The world was ending. No, that wasn't quite right. Though it was about to see a whole lot of destruction.
In the heart of a wasteland—a graveyard of cracked earth clawing at a dead sky—was the epicenter of that end. This was a battlefield, yes, but not one of armies or nations. Such grand, pointless concepts held no meaning here.
The scale of this conflict was far smaller, and by that virtue, infinitely larger.
—There were only two people.
???: ["Audience of the heavens above! Lay witness—for this battle unlike anything you will ever see!"]
His gaze remained directed toward that oh-so confident voice that declared to the heavens itself.
A pair of violet voids that swallowed the cold moonlight, was fixed upward. Up, up, toward the figure who stood proud on the edge of a rocky spire, as if suspended by the threads of fate itself.
—He was an insult to the monochrome despair of the landscape.
???: ["Are you going to use that legendary black sword of yours? Ooh, it would sure be a mockery if you didn't... Cer-san~!"]
A katana in each hand, held with a stillness that defied the silent wind. A cascade of blue hair, tied back with a careless grace, whipped about his face. And that kimono—a defiant splash of pink and azure against the suffocating blackness. It was a beacon of color in that battlefield that had forgotten what color was. An aberration. A promise.
What else could possibly be said that wasn't already screamed by the blood pounding in his ears, by the maddening grin stretching his lips?
!!!: ["Obviously... I'm not anywhere near confident enough to face you with anything but my best, Divine General."]
From above, an identical smile answered him in return. It was not a smile of warmth, but of pure, unadulterated ecstasy. A shared thirst. A mutual understanding that they were both standing at the precipice of oblivion, and finding it utterly, beautifully thrilling.
The world did not matter. Its groaning pleas for salvation were less than whispers.
—Let it break. Let it all shatter!
When steel finally met steel, when their wills finally collided—the resulting scream would not just fissure the earth. It would tear a wound in the very fabric of causality.
And in the silence that followed that single, apocalyptic instant there was—
Many Years Prior—
Run. Run. Run. Run. Run. Run. Run. Run.
The crisp snap of twigs underfoot echoed, a fleeting shadow darting through the flora-filled labyrinth. Sunlight, fractured by the dense canopy overhead, momentarily dimmed with each desperate stride.
Who was he? Why was he here? More pressing still—
—Where was here?!
Beyond a smattering of fractured memories—his name, perhaps "Lacerta" ...he thought—and a whisper of common sense, he knew nothing. Absolutely nothing.
But none of that held weight in this desperate present.
Why, you ask?
Because he was being hunted, his very existence a target for a legion of peculiar figures clad in tattered, nomadic garb. Weapons glinted, brandished with unmistakably hostile intent.
The reason for their pursuit was a mystery as suffocating as the oppressive air, yet their menacing gestures left no room for benevolent interpretation.
Still, fate, it seemed, offered a sliver of mercy.
He possessed a surprising swiftness, particularly when measured against the lumbering pursuit far behind. It was a peculiar sight, these larger pursuers, their strides seemingly less effective than his own diminutive dash. Whatever the paradox, he certainly couldn't afford to question it.
His breath was beginning to become somewhat labored though, how much time has passed again?
His very next step was a calamity.
His foot snagged on a malicious, earth-bound serpent—no, just a root, a damn, stubborn root—and the world tilted on its axis.
His control over his own limbs evaporated. A graceless, flailing tumble sent him crashing against the forest floor, a harsh percussion of bone against unforgiving dirt. He rolled, momentum carrying his undignified descent through damp soil and decaying leaves that clung to his skin.
And then—a scream. Not from his mouth, but from his nerves. A violent, electric signal fired up his leg, a sensation his memory-wiped mind had no name for, and yet, his very soul recoiled from it with an instinctual terror.
—Pain.
So this was "pain" An agony so pure, so absolute, it felt like a violation. In the unlikely event he survived this, he made a silent, desperate vow to whatever uncaring gods might be listening: he never, ever wanted to feel this again.
Lacerta: ["Guh—! That.... hurts.."]
The words were a pathetic gasp, forced from his lungs. Why did he say that? Who was he telling? The indifferent trees? The dirt that had just assaulted him? Voicing the agony did nothing to diminish it, a fact that only deepened his frustration.
He pushed himself into a sitting position, a sharp hiss of air tearing through his clenched teeth. His hand, shaking, clamped around his shin as if he could physically strangle the pain into submission.
