio had never been a religious person before arriving in this world, but he had come to learn the severity of improper worship. Praying to anything other than the Eight Above was forbidden. Even invoking one of the Eight in the domain of another was frowned upon, especially if they were rival deities. It was said that violating these rules could lead to disastrous consequences, the worst of which was the opening of a Mythgrave. And Luxerio had just done exactly that. Mythgraves were apocalyptic. Not merely deadly, but insidiously so. They did not simply kill¡ªthey consumed, rewrote, twisted. To those who witnessed their descent, they appeared as domes of shifting, impossible hues, their edges writhing like grasping tendrils of reality itself. They were the death of certainty, the unraveling of order. People who vanished within them were never seen again, at least not as they once were. The few who returned¡ªif they could still be called people¡ªwere changed beyond recognition. It was through these phenomena that the supernatural warriors known as Loreborn emerged, but it was also through them that entire cities were erased as if they had never been. The Mythgraves were nature''s cruelest correction, and now Luxerio had unleashed one. But even though he had meant to bring it, how he did it was something he couldn''t get. He had planned to recite an old prayer from his original world, yet what had come out of his mouth had been something else entirely. Words foreign to him, yet spoken with certainty. Where had they come from? Who had he even prayed to? He didn''t know and possibly, didn''t want to know. Suddenly... There was a shift. He felt it¡ªa gaze, vast yet minuscule, a thing too immense to perceive yet too focused to ignore. Something was watching him. His non-existent spine shivered under the weight of attention from something beyond mortal understanding. Then the world twisted. Every part of his being¡ªhis senses, his thoughts, his very existence¡ªwas wrenched, stretched, and compressed all at once. The sensation was indescribable, the kind of wrongness that seeped into the bones of reality itself. The narrative has been taken without authorization; if you see it on Amazon, report the incident. Then, just as suddenly as it began, it ended. He found himself on the ground. But this ground was different. It was solid, rough against his fingertips, its texture unfamiliar yet unmistakable. He pressed his fingers deeper, feeling the grit beneath his nails. The scent that rose from the dirt sent a chill through him. It was thick, metallic. Blood. At first, he thought it was his own. He looked down, expecting to see the gaping hole in his chest, the mortal wound that had ended his life. But it wasn''t there. His ribs still jutted from his malnourished frame, but there was no wound. No pain. No blood trickling from his skin. He was¡­ whole. He exhaled sharply, turning his attention to the ground once more. He dug his fingers into the dirt, confirming the truth with his own touch. This was not the city. This was not the alley where he had collapsed. This was somewhere else entirely. Finally, he forced himself to look up. And what he saw shocked him to his core. Luxerio saw dead bodies. But these were not just dead bodies; they were corpses¡ªmangled, torn apart, and strewn across the vast expanse of dirt and decay. The battlefield was a grotesque display of destruction, the air thick with the metallic scent of blood and something fouler, something rotten. The ground beneath him was not merely soil¡ªit was a graveyard of flesh and bone, soaked in the remnants of those who had fallen. Limbs lay twisted at unnatural angles, torsos were cleaved open like hollowed-out husks, and heads¡ªsome still bearing expressions of terror, others vacant in eternal silence¡ªrested atop jagged spikes like macabre trophies. There were bodies impaled on poles, their insides spilling out like torn sacks, left to rot in the open air. Some corpses bore deep claw marks, entire chunks of flesh gouged from their forms as if devoured by something ravenous. Others were scorched black, their skin flaking into ash, their faces frozen mid-scream. There were men, women, and even children among them¡ªsome human, others grotesquely inhuman. He saw furred creatures, their pelts matted with dried blood, scaleless beings with gaping wounds leaking ichor, and winged bodies whose delicate membranes were now tattered remnants of flight. Luxerio''s breath came in short, uneasy gasps. His mind struggled to process what he was seeing. This many dead... this much carnage... it wasn''t just war¡ªit was something else. Something worse. "The hell is this...?" he whispered under his breath, though