The first thing he noticed was that something was wrong.
Not pain.
Not fear.
A delay.
His body understood it had been struck, yet the sensation arrived too late—like thunder chasing lightning.
Blood splashed against stone.
Aya fell.
The world froze.
For a single breathless moment, he stood there, cloaked and unmoving, watching her collapse as if distance alone could undo what had just happened. Her body hit the cracked floor with a dull, final sound.
The dagger slipped from his fingers and clattered beside her.
No scream followed.
No miracle came.
Only silence.
"Aya."
The name never reached the air.
Her eyes were still open.
They stared past him—past the ruined chamber, past the broken city beneath its twisted etheric sky—fixed on nothing at all. The faint glow that once clung to her, stubborn and warm, flickered weakly around the wound in her chest before fading away.
Gone.
Something inside him went with it.
The Celestial Herald stepped forward.
Each footstep carried weight, the kind that pressed down on air and stone alike. His greatsword rested casually against his shoulder, its edge dark with blood, its surface humming with faint celestial power. The chamber itself seemed to bow under his presence.
"Do not look so surprised," the Herald said calmly. "This outcome was decided the moment thou chose not to retreat."
He raised his blade again.
Not in haste.
Not in cruelty.
In certainty.
"There is no redemption for the wicked," he continued. "Thy struggle ends here."
The words hurt more than the sword ever could.
He didn't answer.
He couldn't.
Because something fragile—something he hadn't even known was there—had just torn loose inside him.
Rage followed.
Not the screaming kind.
Not the explosive kind.
This rage was cold. Empty. Directionless.
Shakti surged through his body.
It didn't flow correctly.
It pulsed erratically, scraping against something hollow and unfinished inside him. His gloved fingers curled until the leather creaked. The air around him trembled, warping slightly, as if it sensed something it shouldn't.
The Herald noticed.
His eyes narrowed—not in fear, but interest.
"Oh?" he murmured. "So thou yet possess—"
The world vanished.
He moved.
No thought.
No plan.
Only a single command burned behind his eyes.
Kill.
He lunged.
His cloak snapped behind him as the dagger seemed to reappear in his grip, dragged forth by instinct alone. He aimed for the throat—fast, reckless, lethal.
Steel screamed.
The Herald deflected the strike with minimal effort. Sparks scattered as metal met metal, and the counterattack came instantly.
Pain tore across his ribs.
His body skidded across the stone floor, cloak ripping, bones grinding beneath the impact—but he was already forcing himself upright. Pain barely registered.
Loss did.
He attacked again.
And again.
The fight collapsed into chaos. Steel clashed. Blood splashed. Shakti tore through the air in violent pulses. His strikes were sharp but desperate, driven by instinct rather than skill.
For one fleeting moment—
He thought he had control.
That illusion shattered.
Silver flashed.
The greatsword pierced his chest.
The force drove him to his knees. His dagger slipped from his fingers and struck the floor. The world tilted as the blade burned through cloth, flesh, bone—through everything that pretended to make him whole.
The Herald pulled the sword free and stepped back.
It was over.
A broken laugh escaped him—thin, soundless.
"Aya," he thought distantly. I'm sorry.
Darkness swallowed him.
You have DIED.
The words existed in the void.
No voice spoke them.
They did not echo.
They simply were.
Confirming if the goal is reached…
Time stretched.
Then—
Goal not reached.
A pause.
ERROR
ERROR
ERROR
Reality fractured.
The void twisted inward, as if something had forcibly rejected the outcome.
And then—
Light.
A candle flickered.
Purple flame danced weakly, casting warped shadows across a cramped, decaying research room. Dust hung thick in the air. Ancient books lay scattered across a battered study table, their pages filled with unfamiliar diagrams and half-understood notes.
A skeleton sat there.
Motionless.
Cloaked.
Hands resting atop yellowed paper.
Slowly, awareness returned.
"I…"
The thought echoed inside his skull.
"I don't know who I am."
The candle flame trembled.
"And I've been transferred again."