A frail looking teenager with dark circles under his eyes, and deathly pale skin was sitting underneath a bridge staring at moon. The moon was red, no - not the fake stuff you see online, but a demonically red hue that seemed to draw him nearer and nearer. Normally, he would have no time to dabble around moon gazing like a pompous city liver, but today was an exception. On this accursed night, Balha'lah decided to treat himself as a king; albeit a broke one.
He had planned to end his life today, so what was a bit of moon gazing going to do?
Watching the moon with an unnatural amount of concentration, he looked around, ensuring he was alone, and took in a deep breath, until he spluttered and coughed aloud.
"Blegh, I forgot just how disgusting the air is here in the outskirts."
Looking at the air in front him with a serious gaze, he sighed. The air wasn't going to become as pure as the upper class would get, no matter how much he grimaced at the it. Well, that wasn't enough to stop him however - no he was spending the day enjoying himself, air be damned.
"I shouldn't have been to engrossed with the moon, it made me breathe in this toxic air, a mistake only fools from the inner city would make."
But who could blame him? The moon was red, a blood moon, that inner city lady with a bulging stomach and obnoxiously red lipstick had so herself. It happened once every: never. A moon this red was unheard of, even the scientists were at a loss for words, they did come up with some nonsense later however.
Balha on the other hand, thought of it as the only tribute to his morbid existence. Only it would remember a creature like himself had walked the earth. Both his parents had died early selfishly, leaving him to fend for himself in the brutal outskirts.
He watched a couple walk past him, clearly from the inner city, look at him and walk off into the distance muttering about him as if they saw an alien. It wouldn't be strange to call him an alien, his skin was pale, he was sleep deprived and dressing like a beggar certainly didn't help him to "fit in" with the rest. But that was normal, no matter where he went.
Shrugging, he walked away into the night to visit a final haven of sorts before his departure from this world.
***
An elderly man was looking outside his corner store, it was 5:22 a.m. and about time the first customers came, all the early morning office workers would come for a cup of coffee, what would not normally come was Balha'lah.
"Old man, a chicken club sandwich and a cup of chocolate milk."
With a raised eyebrow the owner looked at him.
"Well good morning to you too Balha."
"My food please."
A warm smile cracked from the old man's already wrinkly face.
"Of course, in a moment, but just how will you pay?"
Balha cleared his throat.
"Here's 7 dollars, keep the change."
With a hint of mild surprise, the old man accepted the money and passed the food to Balha. He knew something was wrong, but also knew it was better not to pry.
"You earned a lot of money lately? Or did you rob some unsuspecting city fool?
A second passed, then two and almost a full minute nearly passed.
"Uh no, this is all the money I've saved up till now."
He looked at the white haired man with a confused expression, wondering whether to tell him or not, he was still thinking about it when the old man asked back:
"So what's the occasion then?"
Balha scratched the back of his head.
"Nothing much, just felt like splurging"
The old man sighed, expecting an answer of this kind.
"Alright then, be on your way. And Balha, please be careful."
Balha nodded with a grave look on his face and realising the owner knew what was going on even without him saying. He looked at the many wrinkles on his face, maybe each wrinkle indicated a certain amount of wisdom held within, it was clearly the most logical reason.
"You too old man"
Without a trace, the dark red aura surrounding the boy left along with him, he had disappeared into the night, not leaving even a crumb to show had been here.
"The oath will be made soon."
He sighed and went back to cleaning his store.
***
Once again, he was back at the bridge. Only this time, the moon offered him no comfort; the wind was cold, chilly, and cruel. He stood alone in the darkness, waiting for his imminent doom. He had angered the boss of the outskirts — Orsted.
Orsted was out for blood, and not just any blood, but his. Simply choosing to walk past the lord without bowing had somehow become a crime worthy of death. By what laws? He wasn't entirely sure himself. A bitter sigh escaped him as he recognised how foolish the reason for his execution truly was. To Orsted, life seemed nothing more than a plaything. He lifted his gaze back to the moon, its pale glow strangely resonating with the turmoil in his chest.
He had survived nine long years in the outskirts — starving, hiding, fighting — only to die now because some self-proclaimed lord had decided so? No. He refused to accept that fate. He had laid his trap carefully, perfectly, waiting for the boss to arrive. It was enough to guarantee Orsted's death… but his own survival remained uncertain. Perhaps unlikely.
Still, he had made his choice.
If he was going down tonight, then he would drag the monster down with him — whether he lived through the night or not...
"Balha!"