there was no one to answer. He took a step forward, his foot landing in something wet. The sickening squelch made him freeze. He looked down and saw that he had stepped into what remained of someone''s midsection. The intestines had spilled out, writhing like bloated worms in the dark. Luxerio pulled back with a grimace, shaking his foot instinctively, though the sticky warmth of blood still clung to his skin. He had never seen this much death up close. In the city, there were bodies, sure¡ªpeople starved, people were murdered, but nothing like this. This was war. No, this was beyond war. His gaze fell upon a young woman''s body, her lifeless eyes staring up at the sky. Her arm was outstretched, fingers curled slightly as if she had been reaching for something. Her other arm was gone¡ªtorn off at the shoulder, leaving behind only a ragged, gory stump. There was no peace in her expression, only pain frozen in time. For a moment, he felt something stir in him¡ªpity? Grief? But as his gaze drifted from her to the dozens, no, hundreds of others just like her, the emotion dulled. There were simply too many. Too many dead for him to care about just one. "Tch... What am I even doing?" he muttered, shaking his head as he pushed forward. Each step through the carnage made his stomach turn. The battlefield was endless, a landscape of ruin where the fallen had been left to rot. There were no banners, no insignias¡ªno sign of who had fought or why. Only death remained. Then, he heard it. A clash of metal. His entire body tensed. The sound had come from deeper in the battlefield, its sharp ring echoing through the silence. He turned his head towards the source, and again, the sound rang out¡ªlouder this time, followed by a guttural roar. Someone was still alive in this place. Instinct screamed at him to leave. To run. Whatever had done this was still here. But something about that sound¡ªit pulled at him. He had to see it. Moving carefully, he stepped over corpses, his breathing controlled, his heart pounding in his ears. The scent of iron grew stronger, thick enough to taste. The clash of weapons became more frequent, and now he could hear it¡ªgrunts, heavy breathing, the unmistakable sounds of combat. Then, through the haze of death, he saw them. Two figures locked in battle, their blades clashing with enough force to send sparks flying. One, towering and monstrous, a hulking thing covered in spiked armor, its face obscured by a horned helmet. The other, smaller but no less fierce, moving with speed and precision, striking again and again as if their life depended on it. And then, in the next instant, everything changed. Armored Warrior The battlefield was alive with carnage. Two warriors, drenched in sweat and blood, clashed with monstrous force. Every movement they made sent shockwaves through the corpse-littered wasteland, painting the already crimson-stained ground with fresh blood. The air was thick with the stench of death and the sharp, metallic tang of gore. One was a towering behemoth of muscle and rage, his body wrapped in crude, spiked, battle-worn armor. His skin was ashen, marred with deep scars from battles long past. In his grasp, a colossal axe dripped with the blood of his fallen foes. His attacks were devastating, each swing meant to cleave the smaller warrior in two. The other was a smaller, leaner figure, a blur of motion in the midst of the carnage. His light armor was torn, revealing flesh streaked with grime and wounds that barely seemed to slow him. He wielded twin curved blades with lethal precision, his speed a near-incomprehensible blur as he darted around the larger opponent, striking like a serpent and dodging death by mere inches. Luxerio lay low, hidden behind a pile of torn corpses, watching in awe. His breath was shallow, heart hammering in his chest. He had heard of people with superhuman prowess like these before¡ªmen and beasts capable of feats that defied human limits¡ªbut hearing about them and witnessing them firsthand were two different things entirely. He wasn''t even really that they were actually who he was thinking of. The smaller fighter was impossibly fast. His feet barely touched the ground before he was gone again, leaving Luxerio constantly trying to keep up with his movement. His strikes, precise and ruthless, found their mark again and again, carving deep into the massive warrior''s flesh. Yet, for all his speed, he couldn''t land a finishing blow. The giant, despite his wounds, fought with monstrous endurance. His attacks were slower, but when they landed, they sent shockwaves through the air. Luxerio watched as the smaller warrior narrowly avoided a strike that split the earth itself, sending body parts and