Millow's blood-stained eyes are widened. The once-stable dominion around them began to twist and shimmer, the ground fracturing like a mirror splintering into countless shards, he feels his body light and now floating into the air.
Suddenly, the world spiraled into a kaleidoscope of flashing images, each more vivid than the last. The landscape around them changed at an impossible speed, as though time itself were in fast-forward. Trees grew and withered in an instant, villages appeared and vanished like fleeting shadows, and a cacophony of voices, screams, and laughter reverberated in Millow's ears.
The scene unfolded like a vivid, waking dream. He then felt the pulse of life in the village—birds chirping harmoniously in the thick canopies above, the soft laughter of children weaving through the trees, and the rhythmic hum of the village as its people worked in serene unity.
Amid this tranquility stood a boy no older than fourteen, clutching a bow that dwarfed his slender frame. His sharp emerald eyes focused on the prey ahead, a deer grazing near the edge of the forest. Every movement was calculated, every breath slow and deliberate. Millow could feel the boy's determination, the quiet pride of practicing the hunting techniques passed down by his parents.
The arrow was nocked, the string drawn, but a sudden cry broke the stillness.
"There he is! The one chasing the child!"
The voice was unfamiliar, rough, and filled with venom. The boy froze, the deer bolting into the depths of the forest. He turned toward the commotion, his heart lurching as several humans emerged from the trees. Their faces were twisted with anger, and their hands gripped makeshift weapons.
"I didn't—" the boy began, his voice cracking.
"Liar!" one of the men shouted, pointing an accusing finger. "You're trying to lure our children into your cursed woods, aren't you?"
The boy stepped back, his mind racing. "I was hunting... just the deer. I swear."
But his words were swallowed by the rising anger of the mob. They advanced with torches raised, their shouts drowning out the sounds of the forest.
Millow felt the panic clawing at the boy's chest, the boy's thoughts racing like a storm. Why are they doing this? Why won't they listen? He ran, his legs carrying him back to the safety of his village, but dread grew with every step.
When the boy reached the edge of the village, the horror was already unfolding. Flames licked at the wooden homes, their thatched roofs collapsing under the heat. The once-harmonious songs of nature were replaced by screams. Terraldians armed with swords and axes stormed the village, cutting down anyone who stood in their path.
The boy's feet refused to move, his body frozen as he watched his world crumble. Millow could feel the suffocating weight of helplessness, the piercing grief as the boy's sharp eyes caught glimpses of familiar faces—the baker, the healer, his friends—falling to the ground, lifeless.
"No," the boy whispered, the sound drowned by the chaos around him. His hands trembled as he gripped his bow, but what could he do? What could a boy with a wooden weapon do against steel?
A sharp voice cut through the haze of his mind—his mother's. "Neroth! Go to the grove. Hide!"
"He is Neroth?"
Neroth turned to see her, blood streaked across her face but her eyes fierce with urgency. She gestured toward the forest, toward the ancient oak that marked the entrance to the cavern.
"No! I can help!" Neroth cried, but she shook her head.
"Do as I say!" she shouted before rushing into the fray, wielding a blade.
The world blurred as Neroth ran, tears streaming down his face. His legs carried him to the grove, where the massive oak loomed like a silent sentinel. He ducked beneath its roots, finding the hidden entrance to the cavern.
The air inside was cold and damp, the flickering light of torches casting eerie shadows on the walls. Symbols, painted in crimson and black, adorned the stone, their shapes jagged and unsettling. A faint hum echoed through the chamber, a sound that prickled at the edges of his consciousness.
"Neroth."
He turned to see his parents standing before an altar, their faces pale and drawn. His father's hands were raised, his mother chanting softly in a language Neroth didn't recognize. The symbols on the walls seemed to pulse with their words, the air growing heavier with each syllable.
"What are you doing?" Neroth's voice trembled, his body rooted to the spot.
His father's gaze snapped to him, cold and calculating. "Protecting what's left of us."
"This... This isn't right," Neroth stammered. The realization hit him like a blow—this wasn't worship. This wasn't prayer. This was something darker, something that felt wrong in every fiber of his being.
His mother stepped forward, her expression softening. "Neroth, you don't understand. This is the only way for us to survive."
Millow felt the boy's thoughts spiral, the weight of betrayal crushing him. This isn't who we are. This isn't what we believe.
Before Neroth could respond, the humans stormed into the cavern, their torches casting stark shadows on the ritual.
"More dark magic," one of them sneered. "Your whole family's cursed."
The humans lunged, their blades flashing. Neroth's father moved to intercept, his magic flaring in a desperate attempt to shield them. But the humans were relentless.
"Enough!" Neroth screamed, his voice echoing through the chamber. He grabbed a blade from the altar, the hilt cold in his trembling hands.
The next moments were a blur—his father's body crumpling, his mother's cry of despair. The symbols on the walls glowed brighter, the hum rising to a deafening roar. Neroth's vision narrowed, his chest heaving as rage consumed him.
In a single, instinctive motion, he drove the blade into his mother's heart.
Time seemed to stop. The glow of the symbols faded, replaced by an oppressive darkness that coiled around him. Millow could feel the boy's mind fracturing, his thoughts splintering under the weight of what he'd done.
The darkness seeped into his veins, burning and freezing all at once. Neroth fell to his knees, his screams merging with the guttural roar of something ancient and malevolent.
And then, silence.
When Neroth rose, he was no longer a boy. His eyes glowed with an unholy light, his body crackling with power that felt both alien and familiar. He looked at his reflection in a pool of blood, his elven features warped by demonic energy.
