The sky wept feathers of snow. It was a white devoid of both radiance and gloom, a descent that seemed to slice through the very fabric of the horizon.
This was a place situated at an impossible distance, a destination that could never be reached by the simple act of treading a path. Regardless of the direction one took, the boundary remained firm, for there was no single vector in the material world that led to this expanse.
It was not of a texture known to mortal hands. It was not of this world, yet, paradoxically, it was.
This was a primordial domain that had flourished long before the age of man had even been a whisper in the ears of the gods. It was a sanctuary where the ancient Gods of Flame and Void had sought refuge once humanity began its ascent.
A being who had reached their own 'Conclusion' had once spoke it with a certain True Voice.
"Under the sky that is the beginning of all things, there are no walls, no castles, no nations. The primordial planet dazzles from the bottom of the earth. I'll show you the domain of the soul."
This was the reverse side of the World. It was the memory of the world and the vessel for its soul. Within this space, the rigid laws of physics that governed human existence held no dominion. Instead, it was a territory populated by species that had drifted from their original forms, impacted by factors alien to their natural ecology — existences born from the collective thoughts of humans and those who had achieved a higher order through the sheer consequence of longevity.
If a Mystery is believed to exist, the World permits that existence; a definite affirmation is not required. There were entities desired by the World but ignored by humans, and thus they had retreated into the shadows, their numbers dwindling into obscurity.
Untouched by human hands until this very moment, the reverse side of the world was a landscape of incomprehensible splendor. However, in a time unremembered and a moment unrecorded, a portion of it was forcefully ruptured.
It was the only refuge where four souls could retreat from the crushing might of an Archangel. They crashed upon the primordial soil — broken, battered, and bloodied. Yet, they did not perish.
The unconscious mind of the world stirred. Sensing the intrusion of foreign spirits alongside a single native one, the world began to exert a repelling force. The soul of the world sought to thrust these intruders into its physical body, pushing them toward the material manifestation of its own being…
The Dream Realm.
Yet, the process was halted. The World found itself compelled to adjust its internal structure to accommodate these alien presences before it could eject them. It was a labor of conversion, changing the otherworldly into the worldly.
It was an impossibility rendered possible by the authority of the Demon who held sway over such things.
Deep within the soul of the world, that same Demon slowly opened his eyes.
['Viceroy's Dimensional Door' has been closed.]
[World-line has detected the activation of the 'Eternal Reoccurrence'!]
[
[Applicable Miracle is a power that exceeds the limit of the Probability!]
.
.
.
[The Divine Titan, 'Saviour of Corruption', has sacrificed six Divine Soul Cores!]
[The Divine Titan, 'Demon of Oblivion', has sacrificed six Divine Soul Cores!]
[The Sacred Beast, 'Saviour of Corruption', has given up the Status of a 'Divine'!]
[The Sacred Beast, 'Demon of Oblivion', has given up the Status of a 'Divine'!]
[The Dreamer, 'Demon of Possibility', has given up the Status of a 'Supreme'!]
[
[Sufficient Probability has been paid to the
.
.
.
[Welcome back to the Nightmare Spell, Demon of Possibility.]
[You have regained your True Name, 'Lost from Light'!]
[Your treachery truly knows no bounds.]
—
His voice sounded distant to his own ears as he reached into the depths of his thoughts. He felt an external force attempt to push him out, a subtle pressure designed to keep his consciousness from the sight of this place called the Memory of the World, but the resistance was too weak.
The Star-Writ Thread within him remained an Unholy Miracle, and it possessed enough authority to push back against the consciousness of the world with silent tenacity.
Thus, he opened his eyes, regained his voice, and felt himself stumbling upon the soft grounds of astérisque flowers. The frequencies being emitted from the vibrant petals seemed to further distort the clarity of his mind.
He was not certain how long it took, only that the passage felt extensive. He was also quite sure he was not alone, for the presence of three distinct bodies could be felt around him in the flowers.
"I… I… I… I am…"
'—Lost…'
"—f-f—fr—o-…m"
'—L—l-l-i-gh…-t.'
