Three decades have now passed since Azar's eternal curse.
The Obsidian Dunes rumbled under a sky blackened with storm clouds, jagged shards of obsidian scattered across rolling dunes like shattered glass. Lightning split the heavens in jagged veins, illuminating the sharp ridges of the desert in stark silver light. The air was thick with charged energy, smelling of ozone and scorched stone. Winds whipped sand into spiraling whirlwinds, stinging the skin and slicing the air with abrasive sharpness.
This was not a place for the faint-hearted; this was Azar's crucible, and it was alive with anticipation.
Nuru, the lost spirit descended from a rift in the storm, a being of pure radiant energy. His form shimmered with layers of light, a cascade of luminescence that reflected across the black dunes, casting elongated, surreal shadows.
His Aura pulsed like the sun breaking through clouds—warm, vibrant, and yet infinitely ancient. The ground trembled beneath each step, and the air itself seemed to bow to the presence of the Echo Beast.
Azar stood atop a jagged ridge, his dark silhouette blending with the twisting obsidian spires and shadowed dunes. His eyes glowed faintly silver, a reflection of the lightning and the fury brewing inside him. He could feel the pulse of the storm in resonance with his own heartbeat, and the dunes themselves shifted subtly, forming spiky, defensive barriers around him like living extensions of his will.
For a moment, the world seemed suspended—wind howling, sand whipping, lightning painting the landscape in stark contrasts of light and shadow. Then, Nuru spoke. His voice was both thunderous and melodic, a vibration that seemed to penetrate the obsidian itself.
"Azar… you wield the Veil of Shadows, yet you do not understand it. Your power is raw, but untamed."
Azar's reply was a whisper carried on the wind, sharp as the shards underfoot:
"I do not seek to understand. I seek to survive… to be more than what you made me."
Lightning flashed, and Nuru struck first, a spear of luminous energy hurtling toward Azar. The black sands exploded into shards, the Veiled Aura around him twisting the shadows to split, absorb, and redirect the attack. The impact sent a tremor through the dunes, toppling obsidian spires and carving new ridges, as if the land itself recognized the clash of forces.
Azar responded with a pulse of Veiled Aura, shadows surging upward like midnight waves, slicing and weaving with lethal precision. Each strike of his hand seemed to reshape the dunes, sending whorls of sand spiraling toward Nuru. Yet the Echo Beast moved with fluidity, each step glowing with radiant light, countering the darkness with blinding brilliance.
The confrontation was not merely physical—it was a battle of philosophy, of will. Nuru represented guidance, the first light of understanding given to humans, and Azar embodied defiance, forged in isolation and suffering. Every swing, every pulse, echoed across the dunes, carving the land with both shadow and light.
Nuru attempted to reach him, his Aura a warm tide, seeking to teach, to calm the storm within Azar. But the exiled boy's heart was hardened by years of solitude. His fists, his shadows, rejected the gentle touch of guidance, striking instead with the raw energy of a mind honed by survival, by betrayal, by exile.
The Obsidian Dunes themselves bore witness:
Spiraling whirlwinds of black sand tore across jagged ridges. Lightning illuminated obsidian cliffs, reflecting in mirrors of shadow created by Azar. Thunder rolled like drums, synchronized with Azar's heartbeat and Nuru's radiant pulses.
At the climax, Nuru unleashed a blinding surge of pure light, a wave meant to calm and subdue. Azar met it head-on, Veiled Aura flaring like an eclipse, absorbing and dispersing the energy into the dunes. The collision split the sand, carved jagged canyons, and sent plumes of obsidian dust into the air, the desert screaming in chaotic harmony.
And then—Nuru… just… vanished. The luminous form dissipated into streaks of radiance, leaving only the echo of his voice in the wind:
"Power without understanding is perilous… learn, Azar."
Alone atop the jagged ridge, Azar's chest heaved. He stood victorious, yet not in triumph—in liberation. The storm had tested him, the dunes had honed him, and the absence of Nuru sparked a wild, intoxicating excitement in his chest. He felt the boundless potential of the Obsidian Dunes flowing into him, the raw power of the Veil and storm, untamed and utterly his own.
From that moment, Azar was no longer merely the exiled child. He was the Veil of Shadows incarnate, master of the dunes, the storm-bonded shadow that even the first Echo Beast had dared to confront. The Obsidian Dunes themselves whispered in his presence, alive with the marks of their violent communion—a testament to his power, his will, and the legend that would ripple across Ishara for centuries.
Years after, the Obsidian Dunes lay in ashen silence after the storm of their confrontation. Jagged spires of black obsidian jutted from the sands like broken teeth, their razor edges catching faint glimmers of moonlight in fractured prisms. Scattered dunes reflected those glimmers like shattered mirrors, casting eerie, dancing flecks across the wastes. The sky above was a bruised canvas of purples, blues, and storm-scorched grays, streaked with the afterglow of lightning and ozone—lingering bolts flickering like dying nerves.