"Mercy," he whispered to himself, his voice hollow. "I'll give them mercy."
Millow staggered as the memory ended, his own chest aching as though he had lived it himself. Neroth stood before him, his expression unreadable.
"Do you see now?" Neroth asked, his voice low and precisely seemingly everywhere yet he cannot be seen. "This world doesn't deserve to exist. Not as it is."
Millow's lips parted, but no words came. He felt the truth of Neroth's pain, but also the twisted logic that had consumed him. He could see it now—the boy who had lost everything, who had become something monstrous in a desperate bid to end his suffering.
Millow's vision suddenly sped forward, where he had determined it to be showing Neroth's rise through the demon ranks in blurry place of red and dark. He saw him lead countless battles through a fast surging visions of memories, his heart hardened with every life he took. No race was spared—not humans, not elves, not even his own kin. His goal was singular: to end all sentient life in Terraldia. Not out of malice, but out of a twisted mercy. Neroth believed that annihilation was the only way to end the suffering he had endured, the cruelty that Terraldia had shown him.
The memories surged forward—centuries of slaughter, schemes, and unrelenting hatred. Yet, amidst the overwhelming chaos, one memory rose above the rest, stark and chilling.
Millow was immediately pulled into the scene from seconds of the landscape around him shifting, now standing in the dark woods bathed in the silvery glow of moonlight. The air was thick with the stench of death, and Neroth stood there, his dark, towering form looming over the lifeless body of a Terraldian soldier. Millow could feel the echoes of the fight that had just ended—the clash of blades, the panicked screams, and finally, the silence of death.
The soldier lay sprawled on the forest floor, his body broken and twisted, his face locked in a grotesque snarl. Yet it wasn't the man's death that held Neroth's attention. It was his soul.
Millow felt it—a faint, pulsating light seeping from the soldier's chest. Neroth reached out with a hand that crackled with dark energy, his clawed fingers piercing through the veil of reality to grasp the essence. The soul shimmered, writhing in his grasp, resisting him even in death.
"You thought you could escape," Neroth muttered, his voice low and venomous. His other hand clenched, and the soul began to unravel, threads of memory spilling into Neroth's mind.
Millow gasped as the visions came. They weren't Neroth's memories but the soldier's, fragmented and jagged like shards of glass.
A towering figure, wreathed in divine light, loomed over the soldier in the visions. Its voice echoed like thunder, resonating with power that sent shivers down Millow's spine.
"You will serve the Divine Gods," the figure commanded. "Your will is nothing. Your purpose is ours and to our Gods of light."
The soldier's screams followed, but they weren't just screams of physical pain. They were the cries of a mind being torn apart, reshaped, and molded into something unrecognizable. Neroth's mind seemed to have taken a hurtful toll as he held his head for a second from his gaze to the soldier's eyes.
"He escaped! The failed subject escaped!"
The vision shifted, showing the soldier, now a hollowed-out version of himself, carrying out orders with cruel efficiency—slaughtering animals, setting fire to forests, and hunting those who dared oppose the divine figure. His actions weren't driven by hatred or belief but by the absence of choice.
Millow felt Neroth's unease as he delved deeper into the memories. There was no anger in the demon's expression, no satisfaction in unearthing this truth. Instead, there was a flicker of something foreign—confusion, maybe even doubt.
The soldier's memories revealed more. The divine figure wasn't just any entity—it was a white silhouette among the dark, speaking of words they could not understand.
"Divine domination," Neroth murmured, the words dripping with disdain.
Millow felt the concept crystallize in Neroth's mind. Unlike the "demon dominion," which sought to annihilate and consume, divine domination was something more insidious. Information surged in his mind, the light being aimed not to destroy but to control—to strip individuals of their will, their identities, their very humanity. They would become vessels of light, mindless servants carrying out the will of the gods.
As Neroth processed this revelation, Millow could feel the war raging within him. This wasn't a simple truth to accept or reject.
"Control their allies," Neroth said aloud, his tone sharp and deliberate. "They don't want peace. They want puppets. It's the Resurgence."
"Resurgence of what?"
"A demigod."
The memories continued, showing the soldier as a test subject for the demigod's twisted experiment ina landscape of an underground tunnel of stones. He was the prototype, the first of many, his mind hollowed and his soul fractured. But something had gone wrong. The experiment had driven him to madness, breaking whatever fragile control the demigod had imposed.
"Demigods here are real? Why would it want such thing."
"Why won't it want such thing?" Neroth replied.
Thus it was shown the soldier had fled, his fractured mind lashing out at anything he perceived as weakness or impurity. Animals became his victims as he gutted a deer, symbols of freedom he could no longer grasp. And yet, as Neroth stared at the body, he couldn't ignore the weight of what he'd discovered.
Millow felt Neroth's thoughts swirling, sharp and calculating. If they succeed, what becomes of free will? Of identity? Even chaos itself?
For a moment, the memory wavered, and Millow sensed a crack in Neroth's cold, calculated exterior. This wasn't the mindless hatred of a demon. This was something deeper—conflicted, almost human.
Neroth stood, his gaze lingering on the body. "Is this what the gods want? A world of purely obedient beings?" He scoffed, the sound bitter and hollow. "And what does that make us, demons? Are we to destroy only to pave the way for this... perversion?"
The doubts lingered, unspoken but heavy. Millow felt them as if they were his own, the weight of existential questions pressing down like a suffocating fog.