Something was fundamentally wrong. He found himself unable to maintain a coherent line of thought, and his voice sounded mangled and unnatural.
Eventually, he looked down and surveyed his own body. It was a ruin.
Then, at once, the memory flooded back.
'A—A-h…'
There was no way to assign a temporal value to when it had occurred, for time did not exist inside the Etheric Sea. When one passed through the tides that connected to every Worldline, so many concepts of duration blended together that the entire equation of chronology was rendered useless.
Thus, it was quite literally impossible to say when he had defended himself against the Archangel. Only that he did.
Though he could not speak it out loud, he was acutely aware of his current condition. His body was currently a clump of incomplete fables.
The Spell all but confirmed this reality.
[The majority of your Fables are currently damaged.]
[Attempting to locate your 'True Body'...]
By this time, his thoughts had flowed back into a straight line. He could think again, though his voice was taking its time to manifest. Although he was an Incarnation of Flame, he remained incapable of utilizing the True Voice in his current state.
'In other words, my existence doesn't consist of "flesh," but rather an extremely incomplete lump of fables...'
[Your Incarnation Form is currently in critical condition.]
'Hm… can I summon my runes?'
The thought was born from the necessity to ensure Abaddon had been successful. For this was, of course, Sunless — a name he had struggled to recall until this very moment.
Within the Etheric Sea, Abaddon had utilized the unique and perverse authority inherited from the Sun God, born of Destruction and Creation. Since Abaddon was the first being to alter their soul to contain both the Flame of Desire and the writhing darkness of the Void, he had been confident that he could perform the same feat for Sunny.
Considering Sunny was currently alive, free from Corruption, and capable of linear thought, the conclusion was clear.
'Abaddon was successful!'
Sunny was now a being of both Flame and Void. Until he checked his runes, however, he could not be entirely certain that the Path of Corruption was open to him.
Furthermore, a deeper curiosity stirred.
'If I was successful in assimilating both the power of Archangel Avarice and Ariamis, Son of the Rich Night…'
Sunny sat with forced grace, a difficult task considering he was near three other naked bodies, including his own. He placed a hand to his chin and pondered.
'If I recall correctly, Ariamis possessed the power of Starlight, inherited from his mother, Nokstella. However, he was then killed and brought back by Rime, turning his Starlight as cold as her winters.'
He counted the capabilities of Ariamis.
'That guy was capable of manipulating atmospheric pressure by controlling the frozen temperatures of his Starlight. This included the manipulation of space and gravity, condensing them to a point where he created his own art — that of frozen lightning which forced even the Unholy gods to be wary. He was quite the God.'
Then he recounted Archangel Avarice, a being that still inspired dread at a mere thought.
'That Angel… nearly every embodiment of Avarice it once possessed is mine now. It even stole the True Darkness of another Void Being and made it its own. Even without that, it held authority over Time and could crush physical dimensions by manipulating space.'
Sunny also recalled how the Angel was nearly impossible to kill, having used its authority over gluttony to devour its own death and digest it.
In the end, Sunny's God self, a Divine Terror, had been forced to plunge into the body of Avarice to unleash the True Unholy Miracle, 'Eternal Reoccurrence.' The billions of years that the King of Outer Gods had suffered were thrust upon the Archangel. Since it was an Angel that had only recently ascended, it was unable to withstand the scale of the experience.
It was then that Sunny himself weaved the creature's Death into being. Unable to withstand the existence of billions of Sunnys, the Archangel perished. Once its death was woven, it simply passed on.
But still, the memory was dreadful. As an Unholy Titan, it only held Authority over Consumption. Then, as an Angel, it regained its other eleven authorities: Avarice, Envy, Gluttony, Covetousness, Rapacity, Parsimony, Usurpation, Tribute, Scarcity, Monopoly, and Surfeit.
It had been the most harrowing battle Sunny had ever been through. It was a wonder he could not remember it with total clarity; he was certain such a memory would have invited madness.
The damned Angel had so many concepts and methods of unleashing them that a direct confrontation was almost impossible. Even worse, it had managed to channel Soul Flame due to its prolonged union with Abaddon, healing itself infinitely.