When he turned to look, he saw a tall, burly man swaggering toward him, gold rings glinting on every finger and a massive chain hanging from his neck. Behind him marched an entire army of cronies. Balha's stomach dropped at the sight of twenty men advancing with crowbars in hand.
"So, Balha," Orsted drawled, his voice dripping with arrogance, "what's it going to be? Will you finally bow to me and acknowledge my position, or will you continue rebelling like a fool?"
Balha stared back at the man, meeting his gaze without flinching.
There had never been — and would never be — a world where he acknowledged Orsted as a rightful ruler. The very idea was laughable. Absurd. The kind of thing only someone delusional or power-hungry would ever utter. This was real life, not some cringe storybook where tyrants were treated like kings.
"Of course, my lord," Balha said smoothly. "I apologise for my actions."
He hated every word. He despised the way they tasted. But Balha wasn't speaking out of admiration — he was speaking out of instinct. Out here in the outskirts, survival was the only law that mattered. And there, the rule was simple:
The weak bow to the strong — or they die trying not to.
A wide grin spread across Orsted's face; everything seemed to be going exactly as he wanted… until he gave a subtle nod. In the next instant, one of his cronies lunged from the shadows and stabbed Balha from the back without warning.
A hot burst of pain tore through Balha's side. His breath hitched, and he staggered back, clutching the wound as warm blood seeped through his fingers.
"W–why…? I submitted. I bowed. Why stab me?"
Orsted stepped forward, boots thudding against the wooden planks of the bridge. His grin had vanished, replaced by a cold, simmering disdain.
"Because," leaning in close, "I saw that look in your eyes."
Balha blinked through the pain.
"What look…?"
"That arrogance. That tiny spark that said you still thought you were above me. I don't tolerate that. Not in my outskirts. Not from anyone."
He straightened, snapping his fingers for his men to close in and take care of his body.
"You should've killed that arrogance before you bowed. Now"—a cruel smile returned—"I'll kill it for you."
Balha was enraged.
He had expected betrayal, but not so soon. As the pain throbbed through his side, he fixed his murderous glare on Orsted. In that moment, he carved a silent vow into his soul: he would kill him.
Balha staggered forward as if seeking support, one hand pressed dramatically against the wound, the other brushing the rope tied to the pole beside him. It was a calculated movement disguised as desperation. No one spared him a second glance; the cronies were too focused on their leader's triumph, and Orsted was reveling in his own cruelty.
With a subtle tug, Balha unhooked the rope.
A heartbeat later, a massive rock—the one he had rigged hours before, heavy and brutal, roughly the size of his own head—plummeted from the darkness above. Gravity did the rest. It crashed down on Orsted with a sickening thud, cutting off his victorious posture and sending the cronies into a frenzy of panic and confusion.
Balha didn't wait to see the aftermath. As shouts erupted and feet scrambled on the bridge, he turned, teeth clenched against the pain, and hurled himself over the railing. The cold water swallowed him whole, silencing everything in an instant.
As he drifted along the river, he watched a dark pool of blood slowly spread around him. His wound wasn't closing. The truth settled heavily in his chest—he was going to die. A bitter sigh slipped past his lips. Did he want to die? He always thought he wouldn't mind, that death would be a release. But now that it hovered inches away, he realised he did want to live. Only… what was the point anymore?
His consciousness wavered. He forced his eyes open and looked up at the blood-red moon hanging above him. In its eerie glow, he felt an odd kinship—as though the two of them were the same, both quietly bleeding out into the world.
Desperate, Balha tried to swim toward the shore, but it was too far, and his body was too weak to obey him. His limbs felt like stone. The river pulled him every which way. More blood seeped from his side, clouding the water in thick, dark crimson. It rose around his face, stung his eyes, and slowly blurred his vision until the world dissolved into red and black.
As his eyes began to close for what he thought would be the last time, a sudden, searing pain exploded in his right arm. He screamed, the sound tearing out of him as a burning, red-hot sigil carved itself into his skin. The agony was blinding—pure fire racing through every nerve until he could no longer tell where his body ended and the flames began.
Minutes dragged by like hours. The pain only grew sharper, hotter, more unbearable. At last, when his mind could take no more, his strength failed him. The world dimmed, the burning faded into a distant echo, and he slipped into unconsciousness.
[Congratulations, Ascender Balha'lah.]
[You have been marked with the Sigil of a forgotten god: the ??? God, ???.]
[Warning: Compatibility at 98%.]
[Your role has been adjusted from Sigil Bearer to Vessel of the God. Please prepare for transit to the Upper Realm.]
[Initiating preparation for your first Abyssal Ceremony.]