"You see now," Neroth said, his voice calm deep in Millow's mind but laced with something dangerous. "The Gods and their champions are no different from us. They take. They destroy. They twist."
Millow whispered, "But as imperfect and cruel we can be, we are very much different from the Gods—even if hate and greed is among us."
"How?" Neroth's voice was heard again.
"Because we are all together."
"Together?"
"Yes. Tell me, as a demon lord for a thousand years, have you ever met the God of Darkness himself?"
"No."
"Exactly. We are not just the lone beings in some higher dimension. We are not mere watchers of change. We are together in those, whether we like it or not. Isn't it that life is full of possibilities to narrow it down? It's beauty and ugliness on all its mysteries is what make us free."
"Free? Free. Through all its possibilities." He repeated. "Millow, how could you have gained such wisdom?"
"Huh? I... don't know."
"But it doesn't change the fact that the demigod is out there, perfecting this soul magic. The perfection of the divine order."
"Yeah. Perfection... It's stupid. It's boring. I wouldn't want it at all."
"Boring? Intriguing." Neroth responded.
Millow's voice was heard exhaling slowly, his mind reeling from the revelations. Neroth's cruel past, the resurgence of a demigod, the horrifying plan for divine domination—it was all too much. For all his power and wrath, Neroth was a creature shaped by betrayal and pain, questioning a world that had given him nothing but reasons to hate as the hatred of humans for elves have been relevant. And now, even his enemies' plans left him wondering if he, too, was just another pawn in a larger game.
Millow's body was then dragged into millions of images surging forward through him in fragmented colors and lights, as he feels his body getting dragged in midair, his vision suddenly snapped back to the present, his body now standing as he feels the blood leaking from his eyes and mouth, the memories dissolving into the oppressive dominion around him—turning his surroundings into the nothingness it was that means one thing.
They are back at his game. But it seems that Millow cheated.
"You... you... urgh!" He sees Neroth turning around to face him now, as his hands are now holding the blood that leaked from his mouth too, it seems both of them are in the same mysterious fate. Bloodied, exhausted, and confused.
Millow coughed as he wipes his face, "So all that really happened?"
Neroth's bloodied eyes widened briefly, his composure cracking. For centuries, he had moved with certainty, yet Millow's words struck at the core of his growing doubt. Millow's existence, his peculiar nature, and his answers to Neroth's questions—it all began to make sense.
"You're... different," Neroth said, his tone carrying an unfamiliar softness. "You truly broke through my soul."
The oppressive darkness of Neroth's Demon Dominion pressed down on Millow like a living thing. The air was thick with an unspoken tension. Millow inhaled nervously, glancing at Neroth, whose crimson gaze burned with the weight of ancient knowledge as he wipes his mouth too.
"That was all... yours?" Millow finally broke the silence, his voice trembling with a mix of defiance and uncertainty. "I didn't mean to."
Neroth's tall, imposing form stood utterly still, his hands clasped behind his back. His voice was low, deliberate. "You presume much, Outworlder. The memories you glimpsed were not for you."
"I didn't ask to see them!" Millow shot back, his frustration breaking through his otherwise lighthearted demeanor. "If I had a choice, I'd want to remember and understand my own life, not yours."
For the first time, Neroth's composure cracked—just slightly. His crimson eyes narrowed, and he stepped forward, his presence suffocating. "And what I can't understand is how all it took a toll on me instead."
Millow flinched but held his ground. "Yeah, and it hurts," His voice cracked as his face seemed to lost its determination. "Neroth. Everything in you hurts."
"Bewildering." Neroth's expression darkened, though there was a flicker of something unreadable in his gaze—conflict, perhaps. He turned away, his heavy cloak sweeping over the dead ground. "You are… an anomaly," he admitted, his voice quieter now. "Hundreds of people. Millions of worthless foolish lives unraveled before me. Yet you did that… you who became a crude trespasser."
"How?" Millow pressed, stepping closer. "How am I a trespasser when I didn't even know what I've done? What my memories are."
Neroth sighed, a sound that carried the weight of centuries. "You lack memories, true. But you answered my question earlier about the darkness with insight no Terraldian, demon or outworlder has ever dared to speak. You embrace balance in kindness—not blind faith in the light, nor devotion to the dark. That alone sets you apart, and now a tragic and idiotic demon lord of a thousand years have lost his grasp of his soul to an outworlder who doesn't even see the grand of his existence."
Millow blinked, his frustration momentarily replaced by confusion. His voice was hoarse when he spoke. "Your thing of pure darkness is questioned by the divine domination? I feel like the Goddess of Light didn't summon outworlders like me because of you or your kind." He paused, his realization a sharp sting. "Maybe she wanted us to stop the demigod that she couldn't stop it herself?"
Neroth's bloodied lips pursed, his gaze intense. "We'll never be certain for that. But now I truly know why I asked that question in this game, from the back of my mind, and what it revealed about… me."
The admission hung heavy in the air. Millow stared at him, wide-eyed. "About you? About what? I made you question yourself?"
"Do not flatter yourself," Neroth growled, though there was no venom in his words. "Your perspective was… unsettling. For millenia, I have existed with a single purpose: the eradication of sentient life, removal of its pain, as decreed by the God of Darkness. Yet, when I uncovered that divine plan, something changed, that meant every action I did may all lead to nothing—not until new beings like you come into play."
Millow tilted his head, curiosity overtaking his fear. "Why?"
