The wind howled across the jagged peaks of the Ashen Wastes, carrying with it the whispers of a thousand lost souls. Russ stood before a gaping chasm—blacker than night, deeper than time. This was the entrance to the Ebon Forge, a forgotten sanctum buried beneath the world. It was here the original Oblivion Blade had been born… and where he would attempt to remake it.
Beside him stood Maven, her expression unreadable.
"No one has entered the Forge since your father sealed it," she said quietly. "Even the ancients feared what lies within."
Russ glanced at her. "I'm not here for fear. I'm here for fire."
With a thought, he summoned the Voidstone shard. It hovered above his palm, pulsing in rhythm with his heartbeat. The moment the shard neared the chasm, the winds ceased. The silence was immediate—and deafening.
The earth responded.
Massive chains, older than kingdoms, groaned and shifted as the entrance unsealed itself. A staircase of obsidian and bone descended into the depths. Without hesitation, Russ stepped forward.
Each step down was heavier than the last. The Forge was alive. Watching. Testing.
Visions clawed at his mind—his father screaming in agony, his mother weeping over a broken blade, his own face fractured and monstrous. But Russ pressed on. He'd lived through pain. He was pain.
At the heart of the Forge, the chamber opened like the maw of a beast. Runes spiraled across the walls, glowing in crimson and violet. And at the center: the Anvil of Echoes, where ancient weapons were bound with soul and shadow.
The Forge Keeper rose from the darkness—a construct of molten armor and swirling Void. Its voice was like thunder through broken glass.
"State your purpose, Heir of the Void."
Russ stepped forward, holding the Voidstone in both hands.
"I will reforge Oblivion. Not as a blade of destruction—but as a conduit of will."
The Keeper studied him. "The price is steep. The flame demands sacrifice. Are you prepared to offer it?"
Russ didn't hesitate. "Take what you must."
The Keeper extended a clawed hand, placing it over Russ's chest.
Pain exploded through him. His memories were stripped raw—every failure, every death, every time he had hesitated, faltered, doubted. The Voidstone absorbed it all, glowing brighter, cracking slightly, reforming.
Maven reached for him, but stopped. This was his trial. His alone.
Flames erupted from the Anvil, swallowing the stone and Russ's outstretched arms. He didn't scream. Not this time.
He let the Void shape itself through him.
The shadows swirled, forming a blade—not like the original Oblivion, cold and cruel—but one infused with resolve. The blade pulsed with every beat of his heart, shaped not by rage but by purpose.
When the flames died, Russ stood tall, the reforged weapon in his grasp.
It wasn't a sword.
It was a scythe—sleek, elegant, forged from Voidsteel and memory.
Maven stepped forward, her eyes wide. "It… chose a new form."
Russ nodded, his voice quiet but unwavering.
"I'm no longer here to end wars. I'm here to reap the rot at the root of them."
The Keeper bowed deeply, shadows peeling away like layers of ash.
"Then go, Reaper of the Rift. The end begins."