dirt flying in all directions. The behemoth wasn''t just strong¡ªhe was relentless. In the chaos, the two fighters used everything around them. The smaller warrior leapt off a pile of bodies, using the momentum to bring his blades down toward his opponent''s head. The larger one, unfazed, ripped a corpse from the ground and used it as a makeshift shield, the sickening crunch of bone and flesh absorbing the impact. He then hurled the corpse at his opponent with such force that it was like a cannonball, forcing the smaller warrior to twist midair and slash it apart before landing. Luxerio shuddered. Their capabilities were beyond human. Beyond anything he had ever witnessed or even hoped to replicate half of. Then, without warning, a blur tore through the battlefield. A monstrous, unseen force whistled through the air. CRASH! Something massive slammed into the ground between the fighters, sending a shockwave that nearly knocked Luxerio off balance. Dust and debris exploded outward. The giant warrior, his axe raised for another devastating strike, halted. The smaller warrior, too, froze, instincts on edge. Their eyes locked onto the intruding force. It was a greatsword. Embedded deep in the earth, the weapon was massive¡ªalmost absurdly so. It gleamed with a strange sheen, its edge lined with intricate, unknown carvings. The sheer force with which it had landed was unnatural, splitting the ground like an earthquake had struck. It also had a thin line of blood on its edge, like it had just severed something clean off. Before anyone could react, something else happened. The larger warrior let out a strangled roar of agony. His massive arm, which held his axe the tightest, was severed clean from his body. Blood gushed from the wound in violent torrents as his weapon fell uselessly to the ground, barely being held by his other hand. The smaller warrior, despite his advantage, did not press the attack. Instead, his body moved instinctively, whirling around to raise his blades in defense. Too late. A force¡ªimpossibly swift¡ªcrashed into him with the impact of a meteor. His body was flung backward, slamming into the now-maimed behemoth with such power that both warriors tumbled to the ground in a tangled mess of blood and limbs. The earth cracked beneath them from the sheer impact. Reading on Amazon or a pirate site? This novel is from Royal Road. Support the author by reading it there. And then, out of the settling dust, a new presence emerged. A figure stood where the two warriors had just been. His presence alone was suffocating, an overwhelming weight pressing upon the battlefield like an unspoken decree of death. He was clad in full armor, blackened metal that gleamed under the dim, bloodstained sky. His form was statuesque, exuding both grace and raw power. The greatsword strapped to his back was as large as the one he had just thrown, its hilt resting easily on his mighty back, as if it weighed nothing at all. His helmet, a thing of nightmares, bore a smooth, featureless faceplate, devoid of expression. It was unnerving, more terrifying than any monstrous visage could be. A specter of war, an executioner of untold devastation. Luxerio''s breath hitched as he watched the warrior turn his head ever so slightly, regarding the fallen fighters with an unreadable gaze. Then, with effortless ease, he gripped the greatsword embedded in the earth and pulled it free with a single motion, flourishing it as if testing its weight. There was no hesitation. No theatrics. Just lethal, efficient motion. A warrior prepared to finish what had been started. And Luxerio, despite everything he had just seen, felt a cold certainty settle deep in his gut. This battle was going to look very bad for the other two. The armored warrior wasted no time. The moment the two battered fighters gathered themselves, it surged forward, its plated form moving with an unnatural swiftness. The greatsword in its grasp howled through the air, a blurred arc of destruction descending toward the larger warrior. The behemoth, still reeling from the gaping wound in its shoulder, barely had time to react. It raised its axe with its one good arm in a desperate attempt to block, but it was futile. The sheer force behind the downward slash cleaved through metal and flesh alike, burying deep into the giant''s torso. A guttural roar of agony filled the battlefield as the warrior, refusing to fall, grabbed onto the embedded greatsword with its monstrous strength, locking it in place within its own flesh. Luxerio watched, his breath caught in his throat. The sheer brutality of it was enough to make Luxerio wince at the thought of it happening to him. The armored warrior had just buried a massive sword