Aric's world collapsed into darkness, the pain in his body slipping into a dull, distant ache.
Blood seeped from the wound, but it was no longer his concern. The voice had returned, as chilling as it was familiar, weaving its question into the silence that surrounded him.
"Is this the fate you wanted?"
In that instant, the battlefield disappeared.
The clashing of metal, the roar of ki attacks, the sneer of Aszer—they all dissolved as if swallowed by the void itself. Aric was suspended in nothingness, his mind barely comprehending the sudden shift.
For a moment, he wondered if this was death's cold embrace. But no, this felt different. Deeper. Older.
He blinked, and when his eyes opened, the world had transformed.
He stood in an endless space, not of earth or sky, but of something far stranger. Above him, threads—countless, infinite—wove themselves through the air, each one stretching beyond sight, shimmering faintly, as though they were alive.
They twitched and shifted, connecting everything in their delicate design. Beneath his feet, the ground was not solid but reflective, showing him glimpses—flashes of lives he had never lived, moments he had never chosen.
"Where...?" Aric's voice trailed off, confusion clouding his thoughts. This place felt unreal, as if he stood at the edge of something primordial. Every step he took echoed without sound, each movement resonating with the gravity of a decision he was too afraid to make.
He didn't know how he had arrived here. One moment he was dying, skewered on Aszer's spear, and the next...he was here, wherever 'here' was.
Then the voice returned, gentle but with a weight that seemed to press against the very air itself.
"You tread where few dare to walk, Helot of Fate."
Aric turned sharply, but no one stood behind him. The voice was not coming from a direction—it seemed to be woven into the space, emanating from everywhere and nowhere at once.
"This place... is yours," the voice continued, "A reflection of the unseen, the choices that bind the world, the unseen current that pulls at every life."
He swallowed, his hand instinctively moving to where the spear had pierced his side.
There was no wound. No blood. Only the lingering impression of pain.
"Why am I here?" he asked, his voice echoing faintly against the void. His heart raced, though he tried to remain calm. He was not ready to trust the voice, not yet.
"Because you were always meant to be," it replied simply.
"You, Aric Valerian, are more than a pawn. Fate does not toy with you—it has chosen you. But you have never fully understood what that means."
The words settled into him, but Aric's mind still raced.
Fate? Chosen? So this was his sub-space, he clenched his teeth to find some semblance of control in this alien stretch.
"You must be the weaver of fate then," he spat out. "I no longer want to play your games, I will make my own path."
A soft, almost amused chuckle reverberated through the space.
"Ysir..." he whispered, his voice lost in the storm of battle.
Ysir swung her axe with all the force she could muster, the sheer power behind it enough to crush a lesser man. But Aszer was no lesser man. He sidestepped her strike with ease, his movements fluid, almost graceful.
And in that instant, with her momentum thrown off, he struck.
His spear flashed through the air, a blur of death.
Aric watched helplessly as the blade sliced cleanly through Ysir's neck.
Time seemed to slow. Her body stopped mid-swing, the axe falling from her hands, and then her head—severed, blood spraying through the air—tumbled to the ground. Her body collapsed moments later, a lifeless husk, her eyes still wide with determination.
Aric's heart pounded in his chest, a scream building in his throat, but no sound escaped him. His mind screamed No!, but his body betrayed him, too weak to move.
Aszer turned, a smile of triumph twisting his lips as he stepped over Ysir's corpse. His gaze fixed on Aric—bloodied, struggling to stand. The battlefield around them had fallen into a haunting silence, the echoes of death hanging in the air.
"You were always weak," Aszer sneered, his voice cold, detached. He walked toward Aric slowly, savoring the moment. "The forgotten prince. You should've known better than to stand against me."
Aric's fingers twitched, searching for his sword, but his body refused to obey. He was drowning in pain, his strength slipping away with every heartbeat. His vision blurred, dark spots clouding his sight. But even as the darkness closed in, he refused to look away from Aszer.
The king raised his spear, the tip gleaming in the blood-soaked dusk. "And now you die," Aszer whispered.
The spear came down.
---
Aric blinked, gasping as the image shattered like glass, fragments of the battlefield splintering into nothingness. He was back in the void, standing in the same spot where he had taken his step.
His heart still pounded in his chest, the pain of the spear wound vivid, the memory of Ysir's death raw.
But it wasn't real. Not yet.
"That... was a fate," the voice whispered, gentle and ominous. "One of many. One that you could choose... or change."
Aric's breath caught in his throat. He stared at the void, the pressure of what he had seen pressing down on him. His fingers curled into fists as the truth settled in his mind. The sacrifice, the cost—it was all clear now. If he didn't change the course, Ysir would die. He would die.
His choices would decide. His hand was already on the thread.
"Will you pull it?" the voice asked, softer now. "Or will you let it remain?"
"You know what you must do, but can you do it...are you willing to?"
Aric's eyes narrowed. There was only one choice now.
He would pull...he would cause destruction, no matter how terrifying the outcome seemed.
[Ki and Mana is Merging]