Rigor began to move, his body jerking forward as though an unseen force controlled him.
"Huh?" he muttered, confusion blending with fear. His legs pounded the earth beneath him, each step faster than the last. He wasn't controlling this—couldn't control this. The world blurred, the distant figure of Aether fading behind him like a forgotten shadow.
"Why'd I think I could change something in a memory?" Aether's voice echoed faintly in the recesses of his mind, tinged with frustration. The realization struck hard: this was beyond his grasp, a fragment of the past where his influence held no weight.
The wind screamed past Rigor, sharp and biting. He hurtled through the rusted fences that once separated the small town from the sprawling wilderness. The scent of decay and rust clung to the air, suffocating and heavy. Around him, the ancient forest loomed, its colossal trees clawing at the heavens. Their thick, gnarled roots sprawled across the ground like veins bulging beneath the skin, pulsating with a sinister vitality.
"Alisha!" Rigor's voice, raw and desperate, tore through the din, unbidden. His focus narrowed as he leapt high into the trees, the massive branches groaning under his weight. The trees surrounding the town were ancient, towering monoliths of nature. Their sprawling roots snaked across the forest floor like veins, as if the earth itself pulsed with malevolence.
Alisha darted above him, her silhouette sharp against the pale moonlight. Streams of air burst from beneath her, propelling her forward with unnatural grace. Her voice, sharp and confident, cut through the night:
"Valen!"
Rigor climbed higher, his hands digging into the bark of the enormous trees, the rough texture biting into his palms. His eyes darted around, searching desperately.
"Where are—" Aether's thoughts were interrupted by a grim, disembodied voice.
"It's a demon," Valen said, his tone calm yet razor-sharp. "I wonder what rank it is. We'll need the army… They did warn us, after all."
Before Aether could process it, the memory shattered like glass, plunging him into an abyss of darkness.
Aether scoffed in frustration. "I'm not even allowed full access to the memory," he muttered bitterly as fragments of the scene began to reform around him.
"It seems this memory only grants me the barest fragments—basic details with faintly enhanced glimpses of the original ancestor. His name... Valen," Aether mused, frustration flickering across his thoughts.
The new image materialized: a tent, sprawling and grand, illuminated by the flicker of lanterns. Outside, the low hum of voices blended with the rustle of thousands of tents blanketing the landscape. Smoke curled lazily from makeshift fire pits scattered across the camp.
Rigor opened his eyes, finding himself seated within the war tent. The air was thick with tension, the weight of impending battle pressing down like an invisible hand. Across from him sat Valen, his expression unreadable, sharpening a blade with deliberate precision.
"Valen," Rigor began, his voice steady but carrying an edge of weariness, "We had a few... misunderstandings with the minor settlements in the forest. She was the only survivor from a town northeast of here."
Valen's gaze shifted toward the woman in chains. She trembled violently, tears streaking her dirt-smeared face. Her cries echoed softly, each one raw, desperate, and far too human.
"Some of them," Valen mused, "mimic human behavior."
Valen tilted his head, his emerald-green eyes narrowing as if dissecting her very existence. "Tell me," he said, his voice as smooth as silk yet as cold as steel. "Are you a demon?"
Her sobs grew louder, her chains rattling as she shook her head in frantic denial. Aether, watching from within Rigor's perspective, felt his stomach twist.
Without warning, Valen moved. His blade sang through the air in a deadly arc, severing the woman's head with terrifying precision. Blood spattered across the floor, pooling around the lifeless body. The light in her eyes extinguished instantly, the warmth of life replaced by hollow emptiness.
Rigor remained silent, but his fist clenched. He hadn't spoken up. Hadn't stopped it. Maybe because, in some dark corner of his heart, he'd been relieved.
"What…" Aether whispered, his voice trembling. He watched the scene unfold, frozen in shock.
Valen's expression didn't change. He stepped back, his boots crunching against the dirt floor of the tent, his tone as cold as the grave.
"Human cries aren't that perfect," he remarked, turning to leave. "A real sob hiccups, doesn't it?"
A folded scrap of parchment slipped from her sleeve. Rigor saw it, just before Valen turned away. He didn't bend to pick it up.
His steps faded into the night, leaving a deafening silence in his wake.
Rigor's voice broke the stillness, a whisper barely audible over the pounding of Aether's heart.
"She was real, Valen…"
The tent seemed to dissolve around them, the memory collapsing into darkness once more. Aether floated aimlessly in the void, his thoughts racing.
"How could he kill so easily?" he muttered, anger and confusion boiling within him. "What kind of monster is he?"