into a living opponent, and yet¡ª His thoughts halted as movement flashed to the side. The smaller warrior, bloodied but relentless, blitzed forward, the unnatural speed a blur even to Luxerio''s eyes. In an instant, the figure was upon the armored warrior, twin blades poised to sever its throat. A metallic clang echoed as the armored warrior, without even turning its head, raised a gauntleted arm. The smaller warrior''s strike bounced off uselessly, the force of the impact sending a jarring shudder through their limbs. Before they could retreat, the armored one swatted them aside like a mere nuisance. Luxerio flinched as he watched the smaller warrior''s body launch through the air, twisting violently before slamming into the ground. He barely had time to process that impact before the armored warrior turned back to the greatsword still lodged in the behemoth''s body. With both hands gripping the weapon, it heaved the massive warrior into the air, its hulking form flailing helplessly before being hurled across the battlefield like a ragdoll. The ground trembled as the behemoth crashed, landing dangerously close to where the smaller warrior was forcing themselves back to their feet. Luxerio could see it now¡ªthe moment of unspoken understanding between the two. For a fleeting moment, all previous animosity was cast aside. They weren''t rivals anymore. They were survivors staring down death itself. Side by side, they charged. The larger warrior, wounded yet defiant, raised its massive axe with its remaining arm. The smaller one, light on their feet, darted in an unpredictable pattern, seeking an opening. Together, they struck. The armored warrior met them head-on. The greatsword swung horizontally, forcing the smaller warrior to duck while the behemoth took the brunt of the impact against its axe. The force of the clash sent shockwaves through the air. The ground cracked beneath them. Luxerio watched, entranced. The battle was beyond anything he had ever imagined. The sheer speed, the absurd strength¡ªthis was the kind of power he had only ever heard about in whispers. It wasn''t just strength. The armored warrior moved with an eerie precision, predicting their movements, countering effortlessly. It was as if it wasn''t just fighting them¡ªit was dismantling them. The smaller warrior, undeterred, found an opening and lunged. A blade aimed for the armored one''s knee¡ªa weak point. But the armored warrior was faster. Its free hand shot out, gripping the smaller warrior''s ankle mid-strike. Luxerio''s breath caught in his throat. The smaller warrior thrashed, trying to twist free, but it was no use. The armored warrior, showing no hesitation, lifted them with terrifying ease and swung them like a living weapon. Their body became an instrument of destruction as it was slammed into the behemoth''s chest with a sickening crunch. Again. And again. Each impact sent splashes of blood and bone into the air. The behemoth tried to defend itself, but there was no blocking this. The smaller warrior''s screams became gurgled chokes, their body growing limp even as it was used to pummel their former enemy into the dirt. Luxerio''s stomach twisted. He had thought he had grown used to death, but this? This wasn''t just killing. This was complete and utter domination. The armored warrior was toying with them, breaking them in the most efficient, merciless way possible. The behemoth finally collapsed, its body twitching before going still. The smaller warrior¡ªwhat remained of them¡ªsnapped apart in the armored warrior''s grip, their shattered form discarded like a broken tool. Luxerio swallowed hard, his mind a whirlwind of fear and fascination. He had just witnessed something beyond human. Even the supernatural strength of the two warriors paled in comparison to this¡­thing. And then it turned. The armored warrior''s helmeted gaze shifted, locking onto Luxerio''s position. It had known he was there. Luxerio barely had time to process this before something moved. A flash of steel¡ª A whistling blur hurtling toward him at terrifying speed¡ª He had no time to think. Only time to react. Follow Me To Live The speeding flash of steel cut through the air toward Luxerio''s face, faster than his panicked mind could properly register. Instinct screamed at him to move, and desperation fueled his body. He forced his head to shift with everything he had, muscles straining as his body lurched to the side. It was only by a matter of millimeters that the massive blade did not bisect his skull. Instead, he felt the searing agony of flesh being torn away as a chunk of his cheek was ripped clean off. Blood spattered through the air, and before he could even process the pain, the