The situation grew even more dire; upon ascending to the status of an Archangel, the creature had expanded into a blight that transcended the very fabric of existence. It had been a battle so incomprehensible that, as Sunny was no longer a Divine being, he simply could not retain the memory of the event.
However, the 'Story' of that conflict remained bound within his Fables. Despite being a Dreamer once more, he still carried the Divine and Sacred Fables he had authored in the ruins of the previous Worldline.
He was no longer human. He was a Nephilim now, carrying the blood of Angels in his veins.
A Shadow, of course — that was his fundamental nature.
But he was now an Incarnation of Flame, not a mere spark. In a way, he would always be a God. At least, a fragment of him would be.
He was simply the smallest and most powerless deity to ever exist in this moment.
Pushing these reflections aside, he finally attempted to summon his runes.
Only for the Nightmare Spell to provide a localized, jarring response.
[The Nightmare Spell is under maintenance…]
'…Huh?'
He tried again, met with the same denial.
[The Nightmare Spell is under maintenance…]
[The Nightmare Spell is under maintenance…]
'…Why?'
This Worldline had been frozen when it lost its link to the Nightmare Spell, a necessary safety lock. The Spell of this world had followed Sunny into the Original Worldline; naturally, the King of Outer Gods had ensured the stability of this world by freezing it solid.
That was meant to prevent the Forgotten God from waking prematurely. Now that Sunny had returned, time should have resumed its flow, as the Nightmare Spell was restored.
Two possibilities entered his mind.
Either the presence of Lethe, the Demon of Oblivion, was causing the Spell to stutter — her essence was far too similar to the six Daemons sealed within it — or something more personal was occurring.
'I… I have it.'
The Nightmare Spell was likely editing its own structure to accommodate the Path of Corruption within him. This was why his runes remained inaccessible.
The Path of Corruption did not strictly adhere to Ranks, focusing instead on Classes. One progressed by ascending through the Classes, not by ranking up. The ultimate culmination was attaining the Class of Titan.
The Ranks — Fallen, Corrupted, Great, Cursed, and Unholy — served merely to amplify and transcend the inherent abilities of those Classes.
Sunny smirked, rubbing his chin.
'Interesting…'
He was curious to see his runes. No Aspect in existence followed the Path of Corruption, let alone held three distinct affinities.
He had no definitive guesses as to how his new powers functioned. While he knew how to utilize Soul Flame, and had copied the Frozen Starlight during the struggle against Archangel Avarice and the four Outer Gods — each a Great Old One — the rest remained a mystery.
Those four…
'Dream of The Last Night, The Fount of Putrescence, Boundless Ocean of Bliss, and Fear of Sarnath.'
Each Outer God was a nightmare of otherworldly design. These beings, once awakened themselves, had reached the Rank of Sacred or Divine in their respective Worldlines, only to devolve into Outer Gods when they were forgotten by existence.
By now, the strength of his voice had returned. He spoke into the clean air.
"I wonder… what happened to them?"
He was not referring to the Outer God 'The Living Flame,' who had been the Nephis of the original Worldline. He was certain she had chosen to remain behind, accepting her end…
She had suffered enough. As an Outer God, she had forgotten herself, though Sunny had been fortunate that she retained enough of her original soul to turn against the other Great Old Ones in the final hour.
He meant the Dream of the Last Night and the Fount of Putrescence. The other two, The Boundless Ocean of Bliss and Fear of Sarnath, had been struck down by Nether, Hope, Rime, Ariel, and Mirage.
But the first two…
"They were there when the Archangel descended upon the Final Ark. Hells… I don't know how I survived that."
The two Outer Gods had been their shield. Both he, Lethe, and Abaddon would have perished had those Great Old Ones not intervened.
'Were they dead?'
Had the Archangel ended them?
Sunny felt a flicker of indifference. The Dream of the Last Night had been an insufferable presence during the battle, and he was grateful he had been spared from facing the Fount of Putrescence directly; Mirage had borne the brunt of that particular Outer God.
'…No.'
