I didn't know where I was. I didn't know how I'd gotten here.
The scent of damp earth filled my lungs, but beneath the petrichor, something else lingered. A sharp, metallic tang. Blood. The smell triggered a jagged memory—a flash of heat and steel.
I was standing, surrounded. Five Fire Commanders and a phalanx of demon soldiers had me cornered. The sword in my hand felt foreign, an unwelcome weight. A flaming arrow pierced my shoulder, and blue blood hissed as it leaked from the wound. They lunged in unison. Their strikes rained down, heavy and relentless. I fell.
Then, the vision shifted. A raw, visceral power surged through my veins. I stood again. I reached for a fallen holy sword, gripping the bare blade until the edges bit into my skin. My blue blood soaked the steel, igniting it into a brilliant azure. I swung. My movements became a blur of lethal grace. I carved through Commander Seraphina. I impaled Centurion. I shredded Arachne and Aquila. I tore through Scorpius until nothing remained but the stench of ash.
I didn't stop. I tore into the Dark Lux legion, my blade a whirlwind. Claws of pure blood-energy erupted from my fingertips, shredding their ranks like parchment. They screamed, falling away like broken dolls.
The scene fractured again. Amidst a sea of corpses, a voice echoed in the hollow of my skull: "Open the gate." The blood on the ground began to pool and churn, birthing a deep, bruised-red portal. A woman's voice—Elis—screamed from the distance. "Darius! No!" But my body was no longer mine. I stepped into the maw of the portal. Darkness swallowed me whole.
I snapped back to reality, gasping. I was still sitting on the sodden ground. My breath came in ragged hitches, and nausea rolled through my gut. The taste of iron still clung to my tongue—a phantom echo of the massacre. I closed my eyes, trying to drown out the screams. Only one thing remained from the fever dream: my name. Darius.
I began to walk. I had no destination, only the primal urge to move. My boots sank into the mire with every step. The rain intensified, soaking my hair and sending icy trickles down my neck. I didn't feel the cold; I only felt the weight of being wet. I trudged for an hour before the trees began to thin. A new sound reached me—not the wind or the rustle of leaves, but a low, constant thrum.
I reached the edge of the forest. A rusted wire fence separated the woods from a road—a strip of hard, black stone. Its surface mirrored the sky, slick with rain. And there, on that road, were the sources of the roar. Large metal beasts, multi-colored and gleaming, rolling on four round feet. They moved with terrifying speed, slicing through the dark. Their eyes were twin beams of brilliant light that cut through the downpour.
I stood there, paralyzed. These weren't carriages. They weren't anything from my fractured memories. They were just... moving cages. I caught a glimpse of a human inside one, staring through a pane of glass. He wore blue cloth, his hands gripping a wheel. My eyes followed him as the machine roared past and vanished. They looked so... fragile. Caged in their tin boxes. A strange sensation washed over me—a cold sense of superiority. I could feel their weakness. I could crush those metal shells with my bare hands. The thought came unbidden, uninvited, and utterly certain.
My stomach cramped. The hunger was a physical ache now, pushing aside the nausea. I needed to feed. I stepped over the wire fence, my boots hitting the asphalt. I walked the edge of the road, watching the stone-and-glass towers that lined the far side. They glowed from within. Signs flickered with symbols I couldn't quite grasp, though one large sign blazed in neon: "24-HOUR CONVENIENCE."
I crossed, dodging the metal beasts. One driver let out a long, jarring blast of sound as I stepped into his path. I didn't flinch. I approached the building. The glass doors slid open with a mechanical hum as I drew near—a small jolt of surprise hitting me. I stepped inside.
The air was sterile, warm, and dry. A bell chimed—ding-dong. It smelled of chemicals and, beneath that, the salt and fat of food. Shelves lined the aisles, packed with neon-colored wrappers. I found the bread. I tore a plastic bag open, the yeasty aroma hitting me like a physical blow. I took a bite. It was soft, unnaturally sweet. I finished it in three bites and reached for another.
"What do you think you're doing?"
I turned. A man stood at the end of the aisle. He wore a light blue shirt with "Budi" embroidered on the chest. His face was pinched with irritation. "You have to pay for that!" he barked, stepping toward me.
I chewed the last of the bread, staring at him. Pay? I didn't move. My gaze locked onto his, scanning for a threat. He was short, soft, and his hands were trembling. He was nothing. I could end him before he could draw a second breath. The thought was cold and absolute. He took a step back, his bravado crumbling. The anger in his eyes died, replaced by a raw, primal fear. He could feel it. He knew I wasn't like him.
"Go," he whispered, his voice cracking. "Just... get out. Now."
I turned my back on him and walked out. The doors hummed open again. Behind me, I heard his frantic voice on a device. The rain was still falling. I walked along the "trotoar"—the gray concrete path. Pillars of artificial light illuminated the street.
The bread hadn't been enough. I saw a man huddled on cardboard at a corner, dressed in rags. A hat lay before him. A woman passed, dropping colored slips of paper into it. The man nodded. I watched, then sat on the cold concrete a few feet away, mimicking him. I sat there, drenched, waiting. People passed. They threw me sideways glances, but no one stopped. One woman clutched her bag and quickened her pace as she neared me.
This was a waste of time. I stood up and kept moving. The scent hit me next—sweet, crisp, and fresh. Fruit. A wooden cart sat by the curb, shielded by a plastic umbrella. It was piled with spheres of brilliant red. Apples. I stopped. Without a word, I reached out and took one. Its skin was waxy and cold. I wiped it on my jacket and bit in. It was tart, quenching the fire in my throat.
"Hey!" the vendor yelled. "That's a thousand, man!"
I chewed, watching him. He was older, his face a map of deep wrinkles. He wasn't afraid yet, just annoyed. I shook my head, continuing to eat. He shouted again, looking toward an alleyway. "Oi, Deni! Come look at this guy!"
Three young men emerged from the shadows between the buildings. They wore soaked black jackets and had the hard, hungry eyes of predators. The largest one carried a short wooden bat.
"Which one, Pak?" the big one asked, his eyes fixing on me.
"That one! Eating my stock without a cent!" the old man pointed.
They circled me. I finished the apple and tossed the core into the gutter. I looked at them, one by one. They were young, perhaps in their early twenties. Their muscles were tight, but their stances were sloppy—untrained. They thought numbers gave them strength. They were wrong. I could see the fragility of their bones through their jackets. I could hear their hearts thumping—not with bravery, but with the hollow rush of adrenaline.
"Look, friend, you want to eat, you gotta pay," the big one said, closing the gap. He tapped the bat against his palm.
I remained silent. I just looked into his eyes. I let my gaze go dead, reflecting nothing, the way I had with the clerk. I wanted them to see the abyss. And they did. The big one faltered. The one to his left looked at his leader, his confidence wavering.
"You deaf or just stupid?" the big one spat, though his voice had lost its edge.
The vendor egged them on. "Go on, Deni! Teach the thief a lesson!"
The name Deni seemed to spark a flicker of courage. He raised the bat. "You hear him? Pay up, or I'll take it out of your hide."
I didn't move. I saw every opening. I could lunge, snap Deni's wrist before the bat even swung, then take the others. It would be effortless. A part of me craved it—the part that remembered the red spray of the battlefield.
Suddenly, a piercing wail cut through the air. A white metal beast, crowned with flashing red and blue lights, screeched to a halt beside us. Two men in dark uniforms bailed out, moving with practiced precision. They drew black iron from their hips and leveled it at my chest. The strobing lights blinded me, turning the rain into shards of neon.
"POLICE! DON'T MOVE! GET YOUR HANDS UP!"