sheer force of the weapon¡¯s impact with the ground behind him sent a powerful shockwave through the dirt. The blast launched his frail frame into the air, his body tumbling uncontrollably. His vision twisted, the world spinning around him as he struggled to brace himself. He crossed his arms over his head in a desperate attempt to shield himself from the fall, but it hardly mattered. His momentum carried him straight toward the armored warrior who had just thrown the greatsword. The moment his airborne body reached the warrior, a hand shot up with terrifying precision and clamped around his throat. His momentum halted instantly, all air in his lungs crushed under the unyielding force of the warrior¡¯s grip. Luxerio dangled there, feet kicking uselessly in the air as he grasped at the gauntlet locked around his windpipe. What... just happened? His mind raced, unable to fully comprehend how he had gone from mere observer to a helpless ragdoll in this warrior¡¯s grasp. His arms flailed, fingers clawing at the cold metal, but he might as well have been trying to pry apart a mountain with his bare hands. The warrior''s strength was absolute. He forced himself to look past the featureless helmet, trying to see the face of the being that held him. It was then that he noticed them¡ªeyes, dull and lifeless behind the helmet¡¯s visor. Empty. Hollow. Like they contained no soul. A wave of cold dread ran through him. Was this even a person? A suffocating silence followed, the warrior simply staring at him, seemingly studying him. Luxerio could feel his heart pounding against his ribcage, his body trembling from both fear and the pain of his mutilated cheek. His breaths came in short, shallow bursts as the crushing grip around his throat made it harder and harder to draw air. Then, something shifted. The black, soulless eyes flickered. A brief, fleeting moment of something stirred within them. A flicker of red burned within the dull void. It was so brief, Luxerio might have thought he imagined it, had it not been followed by the first words from the warrior. ¡°So... you made the prayer?¡± The voice was not what he expected. Not a deep, monstrous growl. Not an unholy, echoing rasp. Instead, it was tired. Weary. As if the one speaking carried the weight of a thousand battles, of endless exhaustion. Luxerio¡¯s brain stalled. His hands still weakly clutched at the warrior¡¯s wrist as he tried to comprehend what had just been said. The prayer? What prayer? And then, the memory hit him like a hammer. The prayer. The vengeful, spitefilled last fuck you he had made in the depths of he neared his death. A prayer he had barely understood himself. The words had come from somewhere unknown, something beyond his comprehension. And yet, this being before him, spoke of it as though it were fact. ¡°I...¡± Luxerio struggled to speak, but the warrior didn¡¯t seem to need an answer. ¡°If that¡¯s the case... then it has already begun,¡± the warrior muttered, almost as if speaking to itself. Without another word, the grip around Luxerio¡¯s neck released. His body crumpled to the ground in an unceremonious heap, air flooding back into his lungs as he gasped and coughed violently. His throat throbbed, and his fingers clutched the torn flesh of his cheek, but he had no time to dwell on the pain. Unauthorized duplication: this narrative has been taken without consent. Report sightings. He watched, bewildered, as the warrior simply turned and walked away, heading toward the embedded greatsword that had nearly killed him. What the fuck just happened? Just moments ago, he had been certain of his death. He had watched this warrior annihilate two seemingly supernatural combatants with terrifying ease. And yet, after nearly taking his head off, it just... left him? None of this made sense. Struggling to push himself upright, Luxerio coughed again, wincing at the sharp pain coursing through his battered body. He was still reeling, his mind struggling to process everything. He had barely begun piecing together his thoughts when the warrior returned. This time, both of its massive greatswords were sheathed on its back in an X formation. Though the blood of its previous victims still stained its armor, there was no urgency, no aggression in its movement. It simply stood before him, an indomitable figure of war and death. Luxerio¡¯s breath hitched. Whatever had just transpired, he had the unsettling feeling that this was far from over. Luxerio watched, frozen in place, as the armored warrior turned away from him and began a slow, deliberate walk toward the two corpses. His mind raced with questions. What is it doing? Is it going to devour them? Perhaps it is going to desecrate them in some