Outer Gods did not die by conventional means. If slain, they were typically cast out of the Worldline they were invading, unable to return because their "death" was localized there. They would drift back into the Etheric Sea, becoming aimless once more.
Yet, if they were there when the Archangel attacked…
Suddenly, a shiver raced down Sunny's spine. He looked into the distance, blinking as a tired, knowing smile touched his lips.
"I see… so there you two are."
Across the great expanse of astérisque flowers, Sunny observed two identical beings. They were no longer the grotesque, indescribable horrors they had once been.
Instead, two featureless, pale figures in the shape of men sat upon the flowers, gazing up at the sprawling galaxy above.
They were indeed the Dream of the Last Night and the Fount of Putrescence. Sunny realized quickly that since this Place, the Reverse Side of the World, followed the laws of Gods rather than men, the environment was not repelling them.
The Outer Gods had divested themselves of the majority of their stolen Fables during the confrontation with the Archangel. Those pale, quiet figures in the distance were all that remained of their former, terrifying glory.
Sunny could only say what he always did.
"Oh great Outer Gods, rest now… your Nightmare is over."
At least they would be at peace in this place. Sunny turned his gaze away as sorrowful emotions arose from within him.
Truly, the fate of every Outer God was a tragedy he would wish upon no one — not even his worst enemies. No existence deserved to be forgotten in such a total and merciless fashion.
It was finally at this time that he addressed the figures lying beside him.
Naturally, the man was Abaddon. The Nephilim had regressed to the status of a Sacred, yet he looked no less breathtaking. His white hair and eyes remained as pristine as ever, and his third eye was firmly shut.
The woman of grey complexion was Lethe, her four arms unmoving in the soft flowers. The multiple golden marks that had once patterned her skin had faded significantly, signaling her own regression to that of a Sacred.
And finally, Sunny moved past the two unconscious forms to lift the third. He attempted to keep his eyes focused strictly on her face; he could not summon any Shadows here, nor could he manifest his Shell. In this place, his defense would likely remain that of an Ascended, held together only by his persistent ability to understand and narrate his own fables.
The woman held in his arms was unmistakable.
"Saint…"
Within the Nightmare, he, Nether, and Mirage had all tampered with the Core Fable of Saint. When he had first arrived, Sunny questioned the necessity of such an endeavor, only to find that Lethe was possessed by a strange curiosity regarding his companion — a fan of her, in a sense.
She was not enamored with the Saint in his arms, specifically, but rather the legend of the Saint she had heard described by the King of Outer Gods. There were billions of Worldlines, and thus, billions of versions of Saint. Sunny was not entirely privy to the conversations that had passed between Lethe and his Outer God counterpart, but the result was Lethe's desire to grant this Saint a true life.
Considering the human and generous figure in his arms — far too lithe and luscious to the point that he couldn't help but suspect Nether of a certain perversion — the attempt had been successful.
He kept his eyes glued to her face with every fiber of his being. Her features, sculpted after those of the Storm God, were nearly perfect. Sunny felt as though he were looking simultaneously at the Saint who had grown close to him in his Eternal Nightmare and Nokstella, the God he had fought alongside to suppress Rime.
He shivered at the thought of the Demon of Repose. That battle had been dreadful indeed.
Now, Saint was as a mirror of Nokstella. Though he could not shift his perception to confirm it, he suspected her eyes might be similar to Mordret's. He could not tell their color now, only that they might no longer be ruby.
There was no telling how she would act once they returned to the material world. She was no longer the taciturn Stone Saint that had accompanied him from the Dark City; instead, she had taken on an appearance similar to the one she possessed in Mirage City Noir.
She was a phantasm. While Nether had altered her being and bestowed his last armor upon her — granting her an intricate Shell similar to Sunny's own that possessed the traits of Graceless Dusk — Mirage was the source that allowed her this illusion of vitality.
Granting her life was not the sole purpose of the endeavor. In this state of phantasm, the Diamond Weaves within her were capable of unleashing their full potential. As a mere Echo or Shadow, those weaves had been restrained. Now, the diamond was unleashed in full.