Neroth nodded, his expression grim. "Demigods are our match. And that experiment mirror our own 'Dominion,' yet it is far more insidious. This dominion of mine is made outside of the realm that encompasses souls, their domination will be made inside of the souls that will purify it. To strip away wills, to erase choices itself… It is a perversion of existence as that order will certainly reach us demons too, even I cannot abide despite our aim was to eradicate you all."
"That's… surprising," Millow admitted, his voice softening. "You're a demon. I thought you'd be all for that kind of thing, isn't it?"
"I alone among demons have carried this truth," Neroth hissed, his voice fraying like worn steel—sharp but brittle. Shadows coiled around his clawed hands as if mirroring the turmoil beneath his composed sneer. "No other of my kind has glimpsed it, nor shall they. Yet from that daunting cruelty I know I..." His words faltered, the fire in his crimson eyes dimming. "I've tasted what it means to be. To hunger for more than carnage. To mourn the… emptiness where purpose once festered that will soon be carried away. I am also… sentient. I finally know the luxury that I have when I've witnessed its loss."
"It's loss, and yet you've gain something invaluable as a demon." Millow stepped closer and smiled faintly, "You're more like us than you admit, Neroth. But something's different for you yet the same for the Resurgence."
"And what is it?"
"Following a single purpose. You have all this, this world, the people, the places, the chances and all its colors—all yours for years, yet like that divine order, you exist only to kill, only for its black and white, only to follow the dark." He gestured and pointed to the demon's blade, "You've walked Terraldia for years, yet you reduce yourself to a blade. A blade that doesn't wonder why it cuts." Millow added.
Neroth's eyes widened and grit his teeth, "How dare you question my existence and the darkness' will! You—" Neroth replied coldly.
"And how dare you kill us by questioning our existence?" Millow interrupted, unflinching. His glare locked onto Neroth's irises burning with a challenge.
Neroth's eyes widened again where the demon recoiled as if struck. Visions erupted unbidden—a human child's ash-streaked face, an elven warrior's defiant scream cut short, and the outworlders killed by his shadow and blades.
"... I see." Millow's words carved through millennia of numbness, laying bare a rot he'd refused to name.
When Neroth spoke again, his voice was a shattered thing. "You're not mistaken. And now I can't fathom how that divine catastrophe will be worse for the whole of Terraldia. Your intrusion into my essence, my soul—this… perspective you forced me to witness—I see what I once thought lost—something fragile yet profound. How infuriating."
For a long moment, Millow studied him yet he's deep in his thoughts—the demon's hunched posture and his bewildering answers. Then, slowly, the he smiled, not in triumph, but recognition.
"As an elven demon, that's why you've always been alone, haven't you?" Millow spoke of his insightful opinion, Neroth went preternaturally still. When he raised his head, his expression was a mask of fractured ice, but his eyes—wide, almost vulnerable—betrayed him.
Neroth smiled eeriely and surprisingly, "You're the answer." he vaguely replied.
The raw honesty in Neroth's words left Millow speechless. He rubbed the back of his neck, unsure of how to respond. "What do you mean?" he asked finally.
Neroth's jaw tightened. "You outworlders are said to have a different power deep within your soul. The cursed weapons from the prophecies that only your kind can wield." He stepped closer, his towering form casting a shadow over Millow. "And you, an outworlder, who managed to rock me to my core, a different case from the rest, is a variable I did not account for. You are an opportunity I've been looking for to stop the silent tempest that they're preparing."
"Me?" Millow replied in surprise and laughed nervously. "Look, I appreciate the vote of confidence, but I'm just… me. I don't even have that cursion you're saying, you can't even access my soul to activate it or whatsoever. I can't fight like the others, I can't even use my memories!"
"That is precisely why you are the key," Neroth said, his tone resolute. "You are unbound by the expectations of this world. You have no ties, no loyalties that can be exploited by the light and the dark. Your answer to my question proved that you can inevitably adapt and play all this madness, Millow. And perhaps most importantly, you possess something I no longer do."
Millow frowned. "What's that?"
"Defiance for balance."
The word hit Millow like a punch to the gut. He opened his mouth to protest, but Neroth raised a hand to silence him.
Neroth's voice was low, a dark tremor rolling through the air as he regarded Millow with a mix of awe and something close to reverence. "You… you are something I cannot comprehend," he began, his crimson eyes narrowing as if searching for answers in Millow's very being. "Do you understand what that means? I am demon lord—a master of souls, capable of unraveling the essence of anyone, to wither it—yet I cannot even glimpse your memories, your soul, your truth. Do you know what that truly give?"
Millow stood silent, his usual buoyant demeanor overshadowed by the gravity of Neroth's words. "I don't know," he replied softly, his voice barely above a whisper. "I only know that I am… empty. No past. No connection. Just… nothing. I don't even know how I lost my memories yet I know things, it can mean a lot of thing, right?"
"Exactly," Neroth said sharply, his tone cutting through the air like a blade. He stepped closer, the weight of his presence almost suffocating. "And that nothingness—your absence of memory, your immunity to my power—makes you a paradox. A force even I, a being shaped by millennia, cannot unravel. Do you not see it? If I, the Demon Lord of the Withered Souls, cannot even infiltrate your essence, then what chance does a resurging demigod have of using the divine order against your soul?", he continued as he now steps forward, "I've already thought of this earlier but now I am certain, you are the hope against Terraldia's fall."
Millow's heart raced, his confusion palpable. "Hope?" he echoed, shaking his head.
"I have made my decision," Neroth said firmly. "You will leave this place, and you will carry the knowledge I have given you. But to do so, I must remain behind."
