Dawn broke over the cyclonic valleys. Golden light painted the storm clouds. The wind sang through the mountain peaks. A perfect morning.
Azurath stretched his wings. Forty meters of sleek black and silver feathers, an ancient Lord-tier Storm Roc. Three centuries old, the atmospheric warden of the Southern Wild's storm territories. He led with care, maintaining his domain with precision and protecting his followers with loyalty. He was just a normal beast who happened to be extraordinarily powerful.
His nest sprawled across a mountain crater, carved by storms, fused with lightning-crystals. Below, his followers stirred.
"Morning, everyone," Azurath called, his voice carrying on the wind. "Ready for patrol? Monsoon season approaching. Need to adjust the eastern wind corridors before the afternoon storms arrive."
Cheerful responses echoed back. They were family. Partners. Friends.
Verath, the King-tier Wind Eagle, was his loyal second-in-command, managing the southern corridors. Skyra, the King-tier Thunder Falcon, was younger, energetic, and eager to learn the electrical storm patterns. Six Noble-tier Storm Hawks completed the unit, maintaining smaller territories.
They maintained the atmospheric balance across five hundred kilometers—a complex system requiring constant adjustment. This was important work. Meaningful existence. Power, Azurath had taught them, was responsibility, not dominance.
"Warden," Skyra called, her young voice uncertain. "Do you ever think about... what happens when we're gone? Who maintains balance then?"
Azurath considered. "Someone will. Balance continues. That's how the world works. We serve our time. Train successors. Pass responsibility forward. Purpose continues beyond us."
Skyra nodded, accepting his wisdom.
Then, the sky shattered.
Golden light blazed. Not sunlight. It was too harsh, too wrong. The sky split. Not metaphorically, but literally, cracking like glass. Golden fractures spread across heaven, a web of fissures consuming the blue.
"What—" Azurath couldn't finish.
Sound died. The wind stopped singing. The world went silent except for the cracking—the sound of the dimensional fabric tearing.
The golden cracks widened. Beyond them: Darkness. Pure. Absolute. Void. Unreality visible through the broken sky.
Azurath's mind screamed. Three centuries of existence, and never this. Impossible. Reality didn't break.
"WARDEN!" Skyra's cry was terrified. "WHAT'S HAPPENING?!"
"I don't—I don't know—" Azurath stammered, Lord-tier confidence shattered with the sky. "Just—just stay close! Stay—"
Purple-white mist poured through the cracks. Not slowly, but flooding, like an ocean spilling from a torn sky. Thick. Dense. Heavier than normal mist. It sank rapidly, consuming the sky. A fifty-kilometer zone formed instantly. Apocalyptic scale.
They were inside. Inescapable.
The mist touched Skyra's feathers. Her young body convulsed mid-flight. Lightning crackled erratically. Noble-tier hawks shrieked, eyes bleaching white. Consciousness drowned. Their screams became wordless madness.
"Skyra! SKYRA!" Azurath grabbed the Thunder Falcon, talons gentle despite the desperation. "Listen to me! Focus! Fight the corruption!"
Skyra thrashed. Mindless. Gone. An electrical surge—uncontrolled, enhanced by the corruption—threw Azurath back.
He watched the two Noble-tier hawks attack each other, mindless violence replacing family.
"Stop! PLEASE!" Azurath projected desperately. "You're family!"
They couldn't hear. Couldn't understand. Gone. All of them gone. Lower tiers had no resistance. No defense. No chance. Just corrupted bodies, fighting and killing.
And Azurath felt it. The purple-white mist touching him. Lord-tier resistance was strong, but not infinite. Not perfect. His turn was coming. Slower. But coming.
Skyra killed the first Noble-tier hawk with a lightning strike. The second hawk retaliated, a wind blade severing Skyra's wing. The Thunder Falcon screamed, spiraling into the mountain.
Across the valley, Verath's group was in chaos. The King-tier Wind Eagle was battling four corrupted Noble-tier hawks, who were attacking him, their former leader.
"Verath! Hold on!" Azurath flew toward him.
Too far. Verath killed two hawks out of self-defense, but his hesitation—the moment he recognized his friends—cost him. The third hawk's wind blade tore through Verath's throat. The King-tier Wind Eagle fell. Eighty years of loyalty, gone.