Suddenly, his thoughts halted. The body of Saint began to glow with the familiar brilliance of Fables.
Sunny felt a surge of fear, thinking she was being expelled from the Worldline, but his worries were unfounded. Since none of the beings here were comprised of flesh, Saint's Incarnation Body was simply conjoining with her True Body, which remained a Shadow.
Sunny was not even certain if Saint would remain a Shadow once he woke. In truth, he realized he would not need to worry about her mortality, or the sight of her, for much longer.
He would not need to worry at all.
Because he was an incomplete clump of fables, he was not the "true" Sunny. He was the manifestation of a story.
These memories were not recollections, but the very sentences within the fables that described his experiences in the original Worldline.
In other words, the current Sunny was a book. When he awakened in his real self, he would not remember a single thing — not of the Nightmare, the Etheric Sea, or his residence on the Reverse Side of the World. The thousands of years he had endured was destined to be erased. He would return to the seventeen-year-old boy he had once been.
As he lifted Saint and watched her dissolve into starlight, he looked down at his own limbs. White cracks were flowing through his skin, spreading slowly.
This was not a sign of damage, but a signal.
He was being pulled toward his True Body…
He was finally awakening, either in the darkness beneath the Cathedral where he had donned Weaver's Mask, or within the medical facilities of NQSC.
Despite the otherworldly nature of the Seed, he was returning to his world, and he would have to follow its rules once more.
The laws of the world dictated that he had challenged a Nightmare as a Dreamer. But as this trial possessed no rank, the transition was unique.
He was Awakening. Sunny was becoming an Awakened.
However, his pale face suddenly lost all color.
His Fables were… incomplete, which indicated that his experiences were fragmented. How was the Nightmare Spell intended to awaken him in such a state?
'Damnation.'
He let out a long, weary sigh. There was little to be done. Within the Reverse Side of the World, he possessed no true power. He could not summon a single memory nor utilize a single Aspect Ability. The Spell was still occupied with its internal editing to accommodate the Path of Corruption.
He stood up. At his side, the incarnation bodies of Lethe and Abaddon began their true manifestation into this Worldline. They had paid the price of probability, and the Spell was laboring on two fronts.
First, it was transforming them into carriers of the Nightmare Spell. Once that was finalized, the Spell would forge new True Bodies for them. They were not of this world; they possessed no material vessels to inhabit.
The process reached its conclusion in minutes. Both their forms began to exhibit the telltale cracks of starlight. Sentences flowed from their bodies, dissolving into the air as the transfer from the Soul of the World to the body of the World commenced.
To the Dream Realm.
Sunny looked upon this domain one last time. The Reverse Side of the World was hauntingly… beautiful.
The blue flowers encompassing the landscape reached a level of aesthetic perfection that rendered the material world unremarkable. This was a view reserved for the divine.
The sky above was a vast galaxy, a sight that no other realm could replicate.
Even the air felt pristine and invigorating. Sunny had never experienced such vitality.
But the moment of departure arrived. He did not fear his impending "death." He was not truly dying; he was merely the vessel for Sunny's fables.
The Divine and Sacred Fables within his being began to drift away, followed by the Supreme Fables.
In the distance, a mirror shard lay on the ground, unnoticed until it began to emit the shimmering fables of a supreme.
Sunny smiled at the sky. He had succeeded in reaching this world.
He carried the essence of an Angel and a Nephilim. He had the power of one who was the son of the Storm God and a friend to Rime, the Demon of Repose.
He was a Divine Shadow.
He possessed a Miracle from every God and Daemon, along with their Blessings and Core Fable Fragments.
He had authored Fables within the Eternal Nightmare that carried his entire history.
He had achieved a mastery of Weaving that rivaled Weaver himself.
He had learned Runic Sorcery under the tutelage of Hope, the Demon of Desire.
He had stood alongside Nokstella and overcome Rime.
He had contributed to the creation of a phantasm, granting life to the Saint he would soon reunite with.
He had fought the most powerful Angel alongside the First Nephilim and the Demon of Oblivion.