Millow's eyes widened. "Remain behind? Wait, no. You can't mean—"
"I will sacrifice myself to end my game," Neroth interrupted, his voice steady. "It is the only way."
"Wait!" Millow shouted, shaking his head. "I know you killed alot—heck you even deserve worse, but I need more time from you!"
"We cannot stay here for eternity while time outside is of treasure," Neroth insisted. "You said it yourself—you are not alone. But neither am I. For the first time in millenia, I see a vision in this world beyond eradication. I've been denying it in my self for years but I am now slowly cutting myself open."
"So, this is the end..." Millow looks at the sky for moment.
"But you don't have a choice, mortal. A demon's dominion is the strongest and the most powerful art one could ever cast in the underworld, not even I who started this can cheat around its rules of absolute end. Only one of us can live."
"I don't want this. I don't want to live knowing I should've died with the rest of them, or to carry your memories just like that, or… or any of it. I just want to know what's happening to me."
Neroth's expression softened, a rare flicker of humanity crossing his features. "You will know. And you will carry my legacy, Millow. Not as a burden, but as a gift. And in doing so, you will prove what you've bestowed upon me—that with the balance of the light and the dark, the gray that is sentience, in all its flawed glory, is worth preserving. You are worth everything."
The air between them was heavy, pulsing with tension so thick it felt like the world itself held its breath. Neroth Aconite stood unmoving, his twin daggers glinting darkly in the moonlight, their edges glowing faintly with a shadowy red hue that pulsed like a heartbeat. Millow could feel the raw power radiating from them, a dark energy that whispered of countless deaths and unspoken despair. Every instinct screamed at him to stop Neroth, to reach him before he could unleash whatever endgame he had planned.
Millow bolted forward, legs pumping with every ounce of desperation he could muster. His heart thundered in his chest, its rhythm erratic as though it would leap free of his body. I have to stop him, he thought, panic blurring his focus. But can I really stop him?, he thought as he reached out with his hand forward as if his mere willpower could close the distance faster.
But Neroth moved with terrifying grace, his twin daggers sweeping in an arc before him, leaving trails of shadowy smoke in their wake. Without a word or hesitation, he unleashed a wave of dark energy—a conical, swirling mass of black and red mist, seething and alive, hurtling toward Millow with monstrous speed. It was not just energy; it was suffocating, like the very essence of despair condensed into a weapon.
And then explosion came.
He felt his body pushed by the impact.
Millow's momentum was halted instantly. The wave struck him like a physical force, his vision swam, the world reduced to streaks of black and white. As his consciousness wavered, a sudden pull in his chest dragged his awareness elsewhere—somewhere unreal.
When Millow opened his eyes again, he was no longer on the dominion. The oppressive darkness was gone, replaced by an endless expanse of wildflowers. They stretched out infinitely in every direction, their vibrant colors shimmering under a pastel sky that shifted like a living watercolor. The air was soft, warm, and fragrant with a sweetness that felt alive, as though the world itself breathed in harmony with his soul.
"Where am I?" he asked.
He looked down at his hands. They were unmarked, unmarred by the possible damage in the battle. Confusion washed over him, but before panic could take root, a radiant glow appeared slowly before him, piercing and brilliant yet gentle enough to soothe his fears. The light pulsed rhythmically, its light hues shifting like the flowers surrounding him: golden yellows, tranquil blues, deep crimsons, and gentle greens.
"It's so safe, it's peaceful... it's home."
This feeling of the serene breeze and calmness. He knows finally, "It's my soul."
From within the light, a form began to materialize. It was small and unassuming at first, its shape hard to discern, but as the brilliance condensed, its details sharpened. Millow gasped softly. It was a knife—short and deceptively simple, but exuding an aura of profound power. The handle was intricate, twisting with glowing, colorful lines that seemed to shift and pulse with his heartbeat. The blade, faintly longer than his thumb, that shimmered with an ethereal sheen, as though the weapon itself were alive.
He reached out, his hand trembling as it neared the knife. It felt like more than a weapon; it was a part of him, something born from his essence. As his fingers wrapped around the handle, a surge of energy exploded outward. Colors raced toward him in a blinding rush—gold, crimson, cerulean, verdant green—each carrying with it a sense of confusing purpose, a whisper of untapped potential. The light enveloped him, and for a moment, he was weightless, suspended in the brilliance.
"A gift and a curse. A weapon and a soul. I am you."
When his eyes opened again, the dominion came rushing back to him. The heavy scent of blood and smoke filled his nostrils, the cold earth pressed against his back. But something was different. His hand tingled faintly, a soft glow fading as he raised it before his face. And there it was—the knife. The same small, unassuming blade he had seen in the realm of light now rested in his grip, as real as the blood on the ground around him.
"You survived unscathed?" Neroth's confused voice whispered.
Millow scrambled to his feet, the knife firm in his hand despite the trembling in his body. There was no time to question, no moment to hesitate. A dark wave again from Neroth is hurtling toward him, its edge mere moments from impact. Acting on instinct, Millow blocked himself with both his arms in his face as the knife in front of him meet its entirety.
The result was instantaneous. The blade tore through the energy wave like it was nothing more than paper. The dark mist split cleanly, the two halves dissipating harmlessly into the air. The sheer ease of it left him breathless. This knife—this tiny, unassuming weapon—had nullified a force that would have done unimaginable damage and pain to him.