The void gave way again, reshaping into a new scene. Aether saw two flickers of the scene—one where the woman grabbed at Valen's arm in fear, one where her hand reached like claws.
It ended differently this time. Or did it always end this way? The mirror told only what it was fed, and Aether was realizing… he might be part of the bait.
His fingers twitched in time with Rigor's breath. For a second—maybe less—he wasn't watching. He was.
Rigor opened his eyes to find himself standing in an open grassland. The air was thick with tension, the horizon dominated by gargantuan trees, their roots clawing deep into the earth like ancient sentinels.
They called it 'The Listening Green.' Not because it heard you—but because it remembered.
"Valen, they're taunting us," Alisha's voice called out. Aether turned, finally able to see her clearly. The outfit appeared to be inspired by air manipulation attachment skills, with its flowing, organic design and vibrant blue tones. The intricate headpiece and mask suggested a mysterious, otherworldly quality, floating as she spoke, like a wave.
"They're surrounding us," she continued, her voice calm but laced with urgency. "Unless we seek help from the Mysticals—they've fought them before."
Valen remained still, his gaze fixed on the towering trees. His expression was one of calculated detachment, as if the enormity of the threat didn't faze him.
"We can't keep fighting like this," he said. "We're becoming what they said we were."
"They've always been there," he said softly. "Lurking beneath the trees of Ghent. Some so colossal they scrape the heavens, others so insignificant they barely rise to my boots. A sight meant to break lesser men."
He turned to Alisha, his eyes blazing with an unshakable resolve.
"But look at us, standing before them, for you and I know—each and every one would soon bow beneath my feet, groveling in the dirt where they belong."
Alisha paused and responded, "Even giants rot from the inside," which Valen ignored.
Aether watched him, a mix of awe and unease brewing within.
"How is he still so prideful after it all?" he muttered under his breath.
As Valen walked away, the faint glow of his sword pulsed with a warm, menacing red. The trees did not bow. They merely stood, quiet and ancient, as if waiting to see whether the phoenix would burn itself out.
The scene dissolved again.
The next memory came with chaos. Screams tore through the air, accompanied by the metallic hiss of arrows and the dull thud of spears. Rigor's body jolted upright, his eyes darting to the source of the commotion.
The creature stood before Valen, an abomination dredged from the depths of pure nightmare. Its skeletal visage sneered at the world, a horrifying mockery of life. A crimson cloak shrouded its frame, rippling unnaturally as though alive. The edges of the fabric unraveled into spectral arms, clawing at the air with a malevolent hunger. Beneath the cloak, a patchwork of bone and blackened metal intertwined, forming armor that seemed to writhe with a will of its own. The seams glowed faintly, emitting tendrils of smoke that hissed like serpents. Its eyes burned with a cold, void-like hunger, twin abysses that devoured all who dared meet their gaze. Crimson energy licked the edges of its sockets, a flickering promise of annihilation. The beast's fingers were long, skeletal talons dripping with black ichor that hissed and bubbled as it struck the earth. Its legs, grotesque and spider-like, flexed with monstrous energy, crushing the ground beneath barbed, obsidian boots. Chains trailed from its heels, each link groaning faintly as though bearing the weight of cursed souls.
Valen stepped forward, his gaze unyielding as he faced the towering monstrosity. Despite the beast's overwhelming size, he didn't flinch.
"Go," he growled, his voice low and menacing.
The creature hesitated, its clawed appendages hovering just inches from him. Valen didn't move, his presence a defiance sharper than any blade.
"Go," he repeated, his tone now icy enough to freeze the air itself. "Before I make you wish you had."
"You don't know what you carry, Phoenix-bearer. Even we do not dare touch it,"
At his side hung Ashbringer, the legendary sword that had tasted countless battles. Its edge gleamed with an almost sentient fire, the roaring phoenix etched into the hilt a testament to its power.
The creature paused, then spoke in a guttural voice that seemed to echo from the depths of hell itself.
"Even kings think they are gods. Until the dirt takes them." It turned slowly, its massive frame shrinking as it retreated into the shadows.
Aether's body trembled within Rigor's.
"Human sobs hiccup," he whispered, his voice barely audible.
He scoffed, repeating Valen's words—then froze. Why did they come so easily? Why did they feel… right?
Rigor's gaze followed the creature's retreating form as Valen turned to him, a crooked grin spreading across his face.
"Don't worry, old champ," Valen said, his tone light but carrying a chilling edge. "I'll kill it and bring its head back for you!"
He walked away, leaving Rigor rooted to the spot, haunted by the memory of those burning eyes.