Archive of Our Own

Chapter Text

Earth did not burn, nor did it shatter beneath war or ruin. It was consumed—quietly, completely—by something far more insidious than destruction. Hunger. Not the hunger of beasts or starving men, but a domain, a will that erased the boundary between self and servitude. At its center stood Asterion, a dreamspawn that was neither king nor god, but something far worse. Where it walked, identity unraveled; where it lingered, thought bent; and where its shadow fell, humanity ceased to exist as individuals. The Longing Domain, fragile but stubbornly human, resisted for a time. It was hope given form—desire, defiance, the quiet refusal to yield. But hope cannot starve hunger forever. In the end, it was not broken, but devoured—its will stripped, its essence consumed, its people folded into a single, suffocating consciousness. Every human still alive became a thrall, not enslaved but absorbed. The world did not end with screams. It ended in silence.
While Earth fell, the Dream Realm followed—though not without resistance. The Hunger Domain spread there as well, slow and inevitable, consuming not land but existence itself. It did not conquer in the way wars were meant to be fought. It did not slaughter or burn. It kept its victims alive. Every soul it touched was preserved, sustained, and bound within its vast, suffocating will—aware, enduring, and waiting for the moment they would be fully consumed. There was no mercy in it, no escape, only the certainty that one day, sooner or later, you would cease to be anything at all.

Yet it was met by something far worse. Mordret, the King of Nothing, did not preserve, did not control, and did not wait. He butchered. Where Hunger gathered the living into itself, Mordret tore them apart. Where it delayed the end, he delivered it instantly. Entire populations vanished not into silence, but into screams cut short. Bodies fell, broken and emptied—and then rose again, hollowed out and claimed. He did not build a domain of unity, but one of absence, wearing the dead like garments and turning the fallen into extensions of his will. Every battlefield he touched became a graveyard that refused to stay still.

Between them, there was no refuge. To fall to Hunger was to lose yourself slowly, piece by piece, until nothing remained but obedience. To fall to the King of Nothing was to lose everything at once; your life, your body, even the sanctity of your corpse. Their war was not fought with armies, but with reality itself. Cities vanished without ruin, their people either absorbed in the vast, waiting maw of the Hunger Domain or slaughtered and repurposed into silent, walking echoes. Armies disappeared without death—or worse, died only to march again under a foreign will. Entire regions became unmade, rewritten, or simply forgotten, as though they had never existed at all.
It was a conflict of opposing absolutes—one that devoured, and one that erased. And in the wake of their clash, the Dream Realm did not merely suffer. It began to unravel.
Once bound by survival and necessity, the cohort had been fractured beyond repair. Jet fled west of Ravenheart, hunted and alone, carrying battles she could no longer win. Effie had been taken and broken in Bastion, her strength turned against her in slow, deliberate torment. Kai remained captive within Ravenheart, reduced to a prize or tool for forces that no longer cared for humanity. Meanwhile, Cassie stood at the edge of the end itself, fighting beside Mordret in the Ebony Tower—not to win, but to delay the inevitable. There were no victories left for them, only time, and even that was slipping away.

Far from the collapsing war, buried beneath layers of forgotten divinity and older sins, lay the final gamble—the Tomb of Ariel. It was a place where even the Dream Realm grew quiet, where truths had not been lost but deliberately buried. Within its depths walked three figures: Sunny, the one who had been forgotten; Nephis, the one who refused to yield; and Anake, keeper of knowledge that should not exist. They had not come to survive. They had come for a single purpose: to kill a creature older than reason itself.

The Vile Thieving Bird was no mere beast. It did not hunt flesh, but fate. Born from the tangled designs of Weaver, it fed on identity, memory, and destiny itself, stealing not only what a person was, but what they could become. Its spawn scattered fragments of stolen futures throughout the tomb—echoes of lives that would never be lived. Within it lay the final, impossible hope. If it could be slain, and its power taken, then fate itself might be turned against the Hunger Domain.
The plan was simple, and utterly mad. If Sunny could kill the Vile Thieving Bird and claim its power, then his stolen fate could be restored, and the world would remember him once more. More importantly, that power could be weaponized—not to fight Asterion, but to erase it. By stealing the fate of the dreamspawn, Sunny could make the world forget it had ever existed, unraveling the Hunger Domain in a single, devastating stroke. It was not a victory of strength, but of annihilation—clean, absolute, and final.
Everything had led to this moment. The Dream Realm teetered on collapse, the cohort was scattered and broken, and humanity no longer belonged to itself. Deep within a tomb that should not exist, a forgotten man prepared to challenge fate itself. Victory, if it came, would not be won through power alone—but through a gamble against the very fabric of existence. And if he failed… there would be nothing left to save.