Neroth froze, his crimson eyes narrowing as he took in the sight before him. His lips parted, his voice laced with disbelief. "That weapon? Is it because of what I did to you?" His gaze flickered to the knife in Millow's hand, and for the first time, his expression cracked into something resembling shock. "Is that a cursion? How did that weapon tear through it effortlessly? A Knife of Anomaly?"
"This is a cursion? And that was magic?!" He looked at Neroth and back to himself. "This can't be real. What? How?" Millow whispered to himself as he examined the knife with the colorful handle he's holding.
"A cursion of a soul that is small yet powerful?" Neroth asked himself.
The air was tense as Millow gripped the small weapon in his trembling hand. Its faintly glowing handle fit perfectly against his palm, yet its sheer, otherworldly nature unnerved him. Neroth Aconite stood before him, his twin daggers flickering with arcs of dark energy, his crimson eyes piercing through Millow's soul with cold, unyielding malice.
"You summoned it out of thin air," Neroth said, his voice low and chilling. His gaze flicked to the blade, barely longer than Millow's thumb. "A cursion birthed from your mysterious soul. But do you even know what it can do? Or are you just another fool swinging in the dark trying to stop me?"
Millow tightened his grip, unsure whether to speak or strike. Before he could decide, Neroth vanished in a blur of movement, reappearing behind him with a deadly slice aimed at his back. Instinctively, Millow twisted and raised the knife.
The clash was soundless but shocking. Neroth's blade didn't just stop—it was redirected, veering away as if the very air around the knife refused its presence. The force sent Neroth sliding back a step. His expression didn't falter, but there was the faintest flicker of intrigue in his eyes.
"Powerful, it withstands even external forces," Neroth muttered, stepping forward again. "That cursion manipulate what it touches. But control without intent is nothing."
He lunged again, his twin blades weaving a deadly arc. Millow ducked, heart pounding as one dagger scraped his shoulder.
"Argh!" He exclaimed, blood welled up, warm and sticky, but he had no time to think about the pain. He swung the knife wildly, desperate to keep Neroth at bay. This time, the blade connected with a whirling tendril of dark energy. The power unraveled, dissipating into nothing.
Millow's eyes widened. Did I do that?
"Now we're doing this? Futile." Neroth hissed, slashing low and forcing Millow to leap back. "Your weapon seem to not care for strength. It cares for precision. Will. Every cut, every motion—it's your intent that shapes its power."
Millow barely had time to process the words before Neroth closed the gap again, his strikes relentless. Each blow Millow blocked sent vibrations through his arm, but something strange was happening. The knife began to feel lighter, more responsive, as if it wasn't just a weapon but an extension of himself. He deflected another blade, and for a split second, it felt like the world around him bent to his will.
Millow panted heavily as the dimly lit battlefield crackled with energy. His knife glinted faintly in his trembling hand, deceptively small against the towering, cold presence of Neroth Aconite. The demon lord's eyes gleamed with calculating malice as he twirled his twin daggers—blades forged in the fires of millennia of war, etched with dark runes that pulsed with ancient, malevolent energy.
"You wield that tiny knife as if it's more than it appears," Neroth said, his voice low and icy, a sound that seemed to reverberate within Millow's bones. "But I see it now. That blade is not just steel. It is magic—an anomaly of creation. Its essence may have been defying all laws of this world. That may explain the difference of your energy from your kind that I've killed."
Millow, struggling to keep his stance steady, flinched at Neroth's words. He tightened his grip on the cursion, but his hands betrayed him, still shaking from the strain. It is really magic? Magic wasn't real—at least, it was just a possibility from Neroth's attacks earlier, it's not real, it's not supposed to be. The Goddess of Light grant such weapons throughout all of uss? He knows for some reason that back on Earth, magic was nothing more than a whimsical notion, the stuff of bedtime stories and make-believe. He doesn't know how he knows this without such connected memories. But it's not real. It's all difficult to accept but ever since the madness he witnessed from the slaughter, he knows that here, magic beyond his comprehension, is real.
Neroth took a step forward, the sharp clang of his boots against the stone ground echoing in the suffocating silence. "Do you even understand what you hold, Millow?" he sneered, his voice cutting like one of his daggers. "Magic like this—something that can control the very essence of what it touches—this is no ordinary 'arcane' energy. No, this is something far more dangerous. It bends both elemental and arcane laws, perhaps even the divine and the dark. How curious."
He lunged suddenly, his daggers flashing like streaks of shadowed lightning. Millow barely raised his cursion in time to deflect the strike. Sparks erupted as the blades collided, and Neroth's strength sent a jarring shock through Millow's arm. The demon lord withdrew and spun into another assault, probing Millow's defenses with swift, relentless strikes, his movements a symphony of death honed over centuries.
Each clash of their weapons sent jolts of energy coursing through Millow's body, the weight of the battle pressing down on him. He was forced onto the defensive, every instinct focused on surviving the onslaught. But Neroth's words lingered in his mind, unlocking fragments of realization with each passing second.
"But it's not just those magic, is it?" Neroth said, a cruel smile spreading across his face as if he could read Millow's thoughts. "I feel different energies to it. A chaos. A defiance of all magical principles. That blade… it does not merely control. It anomalizes. It combines the littlest essence of those magic and twists magic itself."
Millow staggered, the weight of the revelation nearly overwhelming him. His cursion was more than just a weapon—it was a force that defied the very fabric of Terraldia's magical laws. But before he could dwell on it further, Neroth lunged again, his daggers blurring with deadly precision.
