Shadow Slave

A different memory, this one full of ruin and devastation...

A vast, shattered bone plain stretched endlessly under a grey, cloudy sky. Liquid metal rained down on the corpses of numerous men as an abyss of ferocious white flame melted a raging storm of swords into an incandescent hail.

Among the corpses, a man in a vermillion cloak and heavy armor had crossed swords with a young woman wreathed in flame. Her own sword had surrendered to his Will, as well, so she discarded it and forged herself a blade out of her own soul.

Out of pure light and a ferocious, unquenchable longing.

And hatred, of course.

The battle had wounded the very foundations of the world, so reality was coming undone around them, revealing the harrowing depths of divine laws hidden beneath.

Needless to say, that battle had swallowed up numerous lives, as well.

The man had been overbearing and proud, but now, he was battered and covered in gruesome burns. His sword, which had been able to cut concepts once, was turning blunt. His face, which had been handsome before, now resembled a ghastly mask of melted wax.

But his steel-grey eyes were still burning. His swordsmanship was precise, transcendent, and sublime. His authority over all things metal was insidious and uncompromising. His Will was like a towering iron wall, impregnable and devastating.

The young woman was a sage of the sword, as well. She had mastered countless styles and invented more than a few of her own... but today, she was stubbornly clinging to only one. A flowing, unpredictable technique that was both versatile and supremely adaptable.

Her father’s technique, which the King of Swords knew too well.

It did not save him from falling prey to the legacy of Broken Sword, all the same.

In the end, the indestructible steel wall of his Will was melted down by the fiery longing. The dreadful edge of his all-severing sword was swallowed by light. And his unfeeling, cold heart was pierced by the blade forged of incinerating hatred. Anvil staggered, grasping the ray of white light that had plunged into his chest — it was of no use, though, because the sharp edge of light simply severed his fingers, making him stagger and fall to his knees. When he raised the ghastly melted candle of his face, however, a twisted smile was playing on what remained of his blackened lips.

A ghastly, gargling voice came from the depths of his scorched throat:

“Flawless... you are flawless at last...” Standing above him in the immaculate brilliance of her merciless white flames, Nephis gazed down with no expression on her inhumanly stunning face.

Her lips moved, as if she wanted to respond, but in the end, all she gave him was silence. ‘Did I want to say something?’

Yes... yes, she remembered that she had. She had wanted to say something — too much, even. More than could ever be expressed with words.

She had spent most of her life dreaming of this moment, after all. Longing to kill this fearsome man and burn all the things he had built to ashes.

She had wanted to make him remember her father. She had wanted to make him remember her... every loss, every tear, every wound, every moment of bitter hopelessness that she had endured. She had wanted to make him choke on his failure, his weakness, on his wasted betrayal.

But at the moment, she could not really remember why she had wanted to say anything at all.

She did not really care...

About this man, and about the pain she had suffered, either.

It was just pain, after all.

Looking down at Anvil of Valor, Nephis felt nothing.

Her heart was a beautiful, barren wasteland of flame. It was pure of all feelings, all doubts.

And all desires, as well.

She did not even feel bored, because boredom demanded an inclination to be excited.

A bubbling laugh escaped from Anvil’s melted face.

”Flawless...”

Pursing her lips in distaste, Nephis pulled her radiant blade from his chest and beheaded him with an effortless slash.

As she turned away indifferently, the headless body of the former King of Swords fell among the rest of the charred corpses, already catching flame.

Her throne stood on these corpses, built with blackened bones.

...The being that had been Song of the Fallen discarded the memory, sending it drifting into the darkness. She did not need this weathered, useless thing — a glimpse of the future that had already been erased, and would therefore never come to fruition. Of a bygone future that was destined to only ever exist in her memory, forgotten by all. There were many shards like that one around her, full of scenes that were doomed to remain forever unwitnessed. But she was not interested in these relics of a ruined future just yet.

Instead, she drew a different memory closer, gazing into its dark depths.

In that memory, she was a harrowing being of great vastness once again.

She wore the nebulous mantle and the black wooden mask again.

She was walking through the shadows, approaching a lone glimmer of light. A deep night was shrouding the world, and a full moon was climbing up the velvet surface of the starlit sky. But there, some distance away...

A shimmering white light danced in the darkness, in the center of a small valley that was formed by several hills. A lone human figure sat in front of a small fire there. His head hung low, and his face was obscured by the falling hair. He was naked above the waist, his pale skin covered with dry blood. However, there seemed to be no wounds on the stranger’s body... in fact, there was not a single scar on it.

On a stone in front of him, a diamond sickle lay, its blade painted crimson.

Sensing something, the man inhaled slowly and looked up.

His face was young and beautiful, with smooth silken skin, high cheekbones, and exquisite features. Strangely enough, there was a symbol of a crescent moon drawn on his forehead.

Not hiding from his gaze, she stepped from the shadows and loomed above him. Her gaze fell down like a dark omen, making the winds fall silent in fright.

Despite that, a pleasant and carefree smile suddenly twisted the man’s lips.

He raised his hand, which had been hidden in the darkness before. In it, a bleeding human heart was grasped tightly, still warm from when he had cut it from his own chest. The beautiful man spoke in a bright and melodious voice.

He said:

”Hail Weaver, Demon of Fate. Firstborn of the Forgotten God!”

She tilted her head a little.

Her answer was even:

“Beast of Twilight... I am not at all happy to meet you again.”

The beautiful man looked at her in confusion.

“Oh? Have I had the dubious pleasure of meeting the great and terrible Weaver before?”

He remained silent for a moment, then grinned.

“Well, no surprise! I am the most personable and gregarious man in all of the Kingdom of Hope, after all...”