A full minute passed in suffocating silence, the world consisting only of the throbbing drumbeat in his leg and the frantic hammering of his own heart.
The white-hot agony slowly receded, leaving behind a dull, insistent ache as a cruel reminder.
With a groan, he slid his back against the rough, mossy bark of one of the titanic trees that surrounded him, their colossal forms blotting out the sky like the pillars of some forgotten, hostile cathedral.
He squeezed his eyes shut, trying to force his racing thoughts into some semblance of order.
How do I get out of here? Where even IS here?
This was a forest, right? Logic dictated it was a forest. Or maybe a jungle? Was there a difference? Does the distinction matter when you're lost, injured, and being hunted for no reason?
Okay, plan. Just… pick a direction. Any direction. And walk. You have to run into something eventually... surely there are some people that aren't out to kill me right? Anything that isn't more of this endless, suffocating green. The world can't be made of nothing but trees… can it?
All these questions he can't answer is just hurting his head.
Wincing, he used the tree as leverage, hauling his battered body back onto two feet. The effort sent a fresh wave of fire through his leg. He dared a glance down. An ugly, blossoming purple was already staining his skin—
His eyes darted back the way he had come, into the deep, oppressive shadows.
Nothing. No sounds of pursuit. No snapping twigs. Only the deafening silence, which he couldn't help but let out a sigh of relief.
Lacerta: ["Pain sure does suck huh..."]
A sigh, not of weariness, for his legs could still churn with a vigor that defied the ordeal. If this was the norm, he knew not, but he certainly wasn't one to complain.
His gaze, a flicker of urgency, swept back the path he had trod, and with a renewed surge, he set his sights once more on the dense, suffocating woods, hoping each stride carried him closer to escape.
I guess those people chasing me got lost... or I was just that much quicker than them—either way, I'd rather not stick around... though.
A fleeting optimism, a fragile sprout in the barren soil of his current predicament.
He wasn't entirely certain, truth be told, given the gnawing ache in his shin. But before, when the chase was on, he was undeniably quicker than the brutes who had pursued him.
Of course, he harbored no illusions that superior speed alone could tip the scales in a true confrontation. His inexperience was a gaping maw, a truth as evident as the sky above, requiring no traumatic revelation, just simple, brutal logic.
Mercifully, it seemed, a direct clash was not on the immediate horizon. Not yet, at least.
It wasn't the grim prospect of taking a life that gave him pause. Self-preservation, a primal instinct, would always supersede the well-being of those baying for his blood.
No, it was the disquieting realization that he... well, he wouldn't know the first thing about fighting in general.
A choked gasp tore itself from his throat. His worn-out boots dug into the loamy earth, skidding to a halt with a spray of dirt. His pupils shrunk to pinpricks, his hands clenching into useless, trembling fists. The reek of iron and offal slammed into him like a physical blow.
There, sprawled in a grotesque parody of repose, was a carcass.
A carcass of... what? What was it? What was that thing?
He couldn't put a name to the mangled heap of fur and flesh, but its size—horrifyingly, its size mimicked that of a grown man. Its innards had been violently, almost contemptuously, scooped out and painted across the forest floor.
His gaze, frantic, darted from the corpse, seeking answers in the ravaged surroundings.
Yes, he could piece it together—or at least, his terrified mind could try.
Gouges, deep and angry, were carved into the soil, evidence of a desperate struggle. A wide swathe of undergrowth was brutally compressed, flattened as if something immense had been dragged, or had done the dragging.
No. No, no, no, this wasn't the work of anything that simply walked. This was different. This was wrong. This was dangerous.
And yet.
Despite the clear and present danger screamed by every fiber of his being, another, more pathetic voice made itself heard. An ugly, demanding sound from the pit of his stomach.
He wasn't going to refuse a free meal, was he?
Call it barbaric. Call it monstrous. Call it the act of a scavenger picking at the scraps of a monster's feast. He didn't care. For an entire day of desperate, endless running, this was the first sign of anything resembling sustenance. Not a bird, not a single living creature. Just this.
This endless green hell, this jungle, this forest… if it was as vast as he feared, then his true enemy wasn't the unseen beast that had created this carnage. No, his most terrifying foe was the slow, grinding certainty of starvation.
Lacerta: [".. I'm obviously gonna try cooking it though... I'm not that barbaric now..."]