"You may think your blade can match mine," Neroth growled as their weapons clashed again. "But these daggers have tasted the blood of demigods and kings alike, felled foes far greater than you. They are forged from the agony of millennia, imbued with the power of countless battles—of both elven elemental and dark demonic power. Your cursion is a fledgling compared to their might."
"Then stop me." Millow replied.
Millow gritted his teeth, his mind racing. Neroth's mastery, his understanding of magic, his overwhelming strength—they were all insurmountable. And yet… Millow couldn't deny the truth: his knife responded to him in ways no ordinary weapon could. It was bound to him, a reflection of his will, his blood, his soul.
Neroth struck again, this time aiming to overwhelm. One blade sliced through the air while the other conjured a wave of dark energy, bearing down on Millow like a tidal wave of death. Instinctively, Millow brought his cursion up. He felt a push, as though the blade extinguished the energy, and with a sweep of his arm, the wave splintered, its fragments scattering harmlessly into the void.
"Interesting," Neroth said, his tone still cold but laced with an edge of curiosity. "It adapts. You adapt. You don't even need this nor my power. But all this should end now."
"You have a lot more to say." Millow replied with a trembling breath.
"It's not my duty to teach you. You know surely know what my role is. Let us think this is my final retribution for the lives I ended. May I be forgiven from the past towards the future I am preparing."
"You are mistaken. Neroth! Neroth Aconite, the Demon Lord of the Withered Souls, I beg of you-"
"And I beg you to be the proof that there's more to the tipping scales of the world, of what you've answered to me. The epitome of freedom is what you are. Be it." Neroth cut him off.
Millow's eyes shown his surprise, he opened his lips, "I do not know how I will do that."
"You don't have to." The air crackled with an unnatural tension, as though the world itself held its breath. Millow's body trembled under the weight of Neroth's gaze, his words lingering like a heavy mist. Each syllable was a cut, every pause a chasm.
Neroth's expression darkened, his crimson eyes narrowing. And then it came—the flash of memory, striking like lightning through a storm-black sky. His life unfurled before him, too swift to grasp, yet too vivid to ignore.
Once, Neroth had been an elf. He saw it now, fragments slicing through his consciousness with merciless precision. The golden forests of his youth, the laughter of kin, the moonlit rituals that bound his people to the Goddess of Light, and the secrets of his family for the God of Darkness. He had been proud, unyielding—a protector of life. And the whispers of forbidden power had lured him into the abyss, transforming him into the demon lord he was now. But it all seems to transcend for this destined moment.
The memories tore through him, faster, sharper: the betrayal of his kin, the day his name was erased from their songs, the millenia spent drowning in hatred, blood, and shadow. He had become a harbinger of death, an important instrument of the God of Darkness, a demon lord. And yet… in this moment, facing an outworlder without a past, he saw a flicker of what he once had been.
A faint smile touched Neroth's lips. It was a smile born of pain, of resignation, and of hope. "You've truly won Millow," he whispered to himself, "You've won me, my memories, my power, and my game. From the visions, find the Thaumaturge Academy." he spoke sternly to Millow.
"Neroth, you've killed everyone, but what you'll do is not enough to forgive you." Millow replied coldly.
"Forgive me Millow, but I am grateful through time begond my end. At last by your hand, I'll truly be free." Neroth vaguely answered.
"Thank you."
With a sudden, fluid motion, he opened both his arms with his back curved, head upward, chest forward, he raised his twin daggers—jagged, gleaming, and black as the darkness of the skies. For a fleeting second, they caught the light of the fabricated moon, perfectly aligned in the heavens. Millow's breath caught in his throat as the daggers hung there, suspended in the symmetry of fate.
"Congratulations."
Then they fell.
"Goodbye."
The blades struck Neroth's chest with a sickening precision, cleaving him in two with the smoke appearing before Millow could even cry out. The impact was silent, but the explosion that followed was deafening. A huge red and black smoke erupted, swallowing the world in an instant.
Then red and black.
There was silence again.
There was darkness.
There was peace.
And there was heavy breaths.
A dark chamber's air was thick with the weight of something ancient, something unmoving. A stillness that was not mere absence, but intent. Time had abandoned this place, left it to decay in the suffocating black. The only light came from the trembling glow of candleflame, flickering against damp stone walls. Shadows stretched long, unnaturally so, curling like living tendrils across the cracked floor. This place had watched and waited long before this moment.
A slow, rhythmic tapping echoed through the chamber.
Footsteps. Soft. Measured. Each one left an absence of sound, as if the space behind them ceased to exist. A figure emerged—moving, gliding, robes of white whispering against the cold floor. The air itself bent around her, unseen forces coiling like silent serpents. A hood concealed most of her face, save for the glint of silver threading through woven braids, beads of sacred gold nestled like unblinking eyes within the strands.
She finally approached an iron gate—a behemoth untouched by time. Its surface bore etchings, sigils once vibrant, now mere ghosts of their former power. Beyond it, only deeper shadow. A void so thick it devoured even the candlelight.
The chamber exhaled.
A hand rose from the folds of ash-gray robes, its papery skin catching the flicker of a lone candle. The gate before her was no ordinary iron—it wept rust like dried blood, its bars etched with runes that hummed with the dissonance of a thousand dead tongues. As her fingertips grazed its surface, the metal shrieked, not in protest, but in recognition. The darkness beyond did not yield. It devoured. A void so absolute it seemed to breathe, its edges undulating like the throat of some primordial beast.
Then, it spoke. Not with sound, but with the resonance of a glacier splitting bedrock. The voice permeated stone, flesh, time itself—a vibration that turned her marrow to ice and her breath to fog.
