The world down here did not forgive weakness.
It devoured it.
Anor stumbled through the depths, bare feet scraping against jagged stone, every step sending fresh pain lancing up his legs. The ground was uneven, cracked by ages of pressure and decay, the air thick with ash and rot. No sky stretched above him only endless darkness broken by the faint glow of distant, poisonous fungi clinging to cavern walls.
Thousands of miles.
That was how far he was from the nearest trace of civilization. Not that it mattered. Even if a city stood before him now, Anor doubted he would be welcomed within its walls. He doubted he would survive the walk.
His skin was pitch black not from soot or shadow, but from something far deeper, something that had seeped into him and never left. It stretched tightly over a skeletal frame, bones pressing visibly beneath flesh that had long forgotten what strength felt like. Muscle had wasted away. Fat was nonexistent.
He looked less like a man and more like a corpse that refused to lie down.
A walking carcass.
A curse, some would say.
He dragged himself forward, breath shallow, each inhale burning as if his lungs themselves were eroding. Hunger gnawed at him constantly not the dull ache of starvation, but a sharp, desperate pull that clawed at his very core. Souls needed energy to sustain the body, and his produced barely enough. Each movement demanded more than it could afford.
Ahead, something moved.
A creature low to the ground, many-limbed, hide slick and pale skittered across the stone. Its presence was faint, but perceptible. Anor's vision sharpened despite exhaustion; his body remembered motion even if it no longer remembered strength.
He lunged.
The movement cost him more than it should have. His legs buckled beneath him, sending him crashing to the ground, but he caught himself and fell onto the creature. Fingers dug into its flesh with a strength born not of power, but of pure necessity. It shrieked, thrashing wildly, but Anor held on, teeth gnashing into its body. Blood flooded his mouth bitter, foul, barely sustaining but it was something.
When it was over, the creature lay still.
Anor slumped beside it, panting, hands shaking. Not enough. It was never enough.
He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand and forced himself to stand. His clothing hung loosely from his frame black garments lined with silver thread, red jewels sewn into the fabric. Once ceremonial. Once pristine. Now torn. Stained. Meaningless. Ruby. Or bloodstone. He barely remembered which.
He took another step and froze.
Someone else was there.
Anor hadn't heard them approach. No footsteps. No shift in air. Just… presence.
A figure stepped forward from the darkness. Tall. Lean. Clad in white, the glint of a commander's hat atop long, messy, back-length hair. Skin as white as snow, matching hair, eyes like frozen rivers. Presence so sharp, so precise it pushed against the already fragile limits of Anor's core, forcing his own soul to recoil.
"Hey," the figure said casually. "You're a fallen one, correct?"
The words struck harder than any blade.
Anor's head snapped up. His heart stuttered. Bones protested as he tried to straighten. Fallen? Who… knows? Instinct warred with exhaustion, but the recognition deep inside him sent a shock that reverberated through his depleted soul.
"What's it to you?" he croaked, voice barely above a rasp, broken and cracked like the stones beneath his feet.
The man stepped closer, deliberate, almost mocking. White boots crushed jagged rock without leaving a mark. The dim fungal glow reflected off his skin, making it gleam unnaturally.
"You're an angel, aren't you?" Anor whispered, the words tasting bitter.
The figure's eyes narrowed. Not offended. Not angry. Surprised, perhaps but only faintly, like someone had called him a fool instead of a whore.
"No," he corrected quickly, voice smooth as ice. "I'm… something entirely different."
Anor's pulse quickened. Different… or worse?
"I'm Grim," the figure said, voice low, but with the weight of inevitability. "Fallen God of Death."
Anor blinked. Confusion, irritation, and fear collided inside him. "Yeah… and why would the God of Death be here? Why hold any interest in me?" His legs trembled, but he tried to appear indifferent, forcing a shuffle forward to pass the stranger.
"Anor," Grim said, voice sharper now, drawing the name from some depth in his soul, "listen to me. I know it's you."
Anor's posture slumped further. Limbs heavy, energy nearly spent. Was it the curse? The starvation? He could not tell. But something in the tone of the name pulled at the edges of memory, jolting recognition.
"How do you know it's me?" he asked, voice weaker now, almost breaking. His upper clothing shifted slightly as he fell to his knees, revealing white scars carved deep into his flesh marks left by holy weapons, unmistakable proof of past judgment.
"Oh," Grim said, amusement threading his words like a knife. "How could I not recognize the pitiful form of Heaven's once proud soldier? The cleanser himself, crumbling at the mention of his name. I never thought I'd see this day."
He stepped forward, boots striking the stone with authority, landing a powerful kick to Anor's ribs.
"Gahh-!" Anor gasped, wind expelled from his lungs. Pain lanced through his body, white-hot and all-consuming. "FUCK!"
Grim's eyes were cold, unyielding. "Listen to me, Anor. I'll give you a chance."
Anor looked up, eyes reflecting pain, exhaustion, and a flicker of something else curiosity? Hope?
"I know why you were exiled, Anor. I'll help you… I'll help you massacre the heavens."
For a moment, the world around them seemed to pause.
Anor's core stirred feeble, faint, but still present. Grim's presence pressed like iron against his soul, a god-level aura radiating in all directions. The air between them vibrated. Each breath felt heavier. Each heartbeat louder.
Without thought, Anor rose, forcing energy from the deepest reserves of his broken body. His soul screamed outward, a tiny ripple against Grim's overwhelming authority. Pain shot up his arms, his spine, his skull, but he forced it. Just a pulse. A flicker. A warning.
Grim tilted his head slightly, eyes glinting. "Interesting."
With deliberate grace, he reached toward Anor not touching him, not yet but the force of his will pressed down like the weight of a mountain. Anor staggered, knees threatening to buckle. His body screamed, his soul screamed louder.
Not enough, he thought. Not nearly enough.
And yet… something inside him surged. A fragment of fury, of pride, of the cleanser he had once been. He clenched his fists, teeth gritting through pain, and shoved back not with strength, but with sheer stubbornness.
The two forces collided. A soundless shockwave rippled through the cavern, rattling jagged stone and flickering the faint glow of fungi. Anor's chest heaved. Grim's eyes narrowed.
"You have spirit," Grim said, voice calm, dangerous. "But spirit alone will not save you."
And still, Anor stood.