He looked at the tall looming figure in front of him and then at the sword that was buried in his chest.
It hurt—deep, burning, the kind of pain that made every breath feel like swallowing glass. Blood welled up around the blade, soaking through his tattered jacket in dark, spreading blooms. He lifted his gaze slowly, meeting the twisted smile on the face that looked almost human. Almost.
The eyes were too bright, too golden, like molten coins reflecting firelight, and the skin carried that faint shimmer of flames beneath the surface. An Immortal from Pan.
Azrael Thorne, older, scarred, thirty-something in this nightmare body.
He knew it was a dream.
He always knew. But as usual, he couldn't disconnect. Couldn't wake up. Couldn't even scream properly. The rules of this vision pinned him in place like a specimen under glass.
"Finally, I caught you. You slimy mortal," the Immortal said, voice smooth and amused. He twisted the blade slowly, deliberately, grinding steel against bone. Fresh agony exploded through Azrael's ribs. Blood spilled from his lips in a hot rush as he tried to force a smile anyway—crooked, defiant, bloody.
"Did you… or did I?" Azrael thought, the words never making it past his ruined throat. His left hand clenched around something small and cold: a detonator, thumb already resting on the trigger. His right hand shot forward, fingers digging into the Immortal's chest right where the core pulsed beneath pale skin—a glowing knot of golden energy that served as heart and battery all at once.
"Still struggling, I see," the Immortal continued, tilting his head with mock pity. "It's futile. You are the last of the resistance. Once you are dead, the whole of your world will be gone." He leaned in closer, breath cool and scentless. "We have already taken everything worth taking."
Azrael didn't need to be told. He could see it all around them: the wasteland that used to be Ferlin. Crumbled spires of Ardeni Prime reduced to blackened skeletons. Rivers of ash where streets once ran. Breaches hanging in the sky like open sores, no longer spewing monsters because there was nothing left to devour. The air tasted of rust and decay. The ground was littered with the husks of people, friends, strangers, entire comutries who had believed in alliances, in trade, in hope. They had sucked the life from the planet itself, and now only ghosts remained.
"I was surprised when I found out you had no ability," the Immortal went on, twisting the sword again for emphasis. "No awakening. No mana. No gift from the Inversion. And yet… you still caused us so much trouble. A nobody who refused to stay nobody."
Azrael tuned out the monologue. Words didn't matter anymore. Only action did.
With the last of his fading strength, he pressed his palm flat against the Immortal's chest—right over that pulsing core. His fingers closed around the small, thumb-sized electronic bomb he'd scavenged months ago from a fallen Dermen drone. Crude. Unreliable. But it had enough yield to turn a city block into a crater. He slapped it into place, adhesive side down, feeling the faint click as it adhered to the golden circuits.
The Immortal's smile faltered for the first time—barely a flicker, but Azrael saw it.
He let his arm drop. Every muscle screamed. Vision swam with black spots. But he managed one last, bloody grin.
"See you in hell," he rasped as his thumb pressed the detonator.
White light devoured everything.
The blast was silent at first—then deafening, a roar that swallowed sound itself. Heat, pressure, shrapnel, golden circuits exploding into fractal shards. Both bodies torn apart in the same instant. No pain after the initial flash. Just sudden, merciful nothing.
And then—
Azrael jolted awake.
He was back in his bedroom.
The real one.
Tiny, cramped, walls stained from years of generator smoke leaking through the cracks. A single bulb flickered overhead. The mattress beneath him was thin and lumpy, sheets damp with sweat. The necklace—the dull gem pendant he'd made himself—rested against his collarbone, cool and ordinary.
"Another weird dream again," he muttered, voice hoarse.
He tried to sit up. His body protested—muscles heavy, head pounding like someone had taken a hammer to his skull. A deep, bone-weary exhaustion clung to him, the kind that no amount of sleep could fix. It felt like he'd actually run through that wasteland, actually held that detonator, actually died.
He glanced at the cracked digital clock on the bedside crate. 6:35 a.m. The alarm hadn't even gone off yet.
"Shit," he breathed. Work started at 7:30. No time to linger.
Azrael forced himself upright, swaying for a second before steadying against the wall. His legs felt like lead. Every step toward the tiny bathroom was an effort. He splashed cold water on his face from the rusty tap—water that smelled faintly of iron—and stared at his reflection in the chipped mirror. Twenty years old. Dark brown skin, tired eyes shadowed underneath, messy dark hair sticking up in every direction. Nothing special. Nothing awakened. Just another nobody in Ardeni's lower districts.
He brushed his teeth quickly, changed into his work clothes—faded cargo pants, a threadbare long-sleeve shirt, heavy boots—and grabbed his lunch tin (stale bread and a boiled egg from yesterday). The necklace stayed on; he never took it off anymore. Stupid habit, maybe, but it felt like the one thing that was his.
Outside, the streets of the district were already waking. Generators hummed. Vendors shouted about fresh akara and pap. People hurried past with tool belts and hard hats, eyes down, shoulders hunched against another day of survival. Azrael joined the flow, walking the twenty minutes to the construction site on the edge of the commercial zone.
The site was chaos as usual: cranes groaning, mixers churning, foremen yelling over the noise. They were raising another mid-tier apartment block—nothing fancy, just concrete and rebar for people who could almost afford to leave the slums. Azrael's job was simple: haul materials, tie rebar, clean up debris. Mindless. Exhausting. Perfect for not thinking.
But today his body refused to cooperate.
The dream clung to him like damp clothes. Every lift felt heavier. Every step slower. His head throbbed in time with his heartbeat. He tried to shake it off—focused on the rhythm of work, the clang of metal, the burn in his arms—but the fatigue only deepened.
Around 10 a.m., they moved to the upper scaffolding level—third floor, open to the sky. Azrael was tasked with carrying bundles of rebar rods across a narrow plank bridge between two sections. The planks were old, warped, nailed haphazardly. Normally he crossed without thinking.
Today he didn't see the loose nail.
Halfway across, his boot caught. The plank shifted—tilted—just enough.
He overcorrected. Arms windmilled. The bundle of rebar slipped from his shoulder, clanging down. One rod swung wild, edge catching the inside of his left forearm in a deep, slicing gash.
Pain flared hot and immediate.
Blood welled instantly—bright red against dark skin—running down his wrist in thick streams. He cursed, dropping to one knee on the plank, clutching the wound. The cut was bad—deep enough to expose muscle, long enough to need stitches.
"Az! You good?" one of the workers shouted from below.
"Yeah—just a scratch," he lied through gritted teeth.
He fumbled for the rag tucked in his belt—meant for wiping sweat—and pressed it to the wound. But his hands were shaking, slick with blood. The rag slipped. Blood dripped faster—down his arm, over his fingers, onto his chest.
Onto the necklace.
A single fat drop landed on the gem pendant.
For a heartbeat, nothing happened.
Then the gem pulsed—once, faint blue light flickering beneath the surface like a heartbeat waking up.
Azrael stared at it, confused.
His vision blurred at the edges. The scaffolding tilted—or maybe that was him. The world narrowed to a tunnel. Sound receded: the cranes, the shouts, the city hum all fading to a distant buzz.
Weakness crashed over him like a wave—deeper than fatigue, deeper than blood loss. His knees buckled. He tried to grab the railing but his fingers wouldn't close.
Darkness rushed in.
He collapsed forward, necklace swinging, gem still faintly glowing against his blood-smeared shirt.
The last thing he heard before everything went black was a co-worker's panicked yell:
"Somebody call help! He's out!"