"You are timely, my child."
She bent her spine in a bow so deep her hood brushed the floor, the motion rehearsed yet reverent. When she straightened, her smile was a sickle moon in the gloom—sharp, cold, inevitable. "As always for you, my light."
The presence beyond the gate is not seen but only a bright light of white. It was the absence between stars, the silence after a dying scream. Yet she felt its gaze—a pressure against her skull, probing the seams of her loyalty.
"The kingdom bends," she continued, her voice honeyed with the precision of a surgeon's blade. "The outworlders have arrived. The people look to them, unaware they stare into the palm of our hand. The King... he sees what I allow, but the council scurries, feigning control, all because of the princess."
The darkness rippled. Not in anger, nor approval. It was the twitch of a spider sensing its web tremble.
"You failed to contain her."
Her fingernails—yellowed, claw-like—dug into her palm. "My apologies. She's unpredictable, just like her brother."
"It is expected, but continue your matters."
She tilted her head, the candlelight carving hollows beneath her eyes. "I have my endless gratitude for you, my light. Now, I know of a greater matter than those corrupted children of Sorrel."
A pause. The air thickened, viscous as clotting blood.
"Is it the slaughterer?"
"Yes, my light. Him with the royal siblings. I know their roles are beneficial for the future of the castle, and the future of our vision. Especially the young woman who helped me influence the King to gather the outworlders."
The gate's runes flared—a sickly blue—as if the void beyond had snarled. "And what of her?"
Her smile deepened, revealing teeth stained by decades of bitter tinctures. "Promising. More than she understands. You know this, as you see how she was able to sway the King with only a few of her commanding words. Shall I bring her into the fold and make her our ally?"
Silence. The candle's flame guttered, its light shrinking to a desperate blue ember. Shadows crawled up the walls, fingers clawing toward the ceiling. When the voice returned, it carried the weight of a tomb sealing. "Not yet. Not until we've carefully used our experimented subjects in the gaols to dissect which among the outworlders are worthy. I solmenly believe it is the Goddess' will to free most of them who are not for this world."
"With the divine's grace, that is understandable, my light. The news of the so-called demon and monsters of the trials had just reached the castle before the academy." She lifted her sleeve, revealing a wrist mottled with scarred sigils—failed experiments, old sacrifices. "Our demon serums of the alchemy are proven to be effective for the transformation of mere faunas. Now, do we wait for the slaughterer to unleash his talents against our distorted monstrosities?"
"We wait for the slaughterer to test the strength of our subjects. And the strength of that commanding outworlder. We have a great show ahead of us."
She exhaled, a sound like wind through a crypt. "I am very much looking forward, my light. The Princess' methods of experimentation are useful for situations like this. But this will cost us to diminish the numbers we need before some of them are awakened. Should some of our forces intervene in the trials when the time is right?"
"Thus they'll find out who are the people behind all of it? We cannot risk that chance ever. I am certain of a single conclusion: that they will all have the admirable indomitable spirit of the unified people to surpass the inhumane challenges they'll face. They're also humans. Never underestimate the power of their wills."
"I see, your insight is as wonderful as ever, my light. What move shall I do next in your honor?"
"The problems you've mentioned—the royal children. Play them kindly. Do what is necessary. We must act hastily, as the time of outworlders finally came to us." his voice echoing, "The academy of magic itself and the progressive art of alchemy we use has the need for the prodigal Princess and her ingenuity, unlike the proud crown prince that awaits no worth nor purpose to the palace. Therefore, planting more of the eyes we need is of the haste to watch the moves of the Princess in the Thaumaturge—amidst the headmaster and the outworlders in the near future after the trials."
She nodded, "Your brilliance will always be admired and appreciated, my light. I duly understood and will do your plans with my whole heart. I wholeheartedly thank you for bestowing a fulfilling task and purpose." She bowed again, her hood slipping just enough to reveal a strand of silver hair, brittle as spider silk.
"As for the Prince… we cannot remove him just like how we cannot get rid of the King. If that happened, the King and his kingdom will result in consequences that will halt some of our plans—yet we must end his only son for us to proceed smoothly."
"My light, if I may suggest respectfully: if we can't end him now, then we can end something for him, I am certain that if you'll let me, then he'll cause no more trouble for us, and for the King and the Princess."
"Hmm. Clever as ever, my child."
A soundless tremor shook the chamber. Dust rained from the ceiling, though none touched her robes. The candle's flame froze mid-flicker, trapped in a moment outside time.
"The order comes nigh with you, my devotee. Now go and make your move." She nodded and fixed her composure.
The room pulsed. Then it was revealed.
"The light is with you, Solmira."
Her head snapped up, the hood falling back to expose a face carved by decades of calculated moves. Wrinkles mapped her skin like cracks in ancient porcelain, framing eyes the color of storm-smothered graves—pale gray, depthless, hungry. Her lips parted in a smile that did not touch those eyes, and for a heartbeat, the candlelight warped, casting her shadow not on the wall, but into the gate, where it twitched and writhed like a thing alive.
"As with your essence, my dearest lord. Acquiescent am I to your prescience."
The gate sealed with a sigh that echoed of bones settling. The candle flared anew, its light now tainted faintly gold. She turned, her robes hissing against the floor like a serpent's shed skin. At the chamber's threshold, she paused, her voice a venomous purr.
"The plans for your resurgence will now come forth, witness my power, my lord, all to have our destiny of pure light for all."