He stood in the ruins, alone. His hands, the same that had slain countless demons and traitors, trembled—not out of fear, but because nothing remained to cling to.
The world had been "saved." But the word meant nothing in the chaos of what had been destroyed.
He stared at the sword. Pride absent. Only disgust. The steel had cut more than flesh. It had ripped existence apart. It had leveled Ataraxia. It had devoured him.
He thrust the blade down—deep into the earth. Steel struck stone, the echo rising like a soul's strangled cry.
The sword stood firm. Cold steel quivered, pulsing with a life not its own—as if what was lost had never truly gone.
He did the last thing left under his control. Both hands pressed against his chest.
"I don't want to die. But I don't want to live like this either…"
With the last of his strength, he ended his own life. No magic. No ritual. Just the will of a man who had lost everything.
His body fell. But he did not die. A remnant, not a spirit—something else.
The eyes opened that night. Not his. Born not of hatred, but of absence.
They did not cry. They did not scream. Only silence. Like the world… never to be saved. Broken, drowned, and—
For a world that had forgotten me—or anyone still listening.
What is Alterees: not hell. When hope shatters, there's no one to come and fix it.
For him, hope was the last lie, meant to be erased.
He walked through empty streets where children's laughter once echoed. Nothing stirred. Not even hatred.
Ataraxia was once a place of peace. Now, it lay in ruins—crushed beneath hope that came too late.
The threads of fate wove the world, dragging four souls into the ruin called The Flood.
Hope led them—either to fight, or to be consumed.
Tessa, a hunter, plays with vengeance and blood. Every cut carves a sanctuary into the chaos.
"I will sever what you leave behind in this world."
Aurora, a tender soul, willing to give anything. Even the light of life in her eyes.
"Don't let this place steal the light from you. There's nothing here to make you wither."
Aswad, a blind youth. Darkness and shadows were all he believed in.
"You killed a man. And I was born."
Smith, a priest. Faith is his weapon; every swing carries a multiplied burden.
"May the forgotten guide us to the right path."
When hope turns to ashes—only the void remains.
And that void has a name: Alterees.
He didn't come to destroy.
He came to ask:
"Do you still hope?" Or do you feel the opposite?
-Clement