Ashtoria walked alone in the darkness.
The world around her felt like an endless void. No sky, no ground, only a black emptiness that devoured every step she took. The air was thick, suffocating, like black mist pressing against her chest, making each breath heavy. Her footsteps echoed strangely, as if the floor beneath her was not solid earth but fragile glass that could shatter at any moment.
Then, in front of her, something appeared—a colossal curtain, dark and trembling as if woven from frozen smoke. Without warning, it parted, tearing open with a long ripping sound that resembled a scream. A blinding light surged through, stabbing her eyes, and suddenly Ashtoria found herself standing on a street.
But this was no ordinary street.
On either side, crowds of people stood in endless rows. Their faces were blurred yet dripping with foul fervor. Their mouths curled into mocking grins, their eyes glowing with hatred and twisted delight. They laughed, clapped, even jumped in glee, as though awaiting a grotesque performance.
And that performance was her.
"Look! The cursed woman has arrived!" someone shouted in disgust.
"Rotten monster!" another voice howled.
"A filthy plague, unworthy of breathing in this world!"
The insults came like a storm, wave after wave. Their voices stabbed at her ears, echoing straight into her chest.
Ashtoria kept walking. Her face was blank, emotionless. Yet her eyes… her eyes were as sharp and cold as freshly honed blades. Every word hurled at her drove deeper into her chest, igniting a silent, boiling rage within.
And then she saw it.
At the end of the street, a little girl no more than seven years old was being forced to walk. Her hands were bound with chains, the rough metal biting into her small wrists as she was dragged forward. Behind her, a hulking man swung a whip. Each strike split open her back, spraying blood. Her flesh was torn, skin peeling, raw muscle exposed—her tiny frame staggering, yet driven forward mercilessly.
The crowd roared with joy.
Some threw stones. Rocks struck her head, face, and frail body. Each impact echoed with dull cracks and wet splatters. Blood poured, bruises blossomed, and the cheering grew louder.
"Die, cursed child!"
"You should never have been born!"
"Little monster! Filth!"
Ashtoria's heart convulsed. Each lash on the girl's back tore at her own skin. Her chest constricted, her steps faltered. Every stone that hit the child's body slammed into her own. Every insult thrown struck directly into her heart.
Then she realized.
That little girl was herself.
The chains, the wounds, the blood, everything was her. Ashtoria as a child, Ashtoria as the frail one. And now she was forced to watch her own suffering again, as though the world itself wanted to shame and destroy her one more time.
Ahead, more faces emerged.
Her father. Her mother. Their eyes were cold, filled with disgust, as if she was no child of theirs. Beside them, her brother, her sister—laughing, mocking, even throwing stones at her small body.
Her heart shattered.
Pain mingled with rage. Her chest boiled, her whole body trembled.
"Enough…" she whispered, barely audible. But no one heard.
The insults rained down. Stones kept flying. The whip cracked again.
Until finally, the little Ashtoria screamed.
But this was no ordinary cry—it was a shriek of utter despair, a wish to end everything. Within that scream was a dark prayer: that all would die, that the world would burn, that her suffering would only end in destruction.
And the world answered.
One by one, the people along the street exploded. Their bodies burst like grotesque balloons. Blood sprayed into the air, organs scattered. Intestines, eyes, bones rained down in a putrid storm. Laughter turned to screams, but only for an instant. Because the moment they died, they returned again.
The same faces. The same mouths. The same insults.
"Monster... !"
"Filth... !"
"Cursed... !"
And again, their bodies burst apart, torn into gore, yet they always came back. More and more, louder and louder.
From the little Ashtoria's body, black flames erupted. Flames that did not burn like ordinary fire but consumed, shredded, annihilated. The black blaze devoured the crowd, reducing flesh to ash. Screams filled the air. The stench of burning meat clawed at the nostrils.
But still, it was useless.
They came back. They always came back.
Ashtoria went mad. She screamed, lashed out, unleashing her fury with wild, black flames. Her body trembled violently, her eyes bloodshot, tears streaming down her cheeks and mixing with the blood that spurted from her wounds.
"Silence! All of you, silence! Destroy!" she roared.
But the voices never ceased.
The insults never stopped.
The pain never ended.
She kept screaming, kept attacking, kept weeping, until at last the world collapsed.
.
.
.
In her dark room, Ashtoria's body thrashed uncontrollably. Her breath came ragged and uneven. Cold sweat drenched her forehead.
Without her noticing, the two birds perched by her window suddenly exploded, bursting like grotesque balloons of flesh. Blood and feathers splattered across the glass.
At the same time, her room shook violently. Cracks spread along the walls. The mirror shattered, the wooden desk splintered, the wardrobe collapsed. Her bed lurched violently before crashing to the fractured floor.
The sounds of breaking and destruction filled the air, but Ashtoria remained trapped in her own scream.
Finally, her eyes snapped open.
She woke trembling, gasping for breath, tears streaming down her face. Her chest ached with burning pain. She bent forward and suddenly vomited a mouthful of blood. It splattered across her sheets and nightgown in a crimson flood.
Ashtoria staggered, her body quaking violently. Her breaths came shallow and broken, as though her lungs refused to function. Her skin burned and froze at once, as if poison crept through her veins, eating away at muscle and joint. She raised her trembling bloodstained hand, watching a drop fall to the floor, leaving a dark crimson stain on the torn carpet.
Her head throbbed. The world spun. A ringing filled her ears. She blinked, trying to focus on the blood spattered across her sheets and gown. But her vision shook, multiplied, the room spinning wildly.
"I… was poisoned," she rasped, her voice nearly broken. Her eyes narrowed, cold and furious, like a wounded beast aware of the hunter closing in. "There is… a traitor… here."
Outside, the night sky roared. Lightning cracked again and again, tearing the darkness with blinding white. Rain lashed the vast mansion grounds, hammering soil and stone in a wild rhythm.
In the heart of the storm, a man with white hair floated in the air, his cloak whipping violently in the wind. His eyes were cold, his face carved in stone without mercy. In his hand, light gathered—splinters of lightning weaving together into a colossal spear. Its size was monstrous, glowing white-blue, buzzing with a deafening hum that rattled the soul.
The white-haired man raised his arm, hurling the spear at the mansion.
The world quaked. The weapon screamed through the air, its speed deafening, like the roar of a dragon born from the storm. Explosions of thunder and crackling power followed in its wake, lighting up the grounds like a false dawn forced into being at midnight.
Ashtoria, still slumped weakly on her bed, glanced toward the window. For an instant, she caught the blinding light, the killing strike rushing toward her. Her eyes widened, her body stiffened. She understood what was coming, but too late to move.
A heartbeat later, the world exploded.
The lightning spear crashed into her chamber, its impact splitting the air with an earth-shattering roar. White-blue light consumed everything, scorching heat seared her skin. The walls collapsed, wood and stone blasted apart, furniture shattered into splinters.
Half the mansion vanished in a blaze of thunder. The roof caved in, pillars snapped, floors split open. Fire and smoke billowed, merging with the storm as rain hissed against the rampaging currents of electricity.