Every gust of wind carried the bitter sting of sand, gritty particles lashing exposed skin; the dunes seemed to shiver and moan under their own scars, creeeak-groooan, as though they remembered the battle, ridges pulsing faintly with residual Aura.
Where Nuru had stood, there was now only a pale ripple of fading light, dissolving into the air like liquid sun evaporating under the first touch of dawn—golden wisps curling upward, thinning to transparency before vanishing entirely. His voice, still echoing faintly across the jagged dunes, seemed to linger in every ridge and crevice, a whisper of warmth and admonition that vibrated through the stone:
"Power without understanding is perilous… learn, Azar."
Azar's chest heaved, his shadowed cloak whipping like living tendrils in the wind—inky fringes lashing the air with snap-snap cracks. For the first time, he felt untethered, unbound, as though a massive weight had been lifted from his shoulders, the cursed ember flaring with liberated heat.
Nuru's disappearance was not loss—it was liberation.
The Echo Beast, the luminous guide of the first humans and tribes, had vanished without a trace, leaving only the potential for Azar to shape his own destiny—dunes humming in agreement, sands shifting like eager subjects—while the other Echo Beasts persisted unbound by his unique fate.
A grin cracked across his face—fierce, wild, and bright against the darkness of his Aura, teeth flashing silver in the moonlight. The Veiled Aura around him surged, writhing and dancing in shadow and light—tendrils coiling like serpents, feeding off his exhilaration with crackling pulses. The Obsidian Dunes themselves seemed to respond, spires bending subtly toward him, creeeak, as if acknowledging him as their sovereign, black grains swirling in fealty at his feet.
He laughed—a low, echoing sound that mingled with the wind and the faint hiss of shifting sand, rolling across the wastes like thunder's afterthought. The exhilaration was intoxicating; he was no longer a pawn, no longer a student. He was Azar, the storm-born shadow, the first of his kind to challenge an Echo Beast and survive—Veiled Aura blooming outward in triumphant waves.
Azar was on his way to wage war on the Great Tribes but instead, the five tribal leaders at the time—Elder Kalen of the Jua Tribe, Razi of the Kiroho Tribe, Kemba of the Kivuli Tribe, King Damu of the Zuberi Tribe, and Lady Moira of the Imani Tribe—had arrived on the horizon.
Their silhouettes were stark against the glowing edges of the dunes, each emanating their own potent Aura, a collective storm of authority, discipline, and ancestral power—golden solar flares from Kalen, earthen roots from Razi, iron shadows from Kemba, thunderous rhythms from Damu, lunar illusions from Moira—clashing in the air like converging tempests.
The battle erupted immediately. Azar moved like midnight made flesh, shadows coiling around him like armored serpents, striking with precision and speed—inky lashes whipping faster than sight.
Each tribal leader brought the weight of centuries of knowledge, Aura mastery, and combat skill. King Damu's rhythmic thunderous blows shook the dunes, BOOM-thud-BOOM, sending shockwaves that cracked spires; Lady Moira's illusions warped reality, phantom duplicates multiplying foes into armies; Razi's spirit-touched strikes pulsed with ancestral force, vines bursting from sand to ensnare; Kemba's shadow threads danced like vipers, silent filaments slicing unseen; and Elder Kalen's radiant strikes cut through darkness like blades of sunlight, golden arcs searing Veiled mist.
The battle tore the Obsidian Dunes apart. Shards of obsidian split and scattered, ricocheting like deadly stars—tink-tink-CRASH—embedding in flesh and stone. Shadow and light collided, carving canyons into dunes that had stood for centuries, groooan-SPLINTER, abyssal gashes vomiting black dust. The wind roared, carrying the scent of ozone, scorched sand, and the faint metallic tang of raw Aura—acrid clouds choking the air.
Yet Azar held his ground, dancing atop the jagged spires, shadowed Aura flaring like eclipsed corona, every move a defiance of their combined might—leaps defying gravity, counters bending light to his will. The dunes seemed to bend to his will, raising walls of jagged black glass to shield with SHING barriers, whip with lashing tendrils, and strike in perfect resonance with his heartbeat—thump-SLASH-thump.
For hours, it was one against five, a living tempest of shadow and defiance—sweat-slicked forms blurring in the chaos, Auras clashing in explosive blooms.
But even his formidable power could not overcome the sheer unified mastery of the tribal leaders. King Damu's thunder pulses broke the rhythm of his shadows, disrupting flows with concussive KRAK; Lady Moira's mirrored illusions tricked and trapped him, doppelgangers closing phantom nooses; and Razi's rooted strikes pinned him against a jagged ridge, earthen fists grinding stone. Kemba's silent precision cut deep, striking at weaknesses only she could perceive—threads severing Aura veins. The Jua's sunlight pierced the Veiled Aura in sudden flashes, disorienting him further, golden lances blinding through the dark.
