The corpse split in two, and a wet, screeching hiss escaped from what remained of the insectoid warrior before it collapsed into a pool of its own viscous green blood.

  The armored warrior stood still, the edge of its greatsword dripping with alien ichor. It made no movement for a few seconds, the battlefield silent except for the crackle of broken chitin falling apart.

  Then, with practiced grace, it swung the greatsword in a wide arc to fling off the blood before returning it to the sheath on its back. The twin greatswords formed an X across its broad back, and with one gauntleted hand, the warrior extended its palm over the insect warrior's remains.

  From the mutilated corpse, strange letters—glowing in ghostly reds and blues—began to rise like mist. They shimmered unnaturally, symbols that could not be comprehended, yet their presence stirred something in anyone who would have seen it. The letters spiraled slowly into the warrior's hand and disappeared upon contact with the blackened armor.

  Luxerio, crouched beside a corpse a short distance away, turned his head at the subtle hum the letters made.

  "Already? That was fast," Luxerio muttered to himself, eyebrows raising. "Fastest one yet... Is he getting more efficient or stronger?"

  Shaking the thought away, he looked down at himself.

  His new clothes were modest—thick, cloth pants tucked into leather boots, and a slightly torn, dust-covered coat he'd scavenged from a fallen soldier. It was stained with blood in more places than he liked, but it was infinitely better than the rags he had started with. No shirt underneath, only some linen scraps bound around his chest like makeshift bandages, but he wasn't complaining. Not anymore.

  He caught sight of the armored warrior beginning to walk again, the same slow, heavy stride that conveyed no urgency yet covered ground with uncanny efficiency. Luxerio sighed and jogged a few steps to close the distance. This was the routine now. Has been for the past two hours. Walk, fight, loot, repeat.

  Since choosing to follow the armored warrior—and let's face it, what other choice did he really have?—Luxerio had seen three fights.

  The first was against a ram-horned beast that shrieked with every charge; the second, a serpent creature whose body moved like smoke, dodging with unnatural grace. Both had been demolished by the armored warrior without much effort. And now the insect creature was the third victim of this being.

  What haunted Luxerio wasn't just the armored warrior's strength, but the ease of it. These weren't just victories—they were dominations. One-sided exhibitions of destruction where the armored figure didn't even bother unsheathing the second greatsword.

  Luxerio had started entertaining delusions—"What if I had a weapon? Maybe I could fight too." But those thoughts never lasted. Not after seeing the sheer power behind each of the warrior's strikes. The way the ground split. The way sound cracked like thunder every time the sword moved.

  Yeah, no. He'd die in seconds.

  During those fights, he mostly kept himself at a safe distance, clinging to shadows and cover. Sometimes he'd scavenge nearby bodies for better gear or something useful. Most of the time, though, he just watched. Watched and tried to make sense of it all. What was this walking fortress of death? What was he doing here? And more importantly,

  Where the hell are we even going?

  He wasn't stupid enough to ask. Not yet. The only sounds the warrior ever made were the clang of boots, the scrape of metal, and the occasional grunt when exerting itself. Though once in a while, Luxerio thought he heard something else. Not words, exactly. But breath. Tired, deep breathing beneath the helmet, like every moment spent alive was borrowed time.

  The silence between them was thick. Luxerio didn't mind. It gave him time to think.

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  The path they walked was littered with corpses, some fresh, others dried into husks of meat and bone. He stepped over the body of something vaguely humanoid with a broken mask and fur-covered arms. Further ahead, something that looked like a tree made of flesh, split down the center. There were no birds. No wind. Just death.

  Luxerio's gaze drifted across the desolate wasteland, and for the first time in a while, a question pushed itself to the front of his mind:

  "What the hell even happened here?"

  He didn't say it aloud. But the thought was loud enough.

  And the armored warrior, still walking ahead, never looking back—slowed.

  As if it had heard him anyway.

  Luxerio narrowed his eyes.

  "...Can it read my mind?"

  He shook his head, trying not to dwell on it too much. It was easier to just keep walking. For now.

  Half an hour later...