Nephis and Sunny fought until their bodies forgot what rest felt like. The Tomb of Ariel no longer twisted into impossible shapes around them. It had settled into something worse—solid, real, and merciless. Broken stone, jagged pillars, and narrow spans of shattered ground forced every step to matter. There was nowhere to slip, nowhere to hide. Only distance, timing, and the brutal truth of strength against strength. The Vile Thieving Bird was no god. It bled. It screamed. And it fought like a nightmare made flesh, its wings carving through the air with violent force, each beat cracking stone and kicking up choking clouds of dust. Its talons struck like hooked blades, gouging deep scars into the ground where Sunny had stood a heartbeat before, while its beak snapped with bone-breaking speed, each strike carrying enough force to end the fight instantly if it landed cleanly. Nephis met it head-on, her flame controlled and relentless, each swing of her blade clashing against talons and bone as sparks and embers scattered with every impact. She gave ground only when she chose to, each step calculated, forcing the creature into tighter movements, into positions where it could be punished.
Sunny moved with her, matching her rhythm without a word. He struck when she created openings, his blade biting into flesh already weakened by her fire, his shadows coiling and lashing not to hold the creature, but to disrupt it—just enough to tilt the fight in their favor, just enough to keep them alive. Together, they pressed forward, forcing the creature into a rhythm they could control.

The spawn waited. It did not rush them. It circled the edge of the fight, watching, learning, waiting for the moment when they would be too committed to defend themselves. Sunny felt it like a blade at his back, a constant pressure he could not ignore. Nephis pressed harder, driving the Vile Thieving Bird into a tighter fight, while Sunny shifted wider, forcing himself to track both threats at once, knowing that one mistake would end everything.
For a long time, Anake had remained behind them, watchful, measured, the only one among them who truly understood the weight of the place they stood in. Her gaze moved not with the fight, but through it, tracking patterns that neither Sunny nor Nephis could fully see. She was not idle. She was waiting. Then she saw it. Her breath caught, sharp and sudden, her body going still in a way that had nothing to do with fear.

“…No.” The word slipped from her lips, low and strained—not a warning born of uncertainty, but recognition.

Her eyes snapped toward the edge of the battlefield, and in that instant, she understood exactly what was about to happen. The spawn was already moving. It did not charge or reveal itself. It slipped through the gaps in motion, through the moments where attention fractured—where Sunny committed to a strike, where Nephis forced the Vile Thieving Bird back. It was not fast. It was inevitable. And it was heading for Nephis.

Anake did not hesitate. She moved before thought could catch up, her body surging forward with a speed that defied her calm, the ground cracking beneath her step as she threw herself into the path of the unseen threat. “Behind you—!” This time her voice carried, sharp and commanding, cutting through the chaos of the battle.

The spawn emerged fully in that instant, its talons already descending. Anake met it without hesitation. She twisted into the strike, turning what would have been a killing blow into something survivable—if only barely. Steel punched through her side instead of her heart, the force driving her back, but she did not fall. Her hands closed around the creature, locking it in place, forcing it to exist in that single, fragile moment.

“Now!” The word was not a plea. It was certainty.

For a heartbeat, the world aligned. Her eyes found Sunny for the briefest instant—not afraid, not uncertain, but knowing. There was pain there, yes, but beneath it something steadier. Acceptance. Her grip tightened, blood already staining her hands as she held the spawn in place while it twisted violently, its form shuddering as it tried to slip away, to become something else, somewhere else. She did not let it. Not this time.

“Finish it—!” The command tore from her, sharp and final.

Then the spawn adapted. The talons shifted, just slightly—enough. It drove forward again, and this time it did not miss. They punched through her chest, clean and absolute. Her body jerked with the force of it, her grip faltering for the first time. But she did not release it immediately. For one last, stubborn moment, she held on—long enough to ensure the opening she had created would not vanish. Long enough to matter. Then her strength failed. Her hands slipped, and the spawn tore free. Anake staggered back a single step, her body already failing, the life leaving her faster than even she could endure. Her gaze lifted—not to the enemy, but to Sunny and Nephis. There was no fear in her eyes. Only quiet sorrow.

Her legs gave out, and she fell—not violently, not suddenly, but with a strange, almost peaceful finality, as though she had already accepted the ground before she touched it. And in the instant her body struck stone, the rhythm of the battle broke, and everything began to fall apart. Nephis’ breath caught, and for a single, fragile moment, everything she was—the fire, the will, the unyielding certainty that had carried her through every nightmare—cracked. Not shattered, not broken, but fractured. She had always believed in one truth above all else: that if she pushed hard enough, if she burned bright enough, if she refused to yield, she could win. Anake’s death said otherwise. The thought did not fully form; it didn’t have time to. Because the moment Anake fell, the world moved again—and something was already behind her.

The Vile Thieving Bird shrieked and lunged. Nephis stepped into it, not away, her blade carving a burning line across its chest. The creature recoiled, wings flaring wide as it tried to create distance, but Sunny surged forward immediately, driving his blade deep into the wound she had opened. Hot blood spilled over his hands, thick and real, and for a moment, the creature faltered under their combined assault. Then it lashed out, its talons catching Sunny across the side, tearing through flesh and sending him crashing across the stone. He hit hard, breath torn from his lungs, pain flaring through his body—but he was already moving, forcing himself back to his feet before the creature could press the advantage. Nephis was there again, her flame relentless, forcing it back, keeping the pressure constant. Together, they pushed it, controlled it, forced it into a rhythm they could break. For a moment, they had it. The creature faltered, its movements slowing just enough, its balance breaking under their assault. Nephis stepped forward, her flame surging brighter, condensing into a single, decisive strike. Sunny saw the opening, felt it, knew it—this was the end.

