When we opened the great wooden door, we saw a place immensely vast.
The wood gave way with a creak like an ancient threshold; when we finally pushed it, what opened before us was more than an entryway: it was a mouth vomiting space. The air that poured out had a different weight, as if the city still breathed intermittently, with deep exhalations that carried dust, memories, and a cold that was not of temperature but of time. The view stretched as far as the eye could lose itself: plazas here and there, broken columns planted in the ground like shattered teeth, and silhouettes of buildings that had once stood proud, now humbled by abandonment.
In the distance, glowing with a faint bluish light, rose a huge magic circle that was, without doubt, the portal to the City of the Gods.
The circle was not merely an object; it was a rumor made into matter. It turned slowly, as if marking a pulse the world had forgotten. The bluish light did not burn the eyes; rather it caressed them with a promise —and with a warning—, like someone offering a path while knowing that paths sometimes demand a price. Its radiance cast long shadows that seemed like hands reaching toward us, and that subtle motion turned the distance into a pulse that beat in time with our chests.
Without thinking twice, we entered.
There was no discussion, no hesitation. We entered like actors who leap onto the stage when the music is already playing: we knew there would be no rehearsal. The threshold marked the point where past and present kissed; beyond it were broken promises and battles still burning. Each of us soaked in the atmosphere with the same determination with which we adjusted our weapons.
We descended a long staircase that led down toward the ruins of what had once been a great city, now in decay and on the verge of collapse.
The steps were worn by the footsteps of generations that had come before us; in them you could read history in the form of grooves barely distinguishable, like scars in the stone. With each descent I felt we were entering the earth's memory: there was a weight in the air thinking of dates we did not know and names no one would speak again. The echo of our steps mixed with the murmur of something that had been activity and was now silence.
With every step, we felt the weight of silence.
It was not a kind silence; it was a silence that spoke in a low, clear voice. It reminded us that this had been a place that had known laughter, promises, and nights of revelry —and that now all that had been reduced to the shell of what had been. Those silences were like faded photographs placed on an altar: they contained nameless faces that demanded to be acknowledged, if only for a second.
It was obvious that, in its time, that place had been inhabited, prosperous, and full of life. But now... only shadows remained, echoes of the past, and shattered buildings falling into oblivion.
The facades that still stood seemed to have chosen the dignity of ruin: they crumbled with elegance, surrendering their secrets to the wind. On every corner, an overturned cart, a dry fountain, a broken mosaic told stories that no longer spoke; their voices returned only in half-sounds, in the shift of a stone under a boot or in the whisper of wind through hollow columns.
We walked without stopping, with a knot in our chests. The solitude of the place felt like a sad whisper reminding us what this world had lost.
That knot was shared, a tangle that tightened within us and pushed us to walk more resolutely, as if pain could be transformed into purpose. Each moved forward with their own invisible weight, but consciously united by the same feeling: this must not remain as it is. We were not just going to fight; we were going to impose a justice the world had forgotten to ask for.
Finally, at the foot of a worn staircase, we realized that to reach the portal we had to ascend once more.
To ascend meant facing the light of the circle from another height, as if perspective also changed the nature of the challenge. The effort to climb was physical, yes, but it was also a test of will: climbing meant accepting that what was seen from above would be clearer, and that something worse might be waiting. But the truth —the one that allows no excuses— pushed us: we advanced.
We climbed in silence. When we reached the top, the portal was there, waiting for us. It was a majestic structure, with magical circles turning slowly around it.
The majesty did not lie only in its size but in its authority: the portal exuded the sense of being something ancient, an object that had seen ages and now offered itself as a passage to decide destinies. The circles turned with the leisure of a clock that needs no one to function; their movement seemed to respond to something only they knew.
We looked at each other one last time.
The look we exchanged was more than an exchange of eyes; it was a silent pact. No grand speeches were said. There was no need. Every gesture —a slight squeeze of the shoulder, a nod, the brief brush of knuckles— said what needed to be said: "we are in this together." In that instant I understood that the greatness of an act lies in the company that shares it.
And as we had done since we were children, we bumped our fists together hard, as a symbol of unity.
—To victory, no matter the cost! —we all shouted at once, our hearts burning with determination.
The shout was brief but intense, a collective combustion that ignited something within us. It was not boasting; it was a choice. We chose to fight. We chose not to retreat. We chose, in one word, to be the spark that would stop being a mere spark and become a sustained flame.
The portal activated immediately. The magical circles shone intensely and, in the blink of an eye, we were teleported.