He had confronted an Archangel, a calamity that rivaled the Gods in their prime.
He had done it all.
"I know you cannot hear me, King of Outer Gods," he whispered. "But just know… your efforts were never in vain."
Unceremoniously, he vanished alongside Lethe and Abaddon.
The stories crossed the vast distance between the soul and the body of the world. The journey was over. In the chronology of this world, less than a second had passed.
For Sunny, it had been thousands of years. Far too long for any soul, indeed.
—
The halted clock of the world — meaningless to the existences within — resumed its ticking.
Across the Dream Realm and every ongoing Nightmare, time unfroze. Sunny had returned, and the Nightmare Spell with him.
Numerous events occurred simultaneously.
Every soul with the capacity to perceive the future or an affinity for fate felt a sudden, violent snap. It was the sound of something being mercilessly torn asunder.
Fate was rendered. The strings of fate upon this Worldline were severed in an instant.
Seconds later, blackened ruptures spread across the world. The source of these dark rifts remained a mystery.
In Godgrave, the frozen continent west of Ravenheart, and within the burned forests, the Cursed Beings stirred. The Great Nightmare Creatures grew restless. The Corrupted became wild and unrelenting.
Far from the Forgotten Shore, a ruined fortress sat bathed in the light of a shattered moon. In the remnants of the main keep, a tall dais stood. There was no throne and no altar — only an iron anvil.
A man stood before it, swinging a heavy hammer.
The man stood with a physique that was both great and undeniably mighty, his broad shoulders casting a long shadow against the pulsing light of the forge. Powerful muscles rippled beneath skin slick with perspiration, the moisture evaporating almost instantly in the unbearable, suffocating heat of the crucible.
His bare torso was washed in shades of aggressive vermilion, painted by the angry glow of the molten metal. He possessed dark hair and a thick, dignified beard that spoke of a harsh and austere discipline.
His face, noble and structured, usually carried an expression as cold as tempered steel, but in this moment, that mask shattered. A sudden, visceral shock took hold of him; his skin turned an ashen pale as he gazed into the distance.
"No… how are there so many…"
The words left his lips with the genuine tremor of horror. The sword he had been meticulously shaping beneath his hammer was cast aside without a second thought.
High above the fortress, thousands of blades that had been hovering in silent sentinel began to stir. A single, piercing red light erupted from the heart of the stronghold, surging upward with a violent intensity.
Across the sprawling expanse of Bastion, every soul looked to the heavens. A solitary streak of crimson crossed the sky, covering leagues in a matter of seconds.
Walking along the busy roads of the city, the Princess of Valor stumbled. She felt the weapon at her hip begin to quake, vibrating with a resonance she had never before felt.
She looked up, her voice hesitating and thin.
"Father…?"
She shook her head, attempting to parse the direction in which the King of Swords was flying. She realized with growing confusion that he was not merely scouting; he was attempting to cross into the city with a speed that suggested a frantic, deep-seated fear.
At the same time, every Saint within the vicinity converged upon the lake, their faces etched with the same bewildered uncertainty. Their King was moving with a desperation that bordered on… panic.
Far away, a vast hall carved from ancient blue ice lay submerged in an oppressive darkness.
At the center of this frozen void stood a tall throne, illuminated only by the ghostly, flickering light of dancing blue flames. A corpse sat upon that seat — a breathtakingly beautiful woman dressed in a regal gown of shifting red. The hem of her garment spilled down the stone steps like a river of fresh blood.
A sword pierced her chest, pinning her firmly to the back of the throne. Two dead youths stood as silent sentinels on either side, waiting in a stillness that had lasted for ages.
Then, the silence broke.
Shards of ice tumbled to the floor and shattered. The dead woman's hand rose with agonizing slowness, her long, pale fingers wrapping around the cold steel of the blade. The sound of metal snapping under immense pressure echoed through the chamber.
In the next heartbeat, the ice hall — and the mountain that housed it — shuddered.
Ravensong was on the move. She had sensed it — the sudden presence of far, far too many Cursed Beings.