Finally, with one synchronized strike from the five leaders—Auras converging in a cataclysmic WHOOM—Azar was unbalanced, toppling to the black sand, his Veiled Aura flickering and splitting like fractured glass, cursed ember sputtering erratic crimson. The tribal leaders stood over him, each exuding authority and judgment, their combined energy a tidal wave of discipline, history, and consequence—shadows of their forms looming colossal against the storm-lit sky.
Azar's exhilaration from Nuru's disappearance lingered, burning like embers even in defeat, silver eyes defiant amid the pain, but he realized the weight of isolation and exile had crystallized him into something far beyond what any tribe could tolerate—a being of pure, untamed shadow.
When they left, Azar remained—alone upon a throne of black glass, shards coalescing beneath him into a jagged seat that pulsed with his ragged breaths. The Dunes pulsed with his heartbeat—thump… thump—sands rippling in sync. The air shimmered with shadow, mirages flickering at the edges of vision. And from the sands beneath him, Mbweha rose once more, smoke-form coalescing with hiss, laying its head at his feet—ember eyes gazing up in sly loyalty.
Azar smiled—cold, weary, and triumphant, lips curling against the sting of wounds.
"They gave me what I wanted, Mbweha. A kingdom that answers only to me."
And as the centuries rolled like drifting sands, his laughter echoed across the Obsidian Dunes—the sound of a king unmade, yet never gone—haaa-heh-heh, mingling with the wind's eternal moan.
The Obsidian Dunes slept uneasily after the intense battle.
The glassy spires that caged Azar pulsed faintly in the dark, like a wounded heart struggling to remember its rhythm—thump… pause… thump—faint crimson veins glowing beneath translucent surfaces. Each breath of wind moaned through them like a flute carved from bone—a sound both mournful and reverent, whiiiiiine-creeeak, keening across the wastes like the cry of buried souls.
Above, the night sky burned with unfamiliar stars—the heavens distorted, still trembling from the collision of Auras that had rewritten the air itself, constellations twisted into jagged spirals, their light fractured through lingering ozone haze.
Beneath those stars, Azar awoke.
The shards that had imprisoned him began to hum—a low, resonant hummm rising from the depths. Slowly, the obsidian cracked. Hairline fractures bled faint light, black and gold twining like veins of molten dusk, spiderwebbing outward with tink-tink-CRACK.
Azar exhaled—and the shards splintered outward, dissolving into a cloud of glittering dust that hung in the air like suspended midnight, swirling in hypnotic eddies before fading into nothing, leaving only the scent of scorched stone.
He stood at the center of a vast crater of shadow, breathing shallowly, chest heaving with ragged huff-huff. His once-brilliant eyes were dimmed, ringed in ash like smoldering coals, but their depth was endless—silver depths swallowing starlight whole. Behind him, Mbweha prowled—silent now, its body more mist than flesh, tendrils coiling lazily, tail flickering like a dying flame, flicker-sizzle.
"They think this exile a curse," Azar whispered to the dunes, voice a velvet rasp cutting the silence.
"But the sun cannot banish what no longer belongs to it."
The black sand rippled in response, shifting beneath his feet as though listening—grains undulating in gentle waves, shhh-shhh, forming fleeting sigils at his toes.
And then he felt it—faint at first, then undeniable.
A rhythm.
Not the heartbeat of the tribes, not the steady pulse of sunlight.
This was deeper—primal, ancient, buried beneath centuries of silence. The Echo Pulse of the Dunes themselves—thrum… pause… THRUN—vibrating up through his soles like the groan of waking earth.
He knelt and pressed his palm to the sand. The ground trembled, groooan, sending fine tremors spiderwebbing outward.
Images flickered in his mind—shadows of creatures that had once lived here before man, hulking silhouettes with glowing fangs; whispers of beasts half-forgotten by history, their roars echoing in spectral bursts. The Dunes were alive, a graveyard that remembered—bones of titans grinding beneath the surface.
"Show me," he said softly, fingers sinking into cool grains. "Show me what the light tried to hide."
The sand surged upward—swirling around him in a frenzied vortex, taking shape with hiss-whoosh. Dozens of faint forms appeared—translucent silhouettes with glowing eyes and hollow chests, ethereal wisps trailing like comet tails. These were Echoes, remnants of ancient Aura, half-conscious, drawn to Azar's Veiled pulse like moths to a dying flame—their forms flickering in shades of ash and crimson.
Mbweha snarled, a low grrrrl, lips curling back from ember fangs—and they knelt, translucent knees sinking into sand with silent obedience.
Azar smiled, lips parting in a slow, predatory curve.
In his exile, he had found his audience.