strange ritual, or worse, raise them from the dead? He had heard whispers and horror stories of necromancers who could do such things¡ªwas this warrior some nightmarish version of that? But what happened next only left him with more confusion. The warrior halted beside the bodies, its imposing frame looming over them like a final monument to their end. It extended one of its gauntleted hands, palm facing downward, hovering just inches above the slain warriors. Then something strange happened¡ªletters. Tiny, floating letters. Luxerio¡¯s breath hitched as he saw them materializing from the bodies, glowing faintly before drifting toward the warrior¡¯s hand. The letters were of two distinct colors¡ªred rising from the larger warrior, blue from the smaller. They were foreign to him, a script unlike anything he had ever seen, yet there was an eerie familiarity to them, like a whisper in the back of his mind. He tried to focus on them, tried to make sense of what they meant, but his eyes refused to understand. The symbols pulsed, almost as if they were alive, and he could feel something from them, not just see, but feel. A sense of finality. Of loss. Of something ending. The armored warrior absorbed the floating letters into its palm, the strange symbols vanishing as they made contact with the blackened metal. The action was purposeful, practiced, like it had done this countless times before. But what was it? Was it feeding on them? Did this give it power? A sharp pang pulled Luxerio out of his thoughts. His face. His wound. He had nearly forgotten about the part of his cheek that had been sliced clean off. The warrior turned its attention back to him. Despite himself, Luxerio stiffened under its gaze. He had been spared, but for what reason? His body tensed as the towering figure moved toward him again, its steps slow and heavy, the earth crunching beneath its weight. He wanted to step back, but something told him running would be pointless. Instead, he remained still as the warrior reached down and picked up a torn piece of cloth from the smaller warrior¡¯s corpse. Luxerio¡¯s first instinct was to recoil. Was it going to use that on him? Why? His body remained rigid as the warrior extended the blood-stained cloth toward him and, with careful movement, pressed it against his open wound. The unexpected sensation of cloth meeting raw, exposed flesh sent a sharp jolt of pain through his face, but he forced himself to remain still. He could have moved back. He could have slapped the warrior¡¯s hand away. But something told him that wasn¡¯t necessary. It wasn¡¯t trying to hurt him. A strange silence stretched between them. Luxerio hesitantly reached up and took the cloth from the warrior¡¯s hand, pressing it more firmly against his face to stop the bleeding. Using what was left, he wrapped the fabric around his head, securing it in place. The warrior watched, unmoving. And then¡ªit nodded. A small, subtle movement, but Luxerio saw it. It was satisfied. Satisfied with what? That he was taking care of his wound? That he had obeyed some unspoken command? Before he could even think to ask, the warrior turned its back to him and began walking away, its steps slow but resolute. For a moment, Luxerio simply watched. He didn¡¯t know what to do. He had been spared, but now what? Should he run? Should he hide? Then, without looking back, the warrior paused in its steps. It turned its head slightly toward him, and in that same tired, worn-out voice, it spoke again. ¡°As you have called the prayer, then you are the one to complete this Tale. So if you wish to live¡­ then you should follow me.¡± Then, without waiting for a response, it continued walking. Luxerio stood frozen in place, his heart pounding in his chest. What did it mean? The prayer¡­ the Tale¡­? He had only prayed so that the Mythgrave would kill those two debt collectors, as a last act of defiance against his fate. He hadn¡¯t expected anything to actually happen. He hadn¡¯t expected to survive. Yet here he was, alive. And here was this warrior, speaking as if everything had already been decided. Luxerio looked around. The battlefield stretched endlessly in all directions, a graveyard of warriors, beasts, and things he didn¡¯t even have names for. He was alone. There was no shelter. No food. No guarantee of survival. And then he thought back to the fight. To the way the armored warrior had decimated those two beings, both of whom had already possessed supernatural strength. He imagined himself in that fight. He wouldn¡¯t have lasted a second. The choice was clear. Luxerio clenched his fists, took a shaky breath, and began walking after the warrior. Because if he wanted to live¡­ he had no other option. And