She spoke with a curious tone, her voice light as if she were unafraid, yet deep within, her soul was thrashing in dread.
"Ah… I can feel four of them? Four Cursed beings. Oh dear… am I going to die today?"
In another corner of existence, a gaunt man sat amidst the dust, clad in a tattered, old spacesuit. The visor of his helmet was a web of cracks, and the oxygen in the tank at his back had long since been depleted.
Despite this, the man remained alive.
He had been motionless for a long while, but now, he finally shifted. He raised his head to gaze at a beautiful blue disk floating in the great, empty darkness above. His cracked lips twisted into a small smile.
'How curious.'
That was the thought he intended to voice, yet no sound escaped him. There was no air to carry his words, no medium for the vibration of his life. He tried to sigh, but the vacuum of space denied him even that small comfort. He shook his head in dejection and moved his lips once more.
If anyone had been there to read them, the words were clear:
"...I see. So it is happening yet again."
However, far more significant than the movements of these three Sovereigns were the arrivals.
West of Ravenheart, a woman with white hair and skin the color of grey ash opened her eyes. The world she beheld was cold and barren, yet it felt so grand that she found it difficult to believe.
She was a soul from an epoch long forgotten, waking in an age where all her kin had been swallowed by the Spell.
She conjured a gown of gold and white, her eyes — one resembling the sun, the other an eclipse — scanning the horizon. She sensed them immediately: the numerous Cursed Beings descending upon a citadel situated dangerously close to her position.
She hesitated, wondering if she should intervene. She could feel the collective weight of so many souls in that place.
Eventually, she decided that it would be a waste for so many to perish in such a crude fashion.
"Truly… that boy will need to thank me when we meet again…"
The Demon of Oblivion, now a Sacred Beast, began to move.
East of Godgrave, a man possessing three eyes opened two of them. He rose from the ash with practiced grace, conjuring splendid feathers to veil his nakedness. He cracked his neck and looked up at a sky he remembered as magnificent; it now seemed hollow and thin.
This was his home. This was the Realm of his birth, and by birthright, it belonged to him now.
The First Banished Light, Saviour of Corruption and King of Corrupted Angels, inhaled the essence of his own ruined Realm.
His expression twisted as he looked further east, sensing a gathering of Cursed and Great abominations.
He let out a sharp, melodic laugh.
"My, oh my. I expected somewhat of a kind welcome upon my return. Really.. I should have known better. To think this many Cursed beings still dwell within these borders."
He willed himself into the air, gathering the essence of the wasteland into his form as he took flight toward the citadel. Even to him, it was clear that the humans dwelling there were about to be crushed. He suspected that in this era, no individual was capable of confronting a solitary Profaned Spirit, yet there, he sensed the presence of at least six.
More oddly, in a world adjacent to the material one, a man possessing eyes of liquid silver began to tremble. His body convulsed as he stumbled across his living room, coughing up blood while sparks of probability assaulted his physical form.
The fuse of his consciousness snapped.
Simultaneously, far to the east upon the Chained Isles, a man sealed within a mirror screamed and vanished.
It all occurred in a singular, violent instant. The cause remained unknown to him — a mystery he would never unravel.
One thing was certain: the man with eyes that reflected the entire world opened them once more, but he was changed. He was an individual who had lived in another world, yet he found himself here, unable to comprehend the transition.
He was…whole. No longer a fragmented reflection, he was entirely complete, though a cracked mirror could never perfectly mimic the softness of a human.
He opened his eyes and found his deepest wish granted. He stood up anew and laughed, but the sound soon died in his throat.
A single question sat upon his lips.
"How…?"
There was no answer, but he would not remain idle.
Within the city of illusions, the man began to navigate the shifting world; he was already more than aware of how to escape this place.
He felt a sharp curiosity regarding the world he had awakened to, but he was certain of one thing: he would not perform the same actions as before.
He knew exactly who resided at the heart of this disturbance.
"My dear friend, Sunless, just what have you done this time?"
He laughed and walked into the shifting mists.
Deep within a basement beneath a once revered cathedral, the lone boy who stood with a demonic mask held to his face convulsed and fell as light enveloped him. A storm of pure narratives surged, white sentences coiling like a tornado around not one, but two beings.