She moved. And the spawn chose that moment. It did not rush. It did not hesitate. It appeared behind her as if it had always been there, its blade already in motion. Sunny turned, moved, reached—Too slow. The strike drove through Nephis’ back and out her chest in a single, clean motion. Obliterating her heart and lungs. Her flame flickered violently, stubbornly, then died. She collapsed, her body striking the stone with a sound far too small for what it meant.
Everything stopped.

Sunny stared, his mind refusing to accept what his eyes had already seen. Then something inside him broke. Not bent. Not strained. Broken. He moved without thinking. The spawn barely reacted before he was on it, his blade crashing into it repeatedly with savage force. Shadows tore at it, dragged it down, held it just long enough for him to finish it. There was no strategy, no restraint—only destruction. He did not stop until it was dead. Truly dead.

[You have slain a Great Devil, Spawn of the Vile Thieving Bird]
[Your shadow grows stronger]

Then he turned. The Vile Thieving Bird was already coming. It shrieked and dove, its talons slamming into him and driving him into the ground. Pain exploded through his body as claws tore into flesh. He barely raised his blade in time to stop its beak from crushing his skull, the impact sending shock through his arms as bone threatened to give. He forced space between them, pushing back, rising on unsteady legs.
There was no plan left. Only violence. Sunny stepped forward and met it head-on. With complete disregard for defense. Favoring offense just like Saint did in dire situations. They traded blow for blow, each strike carving deeper into his already broken body. Talons ripped through him, wings slammed into him with crushing force, sending him staggering, bones cracking under the impact. His avatars were destroyed in moments, caught and shattered beyond recovery, and his shadows were torn apart, leaving him with less and less to rely on. Still, he did not retreat. Still, he advanced. Every step cost him. Every strike took something he could not regain. His body failed piece by piece, but he forced it forward, one movement at a time, until he was close enough. He drove his blade into the creature’s chest. It shrieked, thrashing violently, its talons tearing into him as it tried to pull away. He held on, driving the blade deeper, ignoring the pain, ignoring the damage, ignoring everything except the need to finish it. Again. And again. Until it broke. The Vile Thieving Bird collapsed, its body slamming into the ground, wings twitching before falling still.

[You have slain a Cursed Terror, Vile Thieving Bird]
[Your shadow grows stronger]

Silence followed, broken only by Sunny’s ragged breathing. Then something moved. From the corpse, threads of gold surged forward, piercing into his broken body and anchoring themselves deep within him—into his seven cores. Light flooded his vision, and for a moment, the pain vanished. Warmth replaced it. Completion. Something long missing finally returned. A voice echoed through the light.

[Welcome back, Lost from Light.]

The light faded. And everything returned. He didn’t remember falling to his knees. One moment he was standing—barely, swaying like a man held upright by nothing but habit—and the next the world lurched, his legs gave out, and he was on the ground with her in his arms. The impact jarred something loose inside him. A wet, choking breath tore from his lungs, followed by a thin trickle of blood down his chin.
“Neph…”

Her name came out broken. He pulled her closer without thinking, but the motion sent a spike of agony through his side. Something deep inside shifted wrong—ragged ribs grinding, a punctured lung gasping for air that wouldn’t come. His breath hitched, shallow and uneven, each inhale a scraping, burning struggle that filled his chest with liquid weight. Still, he didn’t let go. Her body was warm. Warm… but empty.

“No… no, you’re fine,” he rasped, though the words dissolved into a cough. Dark blood splattered across her shoulder, staining what little of her remained untouched. “You’ve… you’ve taken worse than this. You always do.”

She didn’t answer. The silence pressed in, thick and suffocating. Sunny bowed his head, resting his forehead against hers. His vision swam, the world tilting at the edges. He blinked hard, but it didn’t clear. If anything, the shadows only deepened, creeping inward like patient predators.

“You said…” His voice cracked, thin and fraying. “You said we’d make it through.”

Another breath—too shallow. His body wasn’t listening anymore. His hands had started to shake, not from fear, but from the slow failure of muscle and will. His fingers slipped slightly where they were slick with blood, and he tightened them with what little strength remained, as if he could anchor himself to her.

“You don’t get to lie to me,” he whispered.

A bitter, broken laugh escaped him—and immediately turned into a violent cough. His whole body seized. Pain exploded through his chest, sharp and blinding, and for a moment he couldn’t breathe at all. Just a hollow, desperate choking as his lungs refused to draw air. When it passed, it left him weaker. Colder. His legs had gone numb. He couldn’t feel them anymore. Couldn’t tell where his body ended and the ground began.

“I won,” he murmured, the words distant, like they belonged to someone else. “They’re dead… all of them.”

