The wind howled through the narrow streets, clawing at broken signs and rattling shuttered windows as though the town itself were screaming a warning. Rain lashed down in relentless sheets, blurring the outlines of buildings and turning the cobblestone roads into slick rivers of shadow. Thunder rolled overhead, deep and unending, wrapping the town in a suffocating shroud of dread. For a fleeting moment, lightning split the sky, bathing the streets in stark white light then darkness reclaimed everything, heavier than before.
When the thunder finally faded, an unnatural silence followed. The rain still fell, the wind still screamed, yet something essential seemed to pause, as if the world itself were holding its breath.
Then came the footsteps.
They struck the ground with slow, deliberate force, echoing through the empty streets like the march of an unseen army. Each step carried weight beyond flesh and bone, pressing into the earth, bending the air around it. Streetlights flickered as the sound drew closer, their yellow glow stuttering in protest before bursting one by one, plunging the road into darkness behind the advancing figure.
A lone being walked through the storm, unhurried, untouched by the rain that seemed to recoil from his presence. His destination was clear a modest house at the edge of the street, its windows dim, its walls trembling beneath the growing pressure.
Inside the house, chaos reigned.
A man moved with frantic urgency, his breath sharp as he shoved aside a heavy bookshelf, revealing a hidden passage carved into the stone behind it. The air inside the home was thick with fear, but his movements were precise, practiced. He grabbed his wife by the shoulders, forcing her toward the opening, then turned to his young son, whose wide eyes reflected the flashes of lightning outside.
"Go," the man urged, his voice strained yet firm. "You must go now."
His wife hesitated, tears cutting clean paths down her face. "We won't leave you," she whispered.
"You will," he said, more sharply than he intended. He softened, cupping her cheek for the briefest moment. "Please."
Another thunderclap shook the house, closer this time. The boy flinched as the sound of footsteps reached the front door, slow and inevitable.
The man reached up to a rack on the wall and tore down a sword. Its blade shimmered faintly, runes etched along its length pulsing as if awakened by his touch. He knelt in front of his son and pressed a strange necklace into his small hands. The pendant was dark metal, etched with symbols that seemed to shift when not looked at directly.
"Never take this off," the man said quietly. "No matter what happens."
Before the boy could ask a question, the front door exploded inward.
Wood splintered like glass, shards embedding themselves into the walls as the force of the impact shook the entire house. A towering figure stepped through the wreckage, the air around him warping as if reality itself recoiled from his presence.
The man rose, sword in hand, positioning himself between the being and his family.
"Go!" he shouted.
His wife grabbed their son and disappeared into the passageway just as the hidden door slammed shut behind them. A faint shimmer rippled through the stone, sealing the entrance from sight.
The being tilted his head, amused.
Steel met steel in a deafening clash that echoed louder than the thunder outside. Sparks erupted as the blades struck, lighting the room in violent flashes. The speed of the fight was inhuman forms blurring, movements snapping through space faster than the eye could follow. Each strike cracked walls, shattered beams, and tore gouges into the floor.
The man fought with desperation and precision, his sword humming as runes ignited along its edge. He leapt back, rolled beneath a sweeping strike, and countered with a blow that sent shockwaves rippling through the air. Outside, thunder answered each clash, as if the storm itself bore witness to the battle.
With a brief opening, the man slammed his palm against the floor, activating a glowing rune. A translucent image flared into existence before him his wife and son running through narrow stone corridors, their footsteps frantic but steady. Relief flickered across his face.
He smiled.
Straightening, he turned back to his opponent, renewed fire blazing in his eyes. "You're too late," he said.
The fight escalated. The ground beneath them cracked, black veins spreading outward as the very land began to wither under the strain of their power. Walls collapsed, ceilings caved in, and the storm outside grew violent enough to tear roofs from nearby buildings.
Bleeding, battered, and running out of time, the man made his choice.
He drew upon everything—his strength, his life, his soul. The runes along his sword blazed white-hot as he charged forward, driving the blade through the being's guard and triggering the final technique.
Light consumed everything.
The explosion that followed was blinding, absolute. It erased the house, the street, the town itself, leaving behind a vast, smoldering crater where life had once existed. The storm vanished, the wind fell silent, and ash drifted through the air like falling snow.
In the final moments, the man felt his body unravel, his existence fading into nothing.
"Be strong," he whispered into the void. "Take care, my son."
Then he was gone.
Minutes passed in silence before flashes of light tore open the air above the crater. Several figures materialized, their expressions cold as they surveyed the devastation.
"What a pity," one of them muttered.
Before he could say more, another presence emerged calm, composed, and far more dangerous. A younger figure stepped forward, his gaze sharp, calculating.
"I gave your man one task," he said evenly. "Bring him back alive. And yet he was annihilated instead."
The subordinate fell to one knee. "Your Highness, I take full responsibility. But we can still trace what occurred. The memory rune remains intact."
The prince's eyes narrowed. "Proceed."
The rune activated, projecting the battle in flickering fragments. The duel replayed itself steel, thunder, sacrifice until the image distorted and shattered.
The prince's patience snapped.
He lifted a hand. A glass nearby exploded against the wall, followed instantly by the subordinate himself, reduced to nothing in a burst of crimson light.
"Useless," the prince said coldly. "All you know how to do is waste my time and resources."
He turned to the remaining figures. "Find the artifact. I don't care how long it takes."
They stiffened.
"If you fail," he continued, voice calm and deadly, "don't bother returning. Kill yourselves."
"Yes, Lord Crowe," they answered in unison, bowing deeply before scattering, desperate to escape his gaze.
Lord Crowe stared into the barren wasteland, his lips curling into a thin smile.
Somewhere out there, the artifact still existed.
And so did the child.