When the brilliance finally faded, two figures lay upon the marked stones, illuminated by the ghostly, pale flicker of nearby torches. They lay unconscious in the heavy silence.
The boy, however, did not remain still. He stood up in an unsettling, jerky manner, for he had just experienced death and become a Lost.
He was no longer the same. He began to stumble, making his way toward the exit of the ritual room.
His hair, which should have been short, was slightly longer now and as pristine as silk. His eyes were darker than they had ever been, yet they held a piercing, divine light at their centers — small, focused stars of divinity.
His stature had changed; he was taller than when he had departed for the Nightmare. His body was being refined in real time, moving toward a state of perfection that was too grand for a mere human.
Since he possessed the knowledge of the fables permeating his body, even though the Spell remained silent, a sudden snake came to coil around him as a detailed tattoo.
His face was too graceful for a Sleeper, possessing a beauty that could rival a Master's.
The most profound changes occurred within his soul. Now possessing every single Weave, his entire existence was becoming more complete. He was transcending the limitations of his species.
No human was supposed to possess such things.
In the dark expanse of his Soul Sea, the silent waters surged and grew restless. In the black void of the sky above, devastating winds slammed into a single tenebrous Shadow Core.
Simultaneously, three more cores were coming into being. A grand influx of shadow essence permeated him, jumping his Class from a Beast to a Devil. Yet, a invisible force halted his progression before he could become a Tyrant.
A web of golden threads shimmered in the darkness. It was the Soul Weave, being forced into his being against all logic. Other parts of his existence shifted rapidly. His blood boiled. His bones vibrated and grew denser as they accepted the Bone Weave. His muscles contracted uncontrollably, answering the impulse of the Flesh Weave.
His state of mind adapted, making him feel as though he were observing himself from a distance. It was the Mind Weave. His Will, once a small lake, expanded and receded as though affected by an unfathomable, invisible mass. It was the Spirit Weave.
Finally, the Shadow Weave fused with his dark existence, producing a wondrous synergy. He could feel every aspect of his being enhanced and altered, as if a binding substance was added to the alloy of his body and soul.
Two great waves of alteration were occurring at once. The first came from the Shadow Weave. The second arrived from the first fragment of Weaver's legacy, fusing with the other six to complete a forbidden lineage.
His soul became both Pure and Covetous. His body attained a ravenous appetite. His essence gained the ability to walk through dreams. He instinctively became capable of controlling Shadow Essence. His soul enlarged as he attained multiple affinities and Source Elements.
From this moment forth, he was no longer human.
The skies above his Soul Sea surrendered to the manifestation of seven otherworldly instruments. His soul, which held the black radiance of the Flame, twisted and expanded until it grew twice its original size. It now possessed the Void — that writhing, primordial darkness which every nightmare creature carried in its depths.
A grand, otherworldly shadow appeared within the Soul Sea, unfurling twelve massive wings that nearly encompassed the horizon.
Alongside it, the shadow of a spirit opened its eyes, finding itself encased in the black expanse of the sea.
All of this occurred as the boy, moving without conscious command, appeared outside the basement. His three cores materialized swiftly, realizing their newfound might even as his body continued its frantic evolution.
In that instant, however, a cold blade slashed across his back, sending him flying through the nave of the cathedral.
And yet, the boy did not perish.
He began to rise slowly as black flames enveloped his being. The black knight looked on with visible confusion, but in that same moment, the boy's abyssal eyes locked onto the creature.
He charged. And in that moment, his first battle began.
Within the basement, the naked woman began to twitch in her unconsciousness. Her fingers shook, and her eyelids flickered with a sudden, sharp intent.
She materialized in full. She snapped upward, her breath hoarse and ragged as she stared toward the exit.
It was the first time she had ever spoken in a material world. In truth, it was the first time she had spoken at all.
Her voice was raspy, unfamiliar even to herself. Regardless, she uttered the first thing that came to mind — the title engrained into the very essence of her fables.
"Milord…?"