The wind shouted in his ears, almost blowing his eardrums, he swung his arms in desperation, scraping the air like it was a wall he wanted to climb. He tried getting a hold of something, but he just kept falling faster and faster.
"Shit!"
He was falling face-first into whatever was down there, or whoever was hiding in the darkness.
His cloak waved into the air, almost falling off of him, as he desperately tried twisting midair to turn.
His shoulders jerked backward, his spine arching while he kicked with his legs against the invisible weight that brought him down.
He succeeded, his body rotatting, now looking up while his back was blown by the wind without mercy.
His pupils dilated from the adrenaline surging through his body.
His arms were roughly hit by the harsh wind, and he felt as if slashing his body.
He twitched in dread, cursing, his words echoing as he fell faster and faster.
And yet, it felt eternal.
The darkness howled louder and louder, consuming him, yet never fully getting a hold of him.
He was escaping through the crack of his fingers like a rat.
He saw some sort of being hidden on every level of the stairs, but he couldn't recognize it at first. But as he squinted his eyes, he saw some sort of black liquid dripping on the stairs. It didn't look soft; it seemed thick and viscous. Like ink mixed with tar, constantly shifting and reshaping, without fully developing.
It took the form of tentacles, attached to something hiding deep into the darkness.
They seemed uneven; some were longer and sinewy, others were short and bulbous. It felt as if they were made from discarded fragments of something never fully made.
They shone, like they were crystal, and at some points, lost their color, and gained a tint of blue, just like his eyes.
They writhed slowly, but seemed not to have a pattern; they were alive, but detached from clear will, like they were driven by instinct, more reactive than proactive.
He didn't know what they were, or what was controlling them, but he knew it had to do with this whole thing.
The steps were repeating themselves, looking at the tentacles, he gained a familiar yet he couldn't put his hand on it, as if his memories were constantly being tampered with.
But as he stared too long, they finally noticed him, lashing out at him and grabbing him by the arms and legs. And yet he was still falling.
They pulled at him, as if trying to drag him into oblivion or erase him. But they seemed to be playing with him, as if he were just a toy.
'Damn it.'
He felt his body being torn apart as the liquid dripped on his body and stuck to it.
The air near it felt heavier, colder, and muted; sound itself seemed to dull to fade.
It somehow smelled faintly like burnt paper, or old decay; it evoked forgotten knowledge, or a discarded history.
He forced his arms to grab the tentacles grabbing from his legs, but as he touched it, he felt as if grasping slippery oil that tried to seep into his skin, corrupting and erasing traces of self.
He felt its grip tighten, enough for blood to slip out of his arms and legs.
He screamed in agony, since it wasn't only pain he was feeling.
He felt as if his soul was being eaten alive, pierced by knives over and over again, and run over by a carriage, all at the same time.
He tried grasping it with his hand, but the tentacles didn't let him; they played with his limbs like he was a doll.
He was slowly losing himself, but he didn't know what would come first: dying of blood loss, or his soul being destroyed.
He felt the liquid spreading from the tentacles and onto his body, slowly covering it.
The smell of decay grew stronger, and it slowly but surely consumed him.
He felt his memory being erased from his mind, and replaced, his mind going blank, and his eyes rolling back.
And yet, he still hoped to survive.
He didn't want to die, not now.
His teeth buried themselves into his lower lip, gushing out blood.
Even with his soul almost crushed, he wanted to go on. To live.
He wanted to be reborn, to spite others, and show he wasn't someone to be played with, to be mocked, and ostracized.
He wanted to be praised...
He let his arms fall, losing all power to try anything else. This was it, his death... and yet. He wanted to go back, to try and somehow change his fate.
He didn't want others to decide how he died; why should them?
It was his death!
He should be the one to decide how his life ended,
no one else!
"If only such a thing existed..."
He said, slowly, closing his eyes.
...
...
...
"Hope is never unanswered."
Aether eyes bursed open, and he found himself falling yet again. The monster was still consuming him. Yet it looked to be rushing away, letting go of him.
His wounds were also healed.
He stared into the void above him and saw light reflecting into his eyes.
He clenched his fists, but unexpectedly, he felt something when he did so. His eyes darted to his hand, where he saw a sword made out of pure light manifesting.
His eyes light up, like a bunch of stars were blooming after a long, bloody winter.
The sword light up the whole space, not letting a speck of darkness run from its grasp.
The monster rushed away, but it couldn't hide; it was trapped in its own trap it had created.
Tracing the tentacles to the main body, he expected to see its body, but instead saw a bulge of black flesh, with veins growing all across. It slowly beat, like a heart.
Aether raised his sword, his eyes locked onto the heart of the monster. But it was quite heavy, and he wasn't in a very good position. The monster was also trying to protect itself with its many tentacles.
It would be impossible for him to hit it.
And yet, he could see a way.
A trail of light leading straight into the middle of its heart.
His arms tensed, and he took a deep breath, his heart racing to produce the blood it had lost earlier.
He examined the trail, and with all his remaining will burning inside of him, he threw the sword right into the middle of the heart.
It burried itself into the flesh, but in his terror, didn't fully pierce it.
"No... shit!"
He staggered as the tentacles moved to take it out as if it had done no harm.
Had he not put enough force, was he too weak?
He watched, not blinking once.
One of the tentacles gripped the hilt, but as it was about to take it out, he saw light deep inside the flesh. It was getting stronger, dangerously so. And as the sword was dragged out, it made a hole for it to escape through.
He curled up, trying to protect himself with his limbs for what was about to happen.
As the light escaped, it corrupted the whole room, harming anything that it touched, destroying anything that dared look at it, and cutting anything that hid from it.
And yet, when it touched him, it felt gentle.
He opened his eyes, looking at what had happened. And the first thing he saw was the Codex.
[You have slain a Harbinger beast, Spiral Of Darkness]
[Your knowledge grows stronger.]
He stared in awe, his eyes almost shaking at its words.
"A harbinger...?"
He couldn't believe it, but who would!
There was a big difference between a bearer and a harbinger. They were those who had mastered their abilities; they were the peak a mortal being could reach.
It would take more than ten bearers to even do damage.
But he was a reader. The weakest of all, how was that even possible?
Yet, there was a bigger problem at hand.
With the monster that controlled the spirel gone, it now had an ending, and he was heading straight into it with great speed.
He looked down, only to see he was that he was about to smash straight into the ground.
He cursed, closing his eyes.
Yet, the next second, he opened them. He found himself back on his feet, on the ground, not falling anymore.
"Huh?"
He looked around and found himself in a hallway, with red emergency lights still flickering slightly, but enough for him to see. He looked at the end of it, where he saw only one thing.
A mural of a black sun.