The fourth hawk killed the third, then died from its wounds. Mutual destruction. All of them. Every follower. Every friend. Every family member. Gone in minutes.
Azurath floated alone, surrounded by the purple-white mist and dissolving corpses.
The mist thickened around him. Purple-white tendrils wrapped his feathers. Seeping through. Finding his flesh. Finding his mana core.
Pain.
It was a resonance pain. Mana channels distorting. Wind-sonic-storm elements twisting. Energy corrupting at a fundamental level.
Azurath gasped. His wings faltered. Purple veins spread across his feathers, visible and glowing. Corruption marking his body. Claiming it.
Power surged. Wrong power. Corrupted power. Mana core amplifying beyond Lord-tier limits. He was approaching the Pseudo-Overlord threshold.
He felt the change. The power spiking. His abilities mutating. Wind becoming the Hollow Cyclone—absolute-still air spheres that collapse outward. Sonic becoming the Wail of the Sky—a sonic burst rupturing resonance channels.
Featherstorm activated involuntarily. Billions of razor feathers released. The anti-resonant energy shredded the mountain below. A forest was obliterated.
Horror flooded him. "I'm... I'm killing... I can't... can't stop..."
His body was not obeying. His mind was conscious. Aware. Witnessing. But control was gone. Corruption was piloting.
His body flew, hunted, and killed. Not his choice. The Wail of the Sky was released again. A twenty-kilometer sonic burst. Hundreds of beasts below—dead.
Hollow Cyclone formed. A sphere of absolute silence released a supersonic shockwave. A mountain peak was obliterated. Atomized.
"NO! STOP! STOP! I DON'T WANT—" his mind screamed.
His body kept killing. It continued hunting. It kept erasing. Every beast within the zone—dead. Followers—dead. Wildlife—dead. Three centuries of atmospheric balance—destroyed. Monsoons wouldn't come. Drought was inevitable. Millions would suffer.
And Azurath was forced to watch. Forced to participate. Forced to murder his home. His purpose. Everything.
This was corruption's true horror. Not death, but forced atrocity. The protector becoming the destroyer while conscious, while aware, while helpless.
Hours passed. Maybe days. Time lost meaning. His body killed. His mind recorded every death.
Thoughts began fragmenting. Slowly. Gradually. Inevitably.
Memories mixed. Three centuries maintaining storms... no, just killed everyone... no, training Skyra... no, Skyra dead...
Confusion spread. His mind cracked like the sky. Reality uncertain. What was real?
I maintained balance... I killed everyone... I protected followers... I murdered followers...
Self was dissolving. Azurath the person—dying. Mercifully. Consciousness unable to bear the weight. Sanity shattering under the guilt.
Warden... was warden... maintained... no, destroyed... protected... no, killed... I was... I... storm... wind... silence...
Thoughts slowing. Growing quiet. Growing still. Growing—
Silent.
One last moment of clarity. Brief. Painful. Final.
Azurath understood. This was the end of the self. The person was dying.
His final thought formed. Slow. Difficult.
I'm sorry.
To his followers. To every beast killed. To the storm territories. To the monsoons that wouldn't come. To the balance destroyed. To the purpose murdered.
I'm sorry I couldn't save you. I'm sorry I killed you.
The thought trailed. Fading. Dissolving.
...maintained storms... three centuries... Skyra laughing... killed... sorry... so sorry... I... storm... wind... silence...
Gone.
Azurath—Lord-tier Storm Roc, kind leader, protective warden—was dead.
His body remained. Floating. Powerful. Corrupted. Pseudo-Overlord-level power. A continental threat. But the person? Gone. Dissolved into corruption. Only an empty vessel remained. A puppet. A weapon.
The body floated at the center of the fifty-kilometer corruption zone. No thought now. No awareness. Just instinct. Corrupted instinct. Driven by hunger.
It sensed a disturbance. Far away. Edge of the zone. Life signatures. Powerful. Lord-tier? Multiple. And—
Something else detected.
The body turned. Wings spreading. Hunting instinct triggered.
Prey was coming. A fight was coming. Death was coming.
It just—waited.
💖 Enjoying the story?
👉 Support me on Patreon: patreon.com/sa2quasar