— I suppose the time has come to try.
The voice was not spoken aloud. It was felt. Like a whisper poured directly into the soul, echoing amidst the wreckage of a reality that no longer belonged to existence. This was a space where time sobbed, and light… recoiled. The Astral Plane — or what remained of it. Shattered, broken into fragments of memories that no longer knew whom they belonged to.
Here, there was no ground. No sky. Only a suspended abyss, made of ancient echoes, wandering shadows, and pieces of worlds that had refused to die.
Tekio was there. Or what could still be considered "him." His body remained in the physical world, asleep, wrapped in an unstable electric aura. But his soul? It wandered. Lost among ancestral memories, carrying a cold that did not touch the skin, but consumed the spirit.
A cold born from the depths of being. The place where truth hides. Where the questions no one dares to ask reside.
And there… something pulsed. A broken heartbeat. Like the heart of a cracked mirror still insisting on reflecting.
Then she emerged.
Yara.
Floating like a silver shadow amidst the void, her short white hair lifted, dancing with the nonexistent wind of that forgotten space. Her blue eyes, once vibrant, now carried centuries of weight. She was beautiful — in a sorrowful way. Like a storm that has lost everything it could destroy.
— This was never what I wanted. Never. — Her voice was like the sound of rain upon a gravestone. Ancient. Gentle. And devastating. — I fought for you. For freedom. For choice. But fate is cruel. And now… time is leaving us behind.
She extended her hand.
— You need to see. To remember. To understand… who I am. Who you are. And what is coming.
Currents of energy began to shimmer between her fingers. Lightning. Pure emotional electricity, snaking through the air with the grace and fury of a goddess who no longer accepts waiting.
And then… everything collapsed.
Not an explosion, but an implosion. A sinking of realities.
Tekio fell.
Not his body. His soul.
He fell straight into her eyes.
Yara.
And when he opened his eyes, it was no longer he who was seeing. It was her.
It was the beginning.
He felt the first breath of air Yara had ever drawn. The first fear. The first pain. A living memory. So vivid it burned the skin of the soul.
A cradle. A dark room. An oppressive silence.
In the cradle, a baby with hair as white as snow. Pale, almost translucent skin. Beautiful. Intense. Frightening.
The silence was broken by a cry.
And in that cry… a premonition.
On the baby's back, a flaming mark. A living spiral, as if fire itself were tattooed beneath the skin.
— Cursed… — whispered an elderly voice, trembling.
— She must be eliminated. — said another, cold, decided. Like one pronouncing a death sentence.
Amara.
The name seared itself like hot iron into Tekio's mind. Yara's sister. Her curse. Her love. Her ruin.
Yara — still a child — fled with her. Running with bare feet over cutting snow. Sleeping in damp caves. Begging for help in villages that only responded with closed doors and raised crosses. They slept by small fires, fueled by fear.
— You will not touch her… — Yara vowed one night, looking at the starless sky. — Even if I have to burn the world.
But they came.
Hooded men. Bearing lances of light and ancient dogmas. Sifs. But not the true ones. A lost branch. Infected by fanaticism and fear of what they did not understand.
They came like shadows. Like worms of a soulless religion.
And behind them… he.
Dante.
Imposing. Tall. Serene as a war statue. His red eyes seemed to see not the present, but the entire destiny. And at the corner of his lips… a smile.
Yara tried to scream. But the scream did not come out. It got stuck. And turned to silence. A silence that hurt like a thousand blades.
Amara was taken. Yara was left behind. Broken. Alone.
And then, the years passed.
Yara grew up among the echoes of what she had lost. She became thunder. A living legend. She changed her name as if changing skin. Each new city was a battlefield. Each glance, a judgment. She was hunted as an aberration. Revered as a prophecy. And inside… only pain remained.
Until they arrived.
Jade.
The woman who was more than human. Blonde, short, wavy hair, always falling over the left side of her face — where a scar marked her history like destiny's signature. Her presence imposed silence. She was a beacon between worlds, a creature born among the Three Lines — Existence, Risk, and Ruin. She walked between planes as one breathes. With a look, she shaped possibilities. With a word, she divided futures. She was the very incarnation of balance, and it was she who taught Yara not to destroy herself.
Ronan.
Dark-skinned, with a shaved head, intense eyes, always carrying a cynical smile at the corner of his lips. The kind of warrior who mocked death itself. He called Yara "grumpy thunderclap" and had the talent to make even despair seem funny. He was strong, but not just strong. He was warmth. He was presence. He was life amidst death. He fought like one who dances. He loved like one who bleeds. And he never — never — let her fall.
With them, Yara rebuilt herself.
And then… the Cursed Era was born.
Tekio saw. Felt. Cried without knowing why.
He saw the sky tear like open flesh.
He saw ancient demons return, from eras before language.
He saw entire cities erased as if written in sand.
He saw thunder fighting darkness.
Priests sacrificing themselves to contain the advance of ruin.
He saw the soul of the world weep.
And amidst it all, a solitary figure rose over the battlefield. Not as a heroine. But as a sentence.