What a useless victory. His head sagged forward, then jerked slightly as he fought to stay conscious. The effort alone made his vision flicker—light and dark, light and dark, like a dying flame.

“It was supposed to matter…”

His grip faltered for just a moment before tightening again, desperate, stubborn. Blood continued to seep from his wounds in a steady, unstoppable tide. He could feel it soaking through his clothes, pooling beneath him, warm at first… then cooling against his skin as the life drained out of him. His heart was slowing. He could feel that too. Each beat came heavier than the last. Slower. Further apart.

“What am I supposed to do now?” he asked quietly.

No answer. Of course there wasn’t. Sunny shifted slightly, just enough to look at her face. The movement cost him more than it should have. A sharp tremor ran through his arms, and for a terrifying second, he almost dropped her. He froze. Then gathered her closer, more carefully this time.

“Easy… easy…” he whispered, though he wasn’t sure if he meant her or himself.

His fingers, numb and clumsy now, brushed a strand of pale hair from her face. He was too slow. Too weak.

“You were everything,” he said softly. “You know that?”

A faint, hollow smile touched his lips.

“I never said it. Didn’t think I had to.”

His voice was fading, each word thinner than the last.

“You were just… there. Always there.”

His breathing hitched again—worse this time. He tried to draw in air, but it came out as a shallow, rattling gasp. His chest barely rose.

“And I thought…” He swallowed, though his throat felt thick with blood. “I thought that meant you always would be.”

Darkness crept closer. The edges of the world were almost gone now, swallowed by a heavy, pressing void. Even the pain was dulling, slipping away like everything else. That scared him more than the wounds ever had. His arms tightened around her—not with strength, but with the last reflex of a body that refused to let go.

“I’m… I’m coming with you,” he whispered.

The words trembled, fragile as glass.

“Just… wait for me, alright?”

Another breath—barely there.

“No running ahead this time…”

His head fell forward, resting against hers. He didn’t have the strength to lift it again. His heartbeat stuttered.

Once.
Twice.
Slower.

His fingers twitched weakly against her back, then stilled. The cold had reached his chest now. His arms. His throat. Everything was fading.
But still—still he held her, as tightly as he could manage—as if, in the end, that was the only thing left in the world worth holding onto.
The wind lightly shifted, passing over the both, quiet and indifferent.
And there, in the silence—Sunny did not move again.

Chapter Text

Sunny awoke in darkness—not the familiar embrace of shadow he had come to wield, but something hollow and absolute. His soul sea stretched before him, vast and silent, yet utterly ruined. The seven shadow cores that had once burned like black suns now hung motionless in the void, cracked and dim, their surfaces marred by fractures that spread like rot. He could feel them—every break, every hollow absence where power had once lived. His shades were gone, not hidden or dormant, but erased completely. The shadow legion, his army, his constant, had vanished as though it had never existed. The silence left behind was suffocating.

He tried to move, and pain answered. It tore through him without mercy, as though his very existence had been forced back together after being shattered beyond repair. He looked down and saw that a limb was missing. The realization barely registered. There was no strength left for shock, no room left for anything but the quiet acknowledgment of what remained.

“…So this is what’s left.” A voice answered him—ancient, vast, and impossibly heavy.

“After everything… my Little Shadow returns to me.” The darkness shifted, and a presence formed, unseen yet undeniable. Shadow God had arrived. “All that anger,” the voice continued, touched with something that might have been amusement or disappointment, “all that spite. Was it all for naught?”

Another presence followed, quieter but far more unsettling.

“The Little Shadow truly accomplished some amazing feats.” Weaver stepped into existence, their form indistinct, their gaze impossible to meet. “It is a shame,” they continued calmly. “He was the last hope for the realms.”

“A shame?” Shadow’s voice darkened, and the void itself seemed to tremble. “You mean your shame. I gave him everything he needed to complete his task. It was your blood—your forbidden lineage—that destroyed the last drop of mine. With that drop, he would have become my true heir and wielded all my power.”

Weaver tilted their head slightly, unbothered. “It is not my fault that he encountered my lineage first. Pure coincidence… chance. Still, what he accomplished with only a fraction of your power was impressive. No one has ever torn themselves free from the tapestry of fate.”

Shadow let out a low scoff. “Nothing is by chance with you, Daemon of Fate. Now the realms are lost. It seems this is finally the end. The Hunger Domain will be consumed, and the Forgotten God will wake to take their vengeance.”

“No.” The word was weak, broken—but it cut through the void with undeniable force. “This can’t be it… this can’t be the end.”

Both ancient beings turned as Sunny forced himself upright. It was not graceful or steady. He dragged himself upward through sheer will, his broken form trembling, pain ripping through him with every movement. He was barely holding together, and yet he stood, staring at them without reverence, without fear—only defiance.

“This isn’t it,” he said, his voice rough and unyielding. “I am not done.”

Weaver studied him with quiet curiosity. “It seems there is still some fight left in the Little Shadow.”

Shadow’s attention sharpened. “What do you mean, you are not done? You have lost. Humanity is all but destroyed. What remains for you?”

