In a distant realm, a woman walked through an endless desert of crimson crystal sand.
Her steps were unhurried, yet each carried her across vast distances, as though the land itself bent beneath her will. Pristine white hair flowed down her back like spun silk, untouched by dust or heat. Her grey eyes held a depth older than nations, a quiet weight that made even kings feel small in her presence. The wind whispered around her, carrying fragments of memory and echoes of a world long broken.
Her beauty was undeniable, almost sacred. Her presence, overwhelming.
Many who glimpsed her from afar felt an instinctive urge to protect her.
Those who truly knew her understood how foolish that instinct was.
Her true name had long since been erased. Across countless races and realms, she was known by a single title — the White Witch, and only those who stood at the top were qualified to even know about her existence. And despite the purity the name suggested, it inspired dread wherever it was spoken.
She did not slow as the desert stretched endlessly before her. Heat shimmered off the crimson sands, yet no bead of sweat marred her skin. The desert, in its infinite cruelty, seemed almost deferential to her passage.
Eventually, a solitary gate emerged from the sands, standing where no structure should exist. Its surface was jagged and blackened, etched with glyphs that twisted the eyes. Beyond it, the desert continued, unchanged — yet the gate itself radiated an aura so oppressive that lesser beings would have collapsed merely by approaching it.
Without hesitation, she stepped through the gate.
The desert disappeared, replaced by a completely different landscape. The air was thick and toxic, carrying the smell of blood and decay. The sky was a deep, suffocating red, with lightning stretching across it in jagged streaks. Beneath her feet lay not earth, but countless bones, crushed and fused together by time and suffering beyond memory. From the distance came the anguished cries of vengeful souls, their hatred lingering long after death.
She walked on regardless, undeterred by the oppressive atmosphere.
Then, an amused voice echoed across the wasteland.
"Well… this is unexpected."
The space around her distorted. The landscape twisted as if something had gripped reality and pulled. The voice was playful, almost casual, but there was an edge beneath it.
"Had I known the White Witch would honor me with her presence," it continued, "I would have prepared a grander welcome. Something more fitting for a being of your stature."
In an instant, her surroundings shifted.
She now stood inside a vast hall drowned in shadow. The silence was heavy, and the air carried a lingering tension. At the far end stood a throne carved from darkness itself. Blood-red runes pulsed faintly across its surface.
Seated upon it was a man.
He reclined lazily, one leg draped over the armrest as though the throne were nothing more than a chair. His expression was calm, almost bored. Long red hair framed a face that was strikingly handsome in a way that felt unsettling rather than comforting.
His crimson eyes were far worse.
To meet that gaze without sufficient will was to be dragged into a nightmare of endless slaughter — visions of countless lives he had erased, their pain and hatred preserved as vengeful souls whose fury even time could not erode.
She ignored him, taking in the scale and horror of the place, feeling the echoes of countless lives broken within these walls.
"To what do I owe this honor?" he asked lazily. "Surely you didn't cross realms simply to greet me."
A faint smile curved his lips. "Or could it be… you missed me?"
"She didn't reply, her expression distant, as if lost in thought. He didn't seem offended by her silence, apparently used to her ways. Silence stretched across the hall, deliberate and unhurried."
"When she finally spoke, her voice was surreal, pleasing to the ear — and utterly devoid of emotion.
"You know why I'm here. I'm sure you've already sensed it."
He tilted his head slightly. "And what does that have to do with me?"
Her gaze met his, unwavering.
"Do you truly believe it has nothing to do with you?" she said calmly. "Even if you choose neutrality, they will come for you."
She continued before he could respond.
"Let me be clear. I did not come to ask for your cooperation. You are not reliable."
The runes on the throne pulsed faintly.
"The seal on the crack is weakening. It is only a matter of time before it breaks completely and he is still missing.
For the first time, displeasure flickered across his expression.
"Don't tell me, that you've been searching for him all this time."
His eyes narrowed. "If he doesn't wish to be found, there is nothing anyone can do about it."
"We must find him before the crack fully unseals," she replied. "If we wish to stand a chance against what is coming."
A faint, humorless chuckle escaped him.
"He is the reason that crack exists in the first place," he said. "He is far more unreliable than I am."
"Precisely," she answered. "And because he is the cause, he must be found. Unreliable as he may be, he does nothing without reason."
He studied her for a moment before asking, "So what do you want from me?"
"You possess a drop of his essence."
"Not happening," he cut in instantly.
She did not react.
"I will give you something in return."
That made him pause.
His brow rose slightly, genuine surprise flickering across his face. Whatever she intended to trade would not be ordinary — and very few things in existence held value to a being of his standing.
Without another word, she formed a series of hand seals, chanting something imperceptible. Space trembled. A small portal opened before her, silent and unstable. She reached into it and withdrew a small black box.
It radiated no aura.
It looked ordinary — a simple wooden box.
The moment his eyes fell upon it, his nonchalant demeanor shattered.
He rose from the throne in a single motion, heart pounding violently within his chest. He did not know what lay inside the box, yet an overwhelming summons surged from it — a pull so profound it resonated with his very existence.
She watched him calmly, indifferent, as though this outcome had been inevitable.
As an ancient entity, he regained control quickly. His expression hardened as he stared at her in rare seriousness, contemplation weighing heavily upon him.
Finally, he nodded.
He reached into his chest.
There was no blood, no wound. Instead, his hand passed through his body as though entering another dimension. When he withdrew it, the space sealed seamlessly behind him. Resting upon his palm was a small vial.
Within it floated a single drop of black essence blood.
The vial drifted toward her, while the box glided into his grasp. The exchange completed itself without further ceremony.
She examined the vial briefly, confirming its authenticity.
And without another word, she left.
Space folded, her form dissolved into pale light as a silent rift opened and closed in the same breath, leaving the hall empty once more.
He remained standing, staring at the place she had vanished for a long moment.
Then, slowly, a faint smile returned to his lips.
And he, too, disappeared.