so, with reluctant steps, he followed. Unblemished Land The corpse split in two, and a wet, screeching hiss escaped from what remained of the insectoid warrior before it collapsed into a pool of its own viscous green blood. The armored warrior stood still, the edge of its greatsword dripping with alien ichor. It made no movement for a few seconds, the battlefield silent except for the crackle of broken chitin falling apart. Then, with practiced grace, it swung the greatsword in a wide arc to fling off the blood before returning it to the sheath on its back. The twin greatswords formed an X across its broad back, and with one gauntleted hand, the warrior extended its palm over the insect warrior''s remains. From the mutilated corpse, strange letters¡ªglowing in ghostly reds and blues¡ªbegan to rise like mist. They shimmered unnaturally, symbols that could not be comprehended, yet their presence stirred something in anyone who would have seen it. The letters spiraled slowly into the warrior''s hand and disappeared upon contact with the blackened armor. Luxerio, crouched beside a corpse a short distance away, turned his head at the subtle hum the letters made. "Already? That was fast," Luxerio muttered to himself, eyebrows raising. "Fastest one yet... Is he getting more efficient or stronger?" Shaking the thought away, he looked down at himself. His new clothes were modest¡ªthick, cloth pants tucked into leather boots, and a slightly torn, dust-covered coat he''d scavenged from a fallen soldier. It was stained with blood in more places than he liked, but it was infinitely better than the rags he had started with. No shirt underneath, only some linen scraps bound around his chest like makeshift bandages, but he wasn''t complaining. Not anymore. He caught sight of the armored warrior beginning to walk again, the same slow, heavy stride that conveyed no urgency yet covered ground with uncanny efficiency. Luxerio sighed and jogged a few steps to close the distance. This was the routine now. Has been for the past two hours. Walk, fight, loot, repeat. Since choosing to follow the armored warrior¡ªand let''s face it, what other choice did he really have?¡ªLuxerio had seen three fights. The first was against a ram-horned beast that shrieked with every charge; the second, a serpent creature whose body moved like smoke, dodging with unnatural grace. Both had been demolished by the armored warrior without much effort. And now the insect creature was the third victim of this being. What haunted Luxerio wasn''t just the armored warrior''s strength, but the ease of it. These weren''t just victories¡ªthey were dominations. One-sided exhibitions of destruction where the armored figure didn''t even bother unsheathing the second greatsword. Luxerio had started entertaining delusions¡ª"What if I had a weapon? Maybe I could fight too." But those thoughts never lasted. Not after seeing the sheer power behind each of the warrior''s strikes. The way the ground split. The way sound cracked like thunder every time the sword moved. Yeah, no. He''d die in seconds. During those fights, he mostly kept himself at a safe distance, clinging to shadows and cover. Sometimes he''d scavenge nearby bodies for better gear or something useful. Most of the time, though, he just watched. Watched and tried to make sense of it all. What was this walking fortress of death? What was he doing here? And more importantly, Where the hell are we even going? He wasn''t stupid enough to ask. Not yet. The only sounds the warrior ever made were the clang of boots, the scrape of metal, and the occasional grunt when exerting itself. Though once in a while, Luxerio thought he heard something else. Not words, exactly. But breath. Tired, deep breathing beneath the helmet, like every moment spent alive was borrowed time. The silence between them was thick. Luxerio didn''t mind. It gave him time to think. Did you know this text is from a different site? Read the official version to support the creator. The path they walked was littered with corpses, some fresh, others dried into husks of meat and bone. He stepped over the body of something vaguely humanoid with a broken mask and fur-covered arms. Further ahead, something that looked like a tree made of flesh, split down the center. There were no birds. No wind. Just death. Luxerio''s gaze drifted across the desolate wasteland, and for the first time in a while, a question pushed itself to the front of his mind: "What the hell even happened here?" He didn''t say it aloud. But the thought was loud enough. And the armored warrior, still walking ahead, never looking back¡ªslowed. As if it had heard him anyway. Luxerio narrowed his eyes. "...Can it read my mind?" He