Sunny did not hesitate. “I’ll kill him,” he said simply. “I’ll make the dreamspawn pay for what he’s done. I’ll prevent him from waking the Forgotten God. I’ll kill him—and anyone who stands in my way. They’ll all find peace within me…” He paused, correcting himself with bitter clarity. “…within you.” As he gestured towards what he thought was Shadow God.

For a moment, there was silence. Then Shadow laughed, a deep, echoing sound that rippled through the void. “Haha… there it is. There’s that spite.”

Weaver, however, remained still. “And how do you intend to accomplish this?” they asked calmly. “You are broken. Your power is gone. Your allies are dead or scattered. Spite alone will not win such a war.”
Sunny met their gaze without flinching. “Then help me.”

That single request stilled both of them. Sunny—who had cursed gods and defied fate—had never asked for help. Not once. Not even from those humans he loved. Yet now he stood before them, broken and hollow, and asked anyway.

Seeing their silence, he pressed forward. “Please,” he said, the word rough but real. “I couldn’t save them. I couldn’t protect them. They deserve more than this—they deserve to be avenged. With that bird… I can erase him. I can erase everything he’s done.”

Weaver let out a quiet sigh, brushing a hand against their empty eye socket. “I do hate that bird…” they murmured. “I do not like altering fate. This is meant to be the end. The end of everything.” They paused, then continued, their voice shifting ever so slightly. “However… I do have an idea. But it is beyond me alone. You would have to take part.”

Shadow said nothing at first. The silence stretched, heavy and uncertain.

“You chose me,” Sunny said, forcing the moment forward. “…didn’t you?” Still no answer. “…Lord Shadow?” Nothing. “…God?” The word tasted bitter. “…Shadow God.” That drew a response. “Is this how you want it to end?” Sunny pressed, his voice rising despite the pain. “Fading into nothing while they wake and take their revenge? Do you think they’ll let you rest? Let you disappear?” He took a slow, ragged breath. “Let me go back. Let me finish this. I’ll make sure the Dreamspawn never wakes the Forgotten God. And you…” a faint, grim smile touched his lips, “…you can keep playing your games.”

Something shifted in the void. Shadow exhaled slowly. “Vengeance will not be taken today.” Sunny’s strength faltered at the words, defeat threatening to drag him back down. But Shadow continued, “Come, Weaver. We will discuss your idea… along with a few of my own.”

The words fell like a sentence. Sunny’s body finally gave out, his strength slipping away as despair closed in. He had failed. The world was gone. There was nothing left. Shadow moved. A presence at his side. A touch—light, almost gentle—tapped against his forehead. And in that instant, everything vanished. The void disappeared. The pain disappeared. The voices disappeared. Darkness swallowed him whole. And Sunny fell into nothingness.

Chapter Text

[Aspirant! Welcome to the Nightmare Spell. Prepare for your First Trial…]

'What… what the hell is this?'

Step. Step. Another step.

Step after step saw Sunny’s bleeding feet meet the cold hard ground. The feeling stuns Sunny for a moment before his battle-hardened instincts kick in to survey the area around him. A familiar line of people stretching out in front of him. The slave caravan that he found himself in back when he did his First Nightmare.

“This can’t be real” Sunny mumbled under his breath.

 

“Oh, it’s real alright boy, best get used to it” A voice behind Sunny grumbles. Turning around Sunny sees a face that he recognizes, Shifty. ‘How has this happened?’ Sunny can’t help but wonder. Is this real? Only one way to make sure’.

Name: Sunless.
True Name: —
Rank: Aspirant.
Soul Core: [Locked]
Memories: —
Echoes: —
Attributes: [Fated], [Mark of Divinity], [Child of Shadows].
Aspect: [Temple Slave].
Aspect Description: [Slave is a useless wretch with no skills or abilities worth a mention. A temple slave is just the same, except much rarer.]

Speechless, Sunny stared at the runes, trying to convince himself that he was maybe just seeing things. He was back? Back at the beginning of his first nightmare? Weaver, the great Deamon of Fate, was this his idea? The one he needed help from Shadow God with? Sending him back in time?

"Whore's bastard! Watch where you're going!"

Sunny hurriedly dismissed the runes. A moment later, he was once again walking steadily — however, not before inadvertently pulling on the chain one more time.

"You little shit! I'm going to kill you!"
The broad-shouldered man in front of Sunny chuckled without turning his head.
"Why bother? The weakling will be dead by sunrise anyway. The mountain will kill him."

A few seconds later, he added: "It'll kill you and me, too. Just a bit later. I really don't know what the Imperials are thinking, forcing us into this cold."

“Don’t worry,” Sunny cut in, “You won’t be cold much longer.”

“Because soon, I’m going to kill you all.” He muttered under his breath so no one else could hear.

Sunny played his part. Attempting to drink, taking the whip across his back due to said drink. Tolerated the hypocrisy from Hero. All the way to the camp.

