The museum doors burst open, slamming against cracked marble walls with a thunderous crash.
A man stumbled out, clothes in tatters, blood dripping from wounds that looked half-clawed, half-burned. His eyes were wide with unrestrained terror as he screamed, "Run! RUN!" His legs barely carried him as he bolted past the gathered fighters.
And then it followed.
A creature unlike anything Amara had ever seen stalked out of the shadows. At first glance, it was a Null — pale skin, elongated claws, that bone-chilling aura of hunger. But its form was warped, translucent in places like a ghost. Wisps of black smoke coiled off its body, and its eyes glowed like twin lanterns in the dark, bottomless and soul-piercing. Its limbs twisted unnaturally, as though it was only partly bound to physical flesh, and its mouth opened wider than it should have, releasing a shriek that rattled glass and made even veteran shadow guards falter.
Amara froze. Her breath caught in her throat. Recognition — not of the creature itself, but of the energy rolling off it. Death energy. Thick. Heavy. Familiar. It clung to her senses, pressing down on her lungs until every breath felt weighted. It was as if this thing was born from the same domain she had touched when contracting Hades.
Behind it, the museum pulsed like a heart. Waves of death energy radiated outward with every beat, staining the air black.
The scarred Hollow Tusk leader's face drained of blood. "W-what the hell is that?!"
But none of them had time to answer. The creature shrieked again, and with a burst of unnatural speed, it lunged. Its body blurred, phasing through broken pillars as though they weren't even there. Its claws stretched, sharp enough to slice steel, aiming for the nearest living thing — them.
Amara moved first.
Her shadow erupted beneath her feet, stretching outward like ink spilled on water. Dark tendrils whipped up, coiling around the creature's legs. At the same time, daggers of condensed shadow energy launched forward, spiraling in arcs meant to pierce and bind.
The creature roared, slashing through one tendril, but another snared its arm, pulling it off-balance.
"Now!" Amara shouted.
Valeria's body was already moving. She stepped into the air as if climbing invisible steps, her holy sword glowing with blinding radiance. Symbols of light traced along her blade, runes flaring alive. She swung down, unleashing a slash of pure white energy that cut across the battlefield like dawn breaking through midnight.
The creature screamed, staggering back. Smoke rose from its chest where the light struck, sizzling against its ghostly form like acid.
For a moment, the battlefield froze.
And then everything exploded.
The Hollow Tusk didn't even try to fight. At the first sign of the monster's resistance, they broke ranks, tossing aside weapons, trampling over one another in their desperation to escape. "Forget this! We're not dying here!" the scarred man bellowed, sprinting down the street with his people in tow.
Amara barely spared them a glance. Their cowardice meant nothing now. All that mattered was the creature before them.
"Valeria — left flank!" Amara called.
Valeria nodded without hesitation, moving like a silver comet. The two women fell into a rhythm, the kind of synchronization born not from years of practice, but from absolute trust.
Amara's shadows surged, binding, pulling, striking from unexpected angles. She was fluid chaos, every movement unpredictable, every attack designed to smother, restrain, and overwhelm.
Valeria was her opposite — disciplined, precise, radiant. Her blade shone like a beacon, each strike infused with holiness that burned through the ghostly corruption of their enemy. Where Amara's shadows grasped and strangled, Valeria's light cleansed and cut.
And together, they became something greater.
"Bullseye!" one of the shadow guards shouted, firing a crossbow bolt wrapped in runes. The arrow streaked toward the creature's skull — only to phase through its head like smoke.
Amara cursed. "Normal weapons won't work! Shadows and light — that's all it responds to!"
The guards quickly adjusted, staying back to harry it with enchanted bolts while leaving the brunt of the damage to the two women.
The creature shrieked again, flinging out a wave of death energy. The blast hit the ground like a tidal wave, shadows and smoke cascading across the pavement. Amara threw her arms wide, her own shadows rushing forward to form a barrier. It clashed with the blast in a storm of writhing black tendrils.
She gritted her teeth. "Valeria! Now!"
Valeria dashed in, holy runes igniting across her blade. With a battle cry, she plunged her sword straight through the writhing mass, light bursting outward in a pillar that split the darkness. The monster reeled, parts of its body flickering as though it couldn't maintain its form.
For a heartbeat, victory seemed close.
Then Amara felt it.
The pull.
Stronger now, overwhelming. Her chest tightened as if an invisible chain was dragging her toward the museum. Her vision blurred, her shadow trembling violently at her feet. The scythe… it was calling her louder than ever before, its song of death harmonizing with the battle like an unseen conductor.
She stumbled, clutching her chest.
Valeria noticed immediately. "Amara! What's wrong?"
Amara swallowed hard. "The weapon… it's in there. It's calling me. I think— no, I know— it's the only way I can beat this thing."
Valeria's eyes darted between Amara and the raging creature, then hardened with resolve. She stepped forward, placing herself between Amara and the monster. Her holy aura flared, brighter than ever, casting long shadows across the ruined street.
"Then go," she said firmly. "Find it. I'll hold this thing off."
Amara's eyes widened. "Valeria, you can't fight it alone—"
"I can buy you time." Valeria's lips curved into the faintest of smiles. "Don't waste it. And don't you dare die before coming back."
Amara's throat tightened. A thousand words pressed at her lips, but only two made it out. "…Thank you."
Valeria nodded once. "Now move!"
Amara didn't hesitate any longer. Shadows enveloped her like a cloak, propelling her away from the battle and into the yawning maw of the museum.
The moment she stepped inside, it hit her.
Death.
The energy slammed into her chest like a physical blow, stealing her breath. It was suffocating, oppressive, thick enough to drown in. Her vision swam, her knees buckled, and for a terrifying instant, she thought she might collapse.
But then the pull steadied her. Guided her. Drew her deeper.
She staggered forward through the museum's shattered halls. Once, this place had been a shrine to history, filled with relics and treasures of humanity's past. Now it was something else entirely. Cosmic energy had twisted it, reshaping it into a tomb of power.
Weapons lined the walls, displayed in cracked glass cases. Swords shimmered faintly with elemental fire. Spears hummed with currents of wind. Even simple shields pulsed with unnatural resilience. They were relics no longer — they were living things, mutated by the same cosmic storm that had changed the world.
But none of them mattered.
At the center of the museum, encased in a fractured display, it stood.
The scythe.
Its pole was carved from pure bone, bleached white, smooth as ivory. The blade curved like the crescent moon, jagged and cruel, its surface etched with veins of black energy. Waves of death rolled off it in pulses, each one stronger than the last, calling, beckoning, demanding.
Amara's steps slowed. Her breath came faster. Every instinct screamed at her that this weapon wasn't just power. It was fate.
Her hand trembled as she reached out.
The moment her fingers brushed the scythe's surface, agony consumed her.
Her palm seared as though molten metal had been poured directly into her veins. She screamed, but her voice was swallowed by the oppressive silence of the museum. Her system screen flickered before her eyes.
[Warning: Health Plummeting!][95%... 70%... 50%...]
Her knees buckled, but she didn't let go. She couldn't.
[30%... 10%...]
The pain was indescribable, her flesh feeling as though it were melting into the bone of the weapon, her essence merging with its essence.
And then...
[0%]
Darkness.
Her heart stopped. Her breath ceased. Amara died with her hand still clutching the scythe.