There was no confusing physical sensation; it was more as if reality folded and unfolded somewhere else. One moment you were in the present with your friends, and the next you were cast into an expanse you did not know. That transition was a tug on the soul and a challenge to reason, as if the universe reminded us that destinies are not won by comfort.
---
I opened my eyes.
The world returned my gaze with its usual indifference.
I was alone.
Loneliness struck with the same force as cold fingers in the night. I opened my mouth to call for voices, to find them nearby, but the void returned no echo. I felt the texture of dust under my boots, the weight of armor, the throb in my temple. All of that was real and no one shared it at that moment.
Before me stretched an endless plain, dense and silent. At first glance, it seemed the world had no end.
It was a plain that intimidated by its reach, a place where the horizon became both promise and threat. The landscape was not adorned with trees or nearby mountains; it was flat and vast, and the immensity isolated. The silence there was not merely the absence of noise: it was the absolute presence of nothingness.
I looked around. No one.
Confirming that was a small ritual that cruelly returned the possibility of separation: the portal had scattered us. My breathing became an instrument of patience: each inhalation was a way of not letting anxiety take over.
I wondered what had happened to my brothers. Were they also alone? Or had the portal only separated me?
Questions multiplied. It was not paranoia; it was calculation. I tried to remember everyone's position when we crossed the portal, assessed the possibility that fate had played the dispersal card. Uncertainty became a companion, and at the same time, a spark that pushed my legs to move.
With no other option, I began to walk.
I had no map or certainty, but I had a direction: forward. Sometimes the bravest act is the small step that follows doubt. My boots left prints on the plain, and for the first time on that landscape I felt my presence could be testimony.
I didn't know where to go, but my feet moved with resolve. Minutes passed until I saw two figures approaching from the distance.
The arrival of those silhouettes did not bring relief; it put me on alert. The horizon seemed to give birth to two presences that came with intention. There was no hesitation in their stride; they approached me with the air of those who do not fear.
Both stopped in front of me. One of them spoke:
—Well, well... what do we have here? At last we meet one of the heroes.
The way he said it made clear they were not friendly.
The word "hero" sounded in their mouths as both mockery and acknowledgment. It was not a title of respect; it was a label meant to provoke. Their tone allowed no nuance: you were either threat or prey.
—Finally you arrive. Strange that the portal brought only you. I thought at least two would fall at this point, but well... what does it matter?
His humor was acidic, as if each phrase were a smiling knife. The coincidence he described smelled of a plan: the portal had not been benevolent with us; on the contrary, it had distributed pieces for the war's board.
The second one joined the conversation:
—I thought you were the guy outside the human realm... but I see you're not.
At that, I brought my right hand to the hilt of my katana.
It was an automatic gesture, the choreography of life. My hand closed around the grip with the familiarity of a thousand trainings. The armor creaked slightly as I readied myself.
—Sorry for you —said the first—. He's somewhere else, maybe with one or two of your companions. But that doesn't matter. You know why we're here, right? We're going to kill you. Plain and simple. And afterwards... I want to see how your brothers die.
The cruelty in his words needed no music; it sufficed on its own. The intent was clear: to wear me down with the promise of others' suffering. They intended to turn the battle into a spectacle, and my possible defeat into an exhibition.
I drew my katana in one motion, without hesitation.
The blade slid out with a sound that brought me back to my own body. It was the sound of decision. The metal spoke and the promise became a balance of weight in my hand.
—Bring them both together, if you want. I will show no mercy. I will kill you without holding back.
The reply came from a primal place: defense. I offered no reasons, only certainties. My voice was cold and did not seek to wound emotionally; it sought to set a boundary.
—So be it, armored man —one of them responded with a twisted smile—. Let's begin this battle. It's time for us to rule this world.
The declaration ended the courtesy and led to the inevitable. His smile was both a challenge and a sentence. Everything was set.
Without further words, our weapons clashed violently.
The impact was war music: clang, sparks, and the metallic smell of adrenaline. The first exchange was a dialogue of steel; we did not speak with voices but with edges. Each blow dictated the economy of combat: I defend, I retreat, I attack, I measure.
Sparks flew at the first impact, and in our eyes burned a single question: Who would be the one left standing at the end?
The question was not rhetorical; it was the note that marked the score. The fight unfolded like a violent dance, with measured steps and counted breaths. My senses sharpened; the world reduced to the geometry of movements and the music of metal. Each clash carried the possibility of the end, and so every instant burned.
—So be it —I said, locking my gaze on his as the fight began.
And in that gaze —in that moment— I knew the battle would decide everything.
[The heroes are near their final destiny. Is this the end of their story... or only the beginning of something greater? No one knows. Only the fight will decide whether they live... or die trying.]