Night crept up slowly like a stalker hunting prey. The caravan slowed, then stopped, iron wheels creaking as the guards barked their final orders. Fires were lit, casting long, wavering shadows across the camp. Chains rattled as the slaves were herded together, a loose cluster of bodies bound for suffering. Sunny said nothing. He felt it instead—the quiet pull of darkness stretching outward, pooling beneath wagons and bleeding into the spaces between firelight. It called to him, familiar and patient. He stepped back once, then again, retreating until the light no longer touched him. Until the world forgot he was there. With the [Child of Shadows] attribute, the shadows welcomed him without resistance, swallowing his outline, blurring his presence until even the nearest guard failed to notice he had ever existed.

He crouched low, bringing his bound hands forward. For a moment, he simply stared at the iron biting into his wrists. Then his jaw tightened. The first thumb dislocated with a dull, sickening pop. Pain surged through him, sharp, blinding, but he crushed it down, breath shuddering as he forced the joint free. The second followed. Another pop. Another wave of agony. Still, he made no sound. Not anymore. With his thumbs out of place, his hands slipped free, skin tearing slightly as the iron scraped against bone. Blood welled, but he ignored it. Pain was nothing. Pain meant he was alive. He rose in silence, popping his thumbs back into place. His grip was weak and pain spiked with each motion, but he had a grip, his hands were functioning. With a grin, he slipped away.
The first guard never saw him. Sunny slipped behind him like a ghost, one arm locking around the man’s throat, the other bracing the hold. A sharp twist. A brutal pull. The guard struggled briefly, boots scraping, hands clawing at Sunny’s arm but the sound never escaped him. Then his body went slack.

[You have slain a dormant human.]

[Your Shadow grows stronger]

“Damn, no memory.” Sunny lowered him gently to the ground and took what he needed. A sword. A dagger. The weight settled into his hands like something long remembered.

[You have slain a dormant human.]

[Your Shadow grows stronger.]

[You have slain a dormant human.]

[Your Shadow grows stronger.]

[You have slain an Awakened human: unknown.]

[Your Shadow grows stronger.]

[You have slain a dormant human.]

[Your Shadow grows stronger.]

[You have received a Memory.]

The others died just as easily. A throat opened in a single clean line. A blade driven between ribs. One guard collapsed before he even realized he had been cut. That guard was the one who whipped him, the one with the [Sliver Bell]. Sunny moved from shadow to shadow, precise, efficient, inevitable. By the time the last sentry fell, the camp still slept. Then the calm night shattered.

A thunderous crash split the night as something vast descended from the cliffs above. Stone broke. The ground trembled. Screams erupted as the Mountain King slammed into the center of the camp, its grotesque form tearing through flesh and bone. Chaos followed instantly. Soldiers scrambled. Slaves screamed. And from the creature’s bulk spilled its spawn—writhing larvae that surged outward, burrowing into bodies, twisting them into something new.

Sunny watched for a single heartbeat. Then he stepped forward. The sword moved first. One larva split apart. Another cleaved before it could complete the transformation. A soldier lunged in blind panic, Sunny cut him down without hesitation, the man’s throat opening in a smooth, practiced motion. He moved through chaos like something born from it, each step deliberate, each strike final. It became a rhythm. A dance. Steel flashing, bodies falling, blood painting the ground in widening arcs. His wounds screamed beneath his skin, exhaustion clawing at him, but none of it mattered. His body remembered. This was not unfamiliar. This was not new.

[You have slain a…
[You have slain a…
[You have slain a…
[You have slain a…
[You have slain a…

This was him. The spell sang in his ear as his sword and dagger performed their dance of death. He cut through larvae and men alike, the distinction meaningless. There was no mercy here, no hesitation. Only motion. Only death. Then, at the edge of the slaughter, he stopped. Two figures struggled against their chains.

Shifty and Scholar. Their faces were pale, eyes wide with desperate hope as they saw him.

“Boy! Please!” Shifty choked out. “Help us!”

“Free us!” Scholar begged, voice breaking. “You can, please…”

Sunny tilted his head slightly, studying them. For a moment, his expression was empty. Then, slowly, a smile spread across his face, thin, cold, and wrong.

“Of course, bastards,” he said softly.

He stepped closer. The blade rose and then fell.

[You have slain a dormant human.]
[You have slain a dormant human.]

Shifty’s plea ended in a wet gurgle, his throat opening as disbelief froze on his face. Scholar didn’t even manage a scream. The dagger slid between his ribs, twisting once before slipping free. Both bodies sagged, lifeless, still bound to the chains that had never been meant to hold them for long. Sunny stood over them for a moment, breathing slow and steady. Then he turned away. The battle was ending. The Mountain King roared, wounded now, its massive form thrashing as it crushed what little remained of the camp. Few still lived.

Fewer still stood. Sunny stepped forward and another figure joined him.

Hero. Their eyes met for only a moment. No words passed between them. None were needed. They moved as one. Hero drew the creature’s attention, darting in and out, forcing its focus. Sunny stayed just beyond its reach, watching, waiting. Patient. Precise. The Mountain King struck, missing by inches as Hero rolled clear. It reared back, roaring, and Sunny moved. Fast. Silent. Final.