Yara.
Living tempest. Bearer of thunder. Carrying the pain of a thousand souls. Burning with the love that never died.
And for the first time…
Tekio understood.
And then, the end.
The Last Battle.
A field where life had already given up. Where the sky wept ashes, and the ground, covered in bodies, seemed no longer to distinguish friend from foe. The air was made of dust, mourning, and thunder. Each lightning bolt was a scream. Each step, a farewell.
In the midst of that carnage, Yara stood.
Ronan bled at her side, half-kneeling, axe still in hand, as if defying fate was his final act of love. His brown eyes burned with pain, but also with faith — faith in her. Even dying, he smiled, as he always did, defying the very end. His dark skin glistened under the lightning, and the blood trickling from his forehead traced a final path of resistance.
On the other side, Jade, the Creator of the Three Lines, held the entire plane together. The veins in her arms glowed gold and silver, like threads of destiny itself stitching the worlds around her. Her short, blonde hair, always meticulously precise, was now wet with sweat and blood. The scar on her face — a deep line from eyebrow to jaw — pulsed with ancestral energy. She breathed with difficulty, but did not yield. It was as if she was holding the foundations of reality together by pure divine will. Every second the world remained standing was a miracle — and that miracle had a name: Jade.
And at the center of it all…
Dante.
A pillar of stillness in the eye of the storm. Black robes danced around his body in the wind, but his feet seemed fused with time itself. His red eyes — eternal, merciless — reflected the end of worlds. In his hands, the black blade of extinction, dripping the essence of warriors who had dared to face him.
And beside him… Amara.
Older. Almost unrecognizable.
Hair long as the night, eyes of living ashes — like embers that no longer burned, but consumed. Her face was that of a fallen goddess, and her presence, an echo of all of Yara's fears. There was no sweetness there. No trace of the little sister she had saved with her own arms. Only silence. Coldness. Corrupted.
Yara hesitated.
For an instant.
And it was enough.
Dante advanced.
Fast as a dark thought. The black blade cut through everything. Time, soul, light. Tekio — who was now Yara, fused with her pain and memory — felt bones break, chest tear open, the world darken.
Blood turned to rain.
Death seemed inevitable.
But…
She refused.
To die.
The thunder answered.
An explosion split the field. Currents of lightning emerged from nowhere — or from within her. An ancestral response. As if the sky remembered who she was. With every heartbeat, a storm formed. Yara rose. More than alive. More than furious.
Ascended.
Her blue eyes were now like colliding galaxies. Each falling lightning bolt was a sentence. And she roared. A roar that silenced hell.
The Guardian of Storms.
The world trembled.
The battle made everything bow and tremble.
But it was too late.
Amara vanished with Dante, shrouded in shadows and promises. The blade was sealed, the villain contained — but not destroyed. The victory was tenuous. A pause. A breath before the abyss. The Cursed Era ended… but the ruin only slept.
Tekio was torn from that memory as if a hurricane spat him out. His soul spun through the Astral Plane and fell violently.
On his knees.
His breathing faltered. Sparks escaped his spiritual skin. His chest heaved. His soul bled.
Yara appeared before him.
She knelt. With gentleness. Like a sister, like a guardian. She placed her hand on his chest — over his heart, where the thunder rested.
— You saw everything. Felt everything. Part of me is now in you. Part of you… understands me.
Tekio wept.
Not just from pain. He wept for everything. For the history. For the injustice. For the courage. For the love. For the guilt.
— I… I couldn't… — he whispered, broken.
Yara shook her head. Her expression was firm, but full of tenderness.
— You achieved more than you know. The power is there. But you cannot access it fully yet. Nor should you. Your body couldn't withstand it. Your soul is still growing. It needs to align.
She hesitated.
Then she looked into the surrounding void. The Astral Plane trembled in whispers, as if an invisible presence was lurking.
— But there is something else. Something in you… different. A presence. Cold. Dark. Ancient.
Tekio lifted his eyes.
— What?
Yara leaned closer. Her eyes seemed to search for more than his soul — they seemed to seek the origin of the universe within him.
— When Dante was separated from Dan, there was… something. An entity. A force that tore him out with absurd ease. As if it had authority over him. Over me. Over everything.
She took a deep breath. Her voice almost failed.
— It wasn't Dante. It wasn't mine. Nor Amara's. It was… something else. Something that watches you. That is inside you.
Silence.
— You need to find out what it is. You need to find it… before it finds you.
Tekio trembled.
His throat dry. His hands clenched.
— And if it's… something that destroys me?
Yara smiled. An ancient smile. Melancholy. But unbreakable.
— Then we will be destroyed together.
She extended her hand.
A promise.
A commitment.
An eternal bond between thunder and courage.
Tekio took it.
And the world trembled.
But not from fear.
From respect.
Because now he was no longer just Tekio.
He was the heir of lightning. Son of the storm. Guardian of a pain that spanned eras. Bearer of an unbroken promise. And of something the universe had not yet dared to name.
But which had already begun…
To awaken.
To be continued…