  Deep in his thoughts, Luxerio found his foot caught on the edge of a jagged rock, and before he realized it, his head smacked against the cold, unyielding metal of the armored warrior's back.

  A sharp pain lanced across his forehead, and he staggered back with a curse, clutching at the wound. Blood trickled down his brow as he looked up, scowling.

  "What the hell...?!"

  He stared at the armored giant, who stood completely still. It wasn’t the sudden halt that unnerved him—it was the silence, the palpable shift in the air. He blinked, and then his eyes adjusted to what lay ahead.

  Just meters in front of them was a large circular patch of land. Unlike the rest of the battlefield—where twisted corpses, shattered weapons, and rivers of blood painted a grotesque mural—this area was untouched. No signs of war, no splashes of red or blackened scars in the earth. It was serene, unblemished, disturbingly clean.

  Luxerio's confusion deepened. He leaned to the side, trying to see around the warrior, expecting an ambush, or perhaps some hidden horror lying in wait. But there was nothing. The emptiness of the space felt heavier than the corpses around them.

  Then, unexpectedly, the warrior turned its head, its dull black eyes locking onto Luxerio.

  He jumped, heart nearly lurching out of his chest, his boots skidding slightly on the gritty soil. He caught his balance just in time, stumbling back a few steps while still holding that unnatural gaze.

  Seconds passed. The silence stretched. Then, in a voice that sounded as weary as it was ancient, the warrior spoke:

  "You are the one who made the prayer. You must step into the circle."

  Luxerio blinked. "What?"

  He looked at the circle again, then back to the warrior. "What does that even mean? What's in there?"

  The warrior did not elaborate. Its voice was almost distant now, as if repeating something long memorized.

  "For the Tale to be completed, the one who called it forth must fulfill the requirements."

  Luxerio narrowed his eyes. "What requirements? I didn’t ask for this. I just—I just..."

  He clenched his fists, eyes twitching with frustration. He hadn’t expected to live past that prayer. He hadn’t expected to be dragged into whatever divine or hellish play this was.

  "You already know what they are," the armored warrior said simply.

  Luxerio gritted his teeth. "I don’t know anything! I didn’t even know what that damn prayer was! I just said it out of spite!"

  His voice cracked at the end, echoing slightly in the stillness. He glanced at the circle again, then down at his feet. Regret prickled inside him like needles. He’d prayed because he had nothing left—no food, no safety, no worth, no future. It had been a final screw-you to the world that had chewed him up and spit him out.

  And now?

  Now he was standing in front of a cursed circle while a monstrous warrior that could crush entire battalions waited behind him like some kind of silent executioner.

  He bit his lip. Could he run?

  He glanced at the two greatswords strapped to the armored figure’s back as the memory of the sheer speed one could fly at if thrown.

  Yeah. No.

  He sighed heavily, muttering, "Screw this..."

  His feet shuffled forward reluctantly. The closer he got, the more intense the feeling became—not fear, no, something else. Like a weight pressing down on his brain, twisting his stomach.

  A wrongness, like his senses couldn’t quite comprehend what his eyes were seeing. The patch of untouched land was unnatural, sterile in a world where nothing was ever clean.

  It reminded him of the Mythgraves—the domes he used to watch from the rooftops of the city. Even from a distance, they had given him that same sick feeling. As though they didn’t belong. As though the world itself was rejecting their presence.

  Now that same pressure was curling around his skull.

  He stopped right at the edge of the circle, one breath away from crossing it. The wind stilled. Even the usual groans of the dying wind through the distant wreckage seemed to hush.

  Luxerio glanced over his shoulder briefly. The armored warrior didn’t move.

  He returned his gaze to the circle. "If this kills me..."

  A pause. A long breath.

  "Then so be it. I would’ve died anyway if it wasn't for those bitches. Probably in some alley, choking on my own blood. Or freezing in the dark. Or starving with no one giving a damn."

  He stepped forward.

  "At least if I die here... It will be by my own dumb hand."

  And with that final thought, Luxerio stepped into the circle.

  The world didn’t explode. Not immediately. But something had definitely shifted.

  And there would be no turning back.