He surged forward, blade held low, then drove it upward with every ounce of strength left in his battered body. Steel pierced deep into the creature’s flesh. Deeper still. The Mountain King convulsed, a terrible sound tearing from it as Sunny twisted the blade hard. For a moment, everything held. Then the creature collapsed.

[You have slain an Awakened Tyrant: Mountain King.]
[Your shadow grows stronger.]
[You have received a Memory.]

The ground trembled as its body struck the earth. Silence followed, heavy, absolute. Sunny stood over it, chest rising slowly, the sword still buried to the hilt. Around him, the camp was nothing but ruin. Corpses lay scattered, twisted and broken. The firelight flickered over blood-soaked ground and lifeless eyes. Only three had stood at the end. Now, only two. Sunny did not move at first. He stood over the corpse, sword hanging loosely in his hand, blood dripping from the blade in slow, steady drops. His chest rose and fell, controlled despite the ruin of his body. Behind him, Hero exhaled sharply.

“Well… that was something,” he muttered, voice strained but steady. “Didn’t expect to survive that.”

Sunny turned his head slightly, just enough to acknowledge him.

Hero wiped blood from his mouth with the back of his hand and gave a humorless chuckle. “Look… I’m not like the others. Never was.” He gestured vaguely toward the scattered bodies of the slavers. “They enjoyed it. The chains, the whips… all that rot. Me? I’m just a man trying to make a living. Making it from one town to the other without starving or freezing.”

He paused, studying Sunny carefully.

“You killing them?” he added with a shrug. “Can’t say I blame you. Honestly, they had it coming.”

Sunny said nothing. Hero held his gaze, steady—almost hopeful.

“We don’t have to be enemies. Out here? Alone? That’s how you die. But together…” He glanced toward the looming mountain pass. “Better odds.”

Silence stretched between them. Sunny’s eyes drifted, not to the pass the caravan had been following, but higher. To the jagged spine of the mountain above it. To a place no one chose to go. Then he spoke.

“If we follow the pass,” Sunny said quietly, “we’ll be walking blind. No caravan. No route. No supplies waiting at the other end. We could run into more slavers, or worse. Monsters aren’t the only dangerous things that haunt the roads.”

Hero frowned. “That’s still better than climbing into nowhere.”

“There’s something up there,” Sunny replied.

Hero’s expression sharpened slightly. “What kind of something?”

“A temple,” Sunny said. The word hung in the cold air.

“Old,” he continued. “Forgotten. No one uses it anymore. But it’s real.”

Hero studied him, skepticism clear. “And you just… happen to know about this place?”

Sunny met his eyes without hesitation.

“I’ve heard things,” he said flatly. “Slaves talk. Guards too, when they think no one’s listening. Old routes. Old shelters. Places people don’t bother with anymore.”

He glanced back toward the ruined camp.

“This caravan was crossing the mountains, not stopping on them. If we follow them, we’re just chasing ghosts.”
A pause. Then, quieter, “But the temple hasn’t moved.”

The wind cut between them, sharp and cold. Hero looked up again, toward the higher slopes. Toward the unknown.

“…And you think there’s something useful there?” he asked.

“Shelter,” Sunny said. “Stone walls. Maybe supplies left behind. Maybe nothing. But it’s better than freezing in the open or wandering until we starve.”

That part was true. Truth was always easier to sell when it wasn’t entirely a lie. Hero exhaled slowly, weighing it. His jaw tightened as he looked between the pass… and the climb. Finally, he gave a short nod.

“Better than guessing,” he admitted. “Alright. We try your temple first. Then when we finish crossing the mountains, we go our separate ways.”

He looked back at Sunny, something like resolve settling in.

“And we do it together.”

Sunny gave a small nod.

“Together,” he said. The word came easy…Too easy.

Hero seemed to relax at that, rolling his shoulders. “Good. Then let’s not waste time. This place will draw scavengers before long.” He gestured toward the wreckage. “Get yourself something warm. Supplies too—water, anything useful. I’ll… take care of what’s left.”

Sunny didn’t ask what that meant. He already knew. He could hear several agonizing groans from a few of the “survivors.” He turned and walked back into the ruins of the camp. The fires had burned low, casting the camp in dim, flickering light. Bodies lay where they had fallen—guards, slaves, twisted remains of those claimed by the larvae. The air was thick with the smell of blood and ash.

Sunny moved through it without hesitation. He found the man quickly. The one who had whipped him. Even in death, the man’s face still carried that same cruel tension. Sunny looked down at him for a moment. No anger. No satisfaction. Just recognition. Then he knelt. The boots came off first, sturdy, well-made. He pulled them on, ignoring the way they pressed against his battered feet. Next, the cloak. Heavy. Warm. It settled across his shoulders, pushing back the creeping cold. Better. Necessary. He cleaned stowed the dagger he had stolen inside the cloak, out of sight. He moved on.