shook his head, trying not to dwell on it too much. It was easier to just keep walking. For now. Half an hour later... Deep in his thoughts, Luxerio found his foot caught on the edge of a jagged rock, and before he realized it, his head smacked against the cold, unyielding metal of the armored warrior''s back. A sharp pain lanced across his forehead, and he staggered back with a curse, clutching at the wound. Blood trickled down his brow as he looked up, scowling. "What the hell...?!" He stared at the armored giant, who stood completely still. It wasn¡¯t the sudden halt that unnerved him¡ªit was the silence, the palpable shift in the air. He blinked, and then his eyes adjusted to what lay ahead. Just meters in front of them was a large circular patch of land. Unlike the rest of the battlefield¡ªwhere twisted corpses, shattered weapons, and rivers of blood painted a grotesque mural¡ªthis area was untouched. No signs of war, no splashes of red or blackened scars in the earth. It was serene, unblemished, disturbingly clean. Luxerio''s confusion deepened. He leaned to the side, trying to see around the warrior, expecting an ambush, or perhaps some hidden horror lying in wait. But there was nothing. The emptiness of the space felt heavier than the corpses around them. Then, unexpectedly, the warrior turned its head, its dull black eyes locking onto Luxerio. He jumped, heart nearly lurching out of his chest, his boots skidding slightly on the gritty soil. He caught his balance just in time, stumbling back a few steps while still holding that unnatural gaze. Seconds passed. The silence stretched. Then, in a voice that sounded as weary as it was ancient, the warrior spoke: "You are the one who made the prayer. You must step into the circle." Luxerio blinked. "What?" He looked at the circle again, then back to the warrior. "What does that even mean? What''s in there?" The warrior did not elaborate. Its voice was almost distant now, as if repeating something long memorized. "For the Tale to be completed, the one who called it forth must fulfill the requirements." Luxerio narrowed his eyes. "What requirements? I didn¡¯t ask for this. I just¡ªI just..." He clenched his fists, eyes twitching with frustration. He hadn¡¯t expected to live past that prayer. He hadn¡¯t expected to be dragged into whatever divine or hellish play this was. "You already know what they are," the armored warrior said simply. Luxerio gritted his teeth. "I don¡¯t know anything! I didn¡¯t even know what that damn prayer was! I just said it out of spite!" His voice cracked at the end, echoing slightly in the stillness. He glanced at the circle again, then down at his feet. Regret prickled inside him like needles. He¡¯d prayed because he had nothing left¡ªno food, no safety, no worth, no future. It had been a final screw-you to the world that had chewed him up and spit him out. And now? Now he was standing in front of a cursed circle while a monstrous warrior that could crush entire battalions waited behind him like some kind of silent executioner. He bit his lip. Could he run? He glanced at the two greatswords strapped to the armored figure¡¯s back as the memory of the sheer speed one could fly at if thrown. Yeah. No. He sighed heavily, muttering, "Screw this..." His feet shuffled forward reluctantly. The closer he got, the more intense the feeling became¡ªnot fear, no, something else. Like a weight pressing down on his brain, twisting his stomach. A wrongness, like his senses couldn¡¯t quite comprehend what his eyes were seeing. The patch of untouched land was unnatural, sterile in a world where nothing was ever clean. It reminded him of the Mythgraves¡ªthe domes he used to watch from the rooftops of the city. Even from a distance, they had given him that same sick feeling. As though they didn¡¯t belong. As though the world itself was rejecting their presence. Now that same pressure was curling around his skull. He stopped right at the edge of the circle, one breath away from crossing it. The wind stilled. Even the usual groans of the dying wind through the distant wreckage seemed to hush. Luxerio glanced over his shoulder briefly. The armored warrior didn¡¯t move. He returned his gaze to the circle. "If this kills me..." A pause. A long breath. "Then so be it. I would¡¯ve died anyway if it wasn''t for those bitches. Probably in some alley, choking on my own blood. Or freezing in the dark. Or starving with no one giving a damn." He stepped forward. "At least if I die here... It will be by my own dumb hand." And with that final thought, Luxerio stepped into the circle. The world didn¡¯t explode. Not immediately. But something had definitely shifted. And there would be no turning back.