The cutting wind of the night whipped Darryl's face as he walked along the dusty path that wound through the ruins of an ancient fortress. The walls, blackened by time and battle, seemed to whisper echoes of a forgotten war, but Corgi's son did not stop. Each step sank slightly into the dry earth, lifting a thin layer of ash that scattered into the air.
There was no moon that night, only a sky dense with stars that seemed to watch silently, judging his solitude. The tattered cloak wrapped around his shoulders, soaked in the iron scent of blood and the smoke of the recent battle. His skin still burned in some places, a reminder of the flames he had unleashed against the Chronomorphs. Yet, every physical pain would have seemed insignificant compared to the weight he carried in his chest.
Why does all this seem pointless? he thought, clenching his fists until his nails dug painfully into his palms.
He had won. He had defeated the enemies and saved his comrades, but the victory had a bitter taste. Havel, Ada, Elaine… they were safe. He, however, had been left behind. Not out of duty or heroism.
No.
Because there was something he had to face alone; after all, that was his burden.
He stopped before an old stone arch, covered in dead ivy. To pass through it meant to once again tap into that part of his life that he had buried as deeply as he could. Ever since he had made the oath, he had always considered himself ready to bring the truth back to the various worlds, but now, doubt was beginning to creep into him.
Were the worlds ready? Were the Blendbreeds ready? Was he… ready?
The answer reflected in his tired, empty eyes when he looked at his reflection in a stagnant puddle of water along the path.
I've never been ready for anything, since the day they took me to the Otherworld.
That was his answer.
He entered.
The interior of the fortress was enveloped in an unnatural twilight. The torches on the walls lit up on their own as he passed, dark red flames casting distorted shadows. His footsteps echoed dully, accompanied only by the beat of his own heart.
In the center of the main hall, an obsidian throne, bare and cold. And upon it, the corpse of a figure he knew all too well.
A deity whose mask had been incinerated by its own power.
The sounds of small crackling filled the ruins as the lifeless body of the fallen god began to glow. A light filled his eyes, as well as the rest of his torso and limbs. Suddenly, Darryl found himself before a being enveloped in a furious crimson flame.
"Darryl… have you come to reclaim me? To claim the Flame of Madness?" it asked, its voice as calm as the crackling fire among branches. It did not move, did not smile. Just a fixed gaze, sharp as a blade.
In fact, there's not much it could do. That's just a corpse.
The son of Corgi approached, feeling his heart quicken. The heat of the magical flames that once defined him seemed distant, as though it had been forgotten by himself.
"You were right. As much as I hate it, I need the flame," he replied, his voice hoarse from exhaustion and suppressed anger.
The body tilted its head slightly, making a sound like broken branches. "Naturally. The fire is in your blood. Once you've tasted this power, no one could ever give it up. I warned you."
The words hit him harder than any weapon. Darryl gritted his teeth.
"I'm not here for a philosophy lesson or personal ambition. I need the flame before things get completely worse."
The head ignited, and a thin smile, made of pure fire, formed on the fallen deity's face. "No, you're here because you can't bear the idea that all your efforts have been in vain."
Darryl threw a fireball without warning. The explosion illuminated the hall for a moment, but when the light faded, the corpse was still there, intact.
"It won't work," it replied simply. "This body is the only one capable of withstanding my power without being incinerated."
Darryl's breathing became irregular. He had fought monsters, gods, creatures twisted by time and space.
But nothing had ever frightened him as much as that truth. Fire was his great ally, but it could also be the most feared enemy.
"What do you want from me?"
"I want you to use me to incinerate everything, I want to see the world consumed by my fire."
Silence. Only the crackling of the red flames on the walls.
Darryl dropped to his knees, his hands on the ground, feeling the coldness of the stone beneath his fingers. "Why are you doing this?" he whispered.
And there, in that simple confession, he found something he had secretly expected: cruelty. The corpse revived by the crimson flame descended from the throne, its steps light like a specter. It stopped before him, looking down on him.
"You don't need to know. The fire doesn't ask why it burns. It just does. It incinerates everything in its path… and it will do the same to your life, one day."
Darryl lifted his gaze, his eyes filled with a mix of anger and despair.
"And what if I don't want to burn anything?"
The spirit of the deity leaned slightly, its face only a few inches from his.
"Then you will die, just like this body. You are too afraid of me to control me."
Those words were like a spark. Darryl felt something awaken within him, something primal and ancient. It wasn't the magical fire, it wasn't the fury of a Blendbreed. There was something simpler hidden deep inside: the will to not give up.
He stood up, trembling. "I—I…" he took a deep breath, "I know this story won't end until I've succeeded."
The being smiled again, a red smile made of pure fire, an expression almost proud.
"Then go and don't look back. Come back only when you've found the strength to accept me."
Darryl took a step back, then another. He left the hall without saying anything further, feeling the weight on his chest slightly lighter.
Outside, the night air seemed less cold. He walked until the sky began to brighten, tinged with a faint orange on the horizon. He stopped on a cliff, looking down at the sea below. The wind tousled his hair, carrying with it the salty scent and the echo of the waves. He didn't know if he would ever return to the Lilies Park or see his friends again.
It was simple willpower; he would have to act by following that impulse alone.
"I'm sorry, but I desperately need you right now."
A tear traced down his face.
He had to see her.