Water canteens were scattered across the camp. He gathered them methodically, checking each one. Most still held enough to matter. Then he found one for Hero. Sunny held it for a moment, weighing it in his hand. His expression did not change. From a patch behind a wagon, out of view of Hero, he picked dozens of berries. Bloodbane berries. Last time had not been enough. Awakened did not die easily. This time, he squeezed more into the canteen. A lot more. Slow. Careful. Deliberate. The poison slipped into the water and vanished without a trace. He gave it a sniff to ensure at least it didn’t smell like poison then he sealed the canteen and set it back with the others. When he returned, Hero was finishing his work. The wounded were no longer a concern. The camp had gone silent once more.

Hero glanced up as Sunny approached, eyes flicking briefly to the supplies. “Good,” he said. “We’ll need it.”

Sunny gave a short nod. Neither of them spoke of what had been done. They left before dawn. The mountain rose ahead of them, cold and unforgiving. No clear path—only stone, wind, and distance. They climbed anyway. The first day passed in silence. The cold bit deep, gnawing through cloth and skin. Sunny moved steadily, ignoring the pain with each step—his ribs, his lungs, his hands all protesting. He did not slow. Hero talked, sometimes. Small things. Meaningless things. Fragments of a life Sunny did not care about. Sunny listened. He remembered.

The second day was worse. The air thinned. Each breath came harder. The wind howled, sharp and relentless, carrying snow across the slopes in shifting patterns that threatened to take their footing at any moment. Hero began to falter. It was subtle at first, a slight drag in his step, a longer pause between breaths. But Sunny noticed. Of course he did. He said nothing. They climbed higher. Toward the nameless temple waiting above. And as the mountain closed in around them, silent, merciless, Sunny walked beside him, patiently waiting for the poison to do its work.

They reached it at dusk. The mountain opened just enough to reveal it—half-buried in stone and shadow, as though the world itself had tried to forget it. The temple rose from the mountainside in silent defiance, its walls carved from black stone that drank in the last light of day. No banners. No markings left untouched by time. Only weathered pillars and a dark entrance yawning wide. Sunny slowed. Hero did too, though his eyes narrowed—not with fear, but with something sharper. Contempt.

“So this is it,” Hero muttered, studying the structure. “A house for ghosts.”

Sunny didn’t answer immediately. His gaze lingered on the entrance.

“Yes,” he said at last. “Something like that.”

Hero snorted quietly, rolling his shoulders. “Never liked places like this. Too much pretending. Too much power tied up in stories people are too afraid to question." There was no fear in his voice. Only disdain.

They stopped just outside the entrance. The air here felt different—still, heavy, as if the mountain itself was holding its breath. The darkness inside the temple was absolute, swallowing everything beyond the threshold. Sunny turned slightly toward Hero.

“I need a few minutes inside,” he said.

Hero glanced at him. “Why?”

Sunny met his gaze evenly. “Ritual.”

A pause.

“I am a temple slave,” he added, motioning to the tattoos on his body. “There are things you don’t skip. Things you don’t do in front of others.”

Hero studied him for a moment, expression unreadable. Then he shrugged.

“Fine,” he said. “I’ll give you your privacy.” His tone was casual, but his eyes flicked once toward the entrance again. “I’ll come in after. I want to see this place for myself.”

Sunny gave a small nod. “Do what you want.”

He turned and stepped inside. Darkness swallowed him whole.

The shift was immediate. The air grew colder, heavier, thick with age and something far older than stone. His footsteps echoed softly, swallowed almost as soon as they were made. The temple stretched outward in silence—vast, hollow, forgotten.
Sunny took a few steps forward. Then stopped. It found him. Not a sound. Not a shape. But a presence—ancient, immense, pressing down on him from all directions at once. It wasn’t physical, yet it touched everything. His skin. His breath. His thoughts. Judging. Weighing.

For a single moment, Sunny felt it see him, not the surface, not the body, but everything beneath. Every choice. Every truth. Every lie. The air tightened. The temple held its breath. And then, recognition. The pressure shifted. Not gone, but changed. The invisible weight eased just enough, pulling back like a blade held at the throat that had decided not to cut. Sunny exhaled slowly. Beneath his skin, unseen but undeniable, the [Mark of Divinity] stirred—a quiet answer to a question older than memory. The guardian withdrew. Not fully. But enough. Permission.

Sunny stepped forward again, deeper into the temple’s heart. The darkness no longer resisted him, it parted, subtly, guiding rather than denying. Behind him, outside, the wind picked up again. And after a few moments, Hero would follow. Then the final act would begin.

The temple swallowed sound. Each step Sunny took seemed to vanish before it could echo, as if the stone itself refused to remember him. The air was cold, unmoving, thick with the weight of something ancient and patient. He walked deeper—past broken pillars, past walls carved with symbols worn smooth by time—until the space opened and the altar revealed itself.

Black stone, older than the mountain that held it, rose from the center of the chamber like a wound that had never healed. No dust touched it. No decay claimed it. Untouched. Waiting.

Sunny slowed as he approached. He could feel it now—not just the lingering presence of the unseen guardian, but something greater. Vast. Distant. And yet close enough to hear. Watching.

He stopped before the altar and said nothing at first. