I wandered a realm without end.
There was no weight beneath my steps, no warmth upon my skin—only void. I moved as though drifting between death and dream, and yet before me I saw my own corpse: pale, broken, lying still, while Luna wept over it with anguish that tore through the silence. Her cries echoed endlessly, fading and returning like a dirge.
I screamed into the abyss, but only my own voice answered back. No light. No path. No sky. Only darkness—absolute, eternal.
And then, it appeared.
A throne, vast and terrible, forged of obsidian and bone. It rose from nothing as though carved from the spine of the cosmos itself. Shadows bent toward it, bowing in reverence, as if the throne itself were the heart of dominion.
I gazed at it with awe and unease. Its beauty was undeniable, yet it reeked of ruin. My skin crawled with every breath I took in its presence.
Then—
A hand touched my shoulder.
I froze. My instincts screamed not to turn, not to meet what lingered behind me. I waited for the chance to flee.
But then it whispered.
Two words, soft as venom, yet sharp enough to slice through my soul:
"Welcome, Vessel."
The voice was cold, eternal. My body quaked.
"What do you want?" I asked, refusing to look back. Silence answered me—endless silence that stretched into dread.
And then it commanded:
"Look forward."
I obeyed.
Upon the throne sat a figure. Cloaked in shadow, yet his outline was of a man, regal and absolute. His eyes—radiant blue like dying stars—pierced me to my core. I stood frozen in reverence, in terror.
He spoke, his voice like chasms splitting open:
"I am Itarim, God of Darkness, Sovereign of the Void. You are my vessel."
The word struck me with clarity. Vessel. The answer to the dreams, the visions, the whispers in my sleep. He explained: his spirit had nested within me since I had arrived in Arthmeya, preparing the way for his resurrection. The reason my mind bled into nightmares, the reason I heard voices not my own—it was him, weaving his essence into mine.
I steadied my breath and asked with the weight of defiance:
"You need me for something, don't you?"
He smirked. The gesture alone was heavier than chains.
"You are correct."
"What do you need?"
His answer fell like a guillotine:
"Your body."
My chest hollowed. "Why?"
His words slithered, dressed in purity, but stank of deceit. He spoke of healing me, of patching my dying flesh, of avenging me against Rena and retrieving his lost holy sword—the weapon said to seal the fates of gods and men. He promised victory, power, and freedom.
He extended his hand, offering the deal. A pact written in ruin.
I slapped it away.
The shadows recoiled with a hiss. His smile fell, replaced by venom. "You insult me?"
"I don't need a god to fight my battles," I spat.
He leaned forward, eyes narrowing into brilliance that burned. "I could grant you anything. Anything you desire."
I met his gaze, my voice a blade:
"Then tell me… what do you think I desire?"
His smile returned. And with a snap of his fingers, my world dissolved.
I awoke in my home.
The warmth of morning sunlight kissed my skin. My family surrounded me. My parents, alive and smiling. My siblings laughing. The scent of breakfast filled the air, bread soft in my hand, butter melting sweetly.
I cried. They embraced me. Warmth filled my chest—real warmth.
At school, life was normal. Lessons, laughter, the games of youth. During P.E. I ran, I played, I felt alive. Alive in ways I had forgotten.
But when I washed my face, my reflection moved on its own.
"Wake up. Wake up."
I ignored it, clinging to this fragile heaven.
Later, in my bath, the reflection screamed louder, clearer:
"WAKE UP! WAKE UP!"
The illusion shattered. Memory returned. This was no paradise—it was his trap.
And so, I killed myself.
The dream cracked. My blood spilled.
I awoke once more, in the void. Itarim sat upon his throne, lips curled in amusement, though his eyes glinted with hunger.
"Almost complete," he muttered.
I glared at him. "That was a sick game."
"You will break, vessel. It is inevitable."
I steadied myself. "Tell me, Itarim… are you the same as the goddess Rena?"
For the first time, his mask cracked. A silence heavier than death. And then—murderous intent filled the air.
His voice thundered, dripping with rage:
"Do not compare me to her."
The void trembled. Shadows screamed.
He rose, sitting taller upon his throne, and with a single gesture, the abyss split open. Time unraveled.
I blinked—and found myself in another world.
The air was rich with earth and starlight. I wore a traveler's cloak, unfamiliar yet mine. My reflection in a pool of black water showed a face not my own.
"Itarim," I called.
His voice echoed within me.
"Do not fear. Walk forward."
The horizon burned with twilight, vast and endless.
"What is this place?" I asked.
His answer came, like the name of a curse:
"This is Arthmeya."