The speeding flash of steel cut through the air toward Luxerio's face, faster than his panicked mind could properly register. Instinct screamed at him to move, and desperation fueled his body.

  He forced his head to shift with everything he had, muscles straining as his body lurched to the side. It was only by a matter of millimeters that the massive blade did not bisect his skull.

  Instead, he felt the searing agony of flesh being torn away as a chunk of his cheek was ripped clean off.

  Blood spattered through the air, and before he could even process the pain, the sheer force of the weapon’s impact with the ground behind him sent a powerful shockwave through the dirt. The blast launched his frail frame into the air, his body tumbling uncontrollably.

  His vision twisted, the world spinning around him as he struggled to brace himself. He crossed his arms over his head in a desperate attempt to shield himself from the fall, but it hardly mattered.

  His momentum carried him straight toward the armored warrior who had just thrown the greatsword.

  The moment his airborne body reached the warrior, a hand shot up with terrifying precision and clamped around his throat. His momentum halted instantly, all air in his lungs crushed under the unyielding force of the warrior’s grip. Luxerio dangled there, feet kicking uselessly in the air as he grasped at the gauntlet locked around his windpipe.

  What... just happened?

  His mind raced, unable to fully comprehend how he had gone from mere observer to a helpless ragdoll in this warrior’s grasp. His arms flailed, fingers clawing at the cold metal, but he might as well have been trying to pry apart a mountain with his bare hands. The warrior's strength was absolute.

  He forced himself to look past the featureless helmet, trying to see the face of the being that held him. It was then that he noticed them—eyes, dull and lifeless behind the helmet’s visor. Empty. Hollow. Like they contained no soul. A wave of cold dread ran through him. Was this even a person?

  A suffocating silence followed, the warrior simply staring at him, seemingly studying him. Luxerio could feel his heart pounding against his ribcage, his body trembling from both fear and the pain of his mutilated cheek. His breaths came in short, shallow bursts as the crushing grip around his throat made it harder and harder to draw air.

  Then, something shifted.

  The black, soulless eyes flickered. A brief, fleeting moment of something stirred within them. A flicker of red burned within the dull void. It was so brief, Luxerio might have thought he imagined it, had it not been followed by the first words from the warrior.

  “So... you made the prayer?”

  The voice was not what he expected. Not a deep, monstrous growl. Not an unholy, echoing rasp. Instead, it was tired. Weary. As if the one speaking carried the weight of a thousand battles, of endless exhaustion.

  Luxerio’s brain stalled. His hands still weakly clutched at the warrior’s wrist as he tried to comprehend what had just been said. The prayer? What prayer?

  And then, the memory hit him like a hammer.

  The prayer.

  The vengeful, spitefilled last fuck you he had made in the depths of he neared his death. A prayer he had barely understood himself. The words had come from somewhere unknown, something beyond his comprehension.

  And yet, this being before him, spoke of it as though it were fact.

  “I...” Luxerio struggled to speak, but the warrior didn’t seem to need an answer.

  “If that’s the case... then it has already begun,” the warrior muttered, almost as if speaking to itself.

  Without another word, the grip around Luxerio’s neck released. His body crumpled to the ground in an unceremonious heap, air flooding back into his lungs as he gasped and coughed violently. His throat throbbed, and his fingers clutched the torn flesh of his cheek, but he had no time to dwell on the pain.

  The narrative has been taken without permission. Report any sightings.

  He watched, bewildered, as the warrior simply turned and walked away, heading toward the embedded greatsword that had nearly killed him.

  What the fuck just happened?

  Just moments ago, he had been certain of his death. He had watched this warrior annihilate two seemingly supernatural combatants with terrifying ease. And yet, after nearly taking his head off, it just... left him?

  None of this made sense.

  Struggling to push himself upright, Luxerio coughed again, wincing at the sharp pain coursing through his battered body. He was still reeling, his mind struggling to process everything. He had barely begun piecing together his thoughts when the warrior returned.

  This time, both of its massive greatswords were sheathed on its back in an X formation. Though the blood of its previous victims still stained its armor, there was no urgency, no aggression in its movement. It simply stood before him, an indomitable figure of war and death.

  Luxerio’s breath hitched. Whatever had just transpired, he had the unsettling feeling that this was far from over.

  Luxerio watched, frozen in place, as the armored warrior turned away from him and began a slow, deliberate walk toward the two corpses. His mind raced with questions.

  What is it doing? Is it going to devour them?

  Perhaps it is going to desecrate them in some strange ritual, or worse, raise them from the dead?

  He had heard whispers and horror stories of necromancers who could do such things—was this warrior some nightmarish version of that?

  But what happened next only left him with more confusion.

  The warrior halted beside the bodies, its imposing frame looming over them like a final monument to their end. It extended one of its gauntleted hands, palm facing downward, hovering just inches above the slain warriors. Then something strange happened—letters. Tiny, floating letters.

  Luxerio’s breath hitched as he saw them materializing from the bodies, glowing faintly before drifting toward the warrior’s hand. The letters were of two distinct colors—red rising from the larger warrior, blue from the smaller. They were foreign to him, a script unlike anything he had ever seen, yet there was an eerie familiarity to them, like a whisper in the back of his mind.

  He tried to focus on them, tried to make sense of what they meant, but his eyes refused to understand. The symbols pulsed, almost as if they were alive, and he could feel something from them, not just see, but feel.

  A sense of finality. Of loss. Of something ending.

  The armored warrior absorbed the floating letters into its palm, the strange symbols vanishing as they made contact with the blackened metal. The action was purposeful, practiced, like it had done this countless times before. But what was it? Was it feeding on them? Did this give it power?

  A sharp pang pulled Luxerio out of his thoughts. His face. His wound. He had nearly forgotten about the part of his cheek that had been sliced clean off.

  The warrior turned its attention back to him. Despite himself, Luxerio stiffened under its gaze. He had been spared, but for what reason? His body tensed as the towering figure moved toward him again, its steps slow and heavy, the earth crunching beneath its weight.

  He wanted to step back, but something told him running would be pointless. Instead, he remained still as the warrior reached down and picked up a torn piece of cloth from the smaller warrior’s corpse.

  Luxerio’s first instinct was to recoil. Was it going to use that on him? Why? His body remained rigid as the warrior extended the blood-stained cloth toward him and, with careful movement, pressed it against his open wound.

  The unexpected sensation of cloth meeting raw, exposed flesh sent a sharp jolt of pain through his face, but he forced himself to remain still.

  He could have moved back. He could have slapped the warrior’s hand away. But something told him that wasn’t necessary. It wasn’t trying to hurt him.

  A strange silence stretched between them.

  Luxerio hesitantly reached up and took the cloth from the warrior’s hand, pressing it more firmly against his face to stop the bleeding. Using what was left, he wrapped the fabric around his head, securing it in place. The warrior watched, unmoving. And then—it nodded. A small, subtle movement, but Luxerio saw it.

  It was satisfied.

  Satisfied with what? That he was taking care of his wound? That he had obeyed some unspoken command?

  Before he could even think to ask, the warrior turned its back to him and began walking away, its steps slow but resolute.

  For a moment, Luxerio simply watched. He didn’t know what to do. He had been spared, but now what? Should he run? Should he hide?

  Then, without looking back, the warrior paused in its steps.

  It turned its head slightly toward him, and in that same tired, worn-out voice, it spoke again.

  “As you have called the prayer, then you are the one to complete this Tale. So if you wish to live… then you should follow me.”

  Then, without waiting for a response, it continued walking.

  Luxerio stood frozen in place, his heart pounding in his chest.

  What did it mean? The prayer… the Tale…? He had only prayed so that the Mythgrave would kill those two debt collectors, as a last act of defiance against his fate. He hadn’t expected anything to actually happen. He hadn’t expected to survive.

  Yet here he was, alive. And here was this warrior, speaking as if everything had already been decided.

  Luxerio looked around. The battlefield stretched endlessly in all directions, a graveyard of warriors, beasts, and things he didn’t even have names for. He was alone. There was no shelter. No food. No guarantee of survival.

  And then he thought back to the fight. To the way the armored warrior had decimated those two beings, both of whom had already possessed supernatural strength. He imagined himself in that fight. He wouldn’t have lasted a second.

  The choice was clear.

  Luxerio clenched his fists, took a shaky breath, and began walking after the warrior.

  Because if he wanted to live… he had no other option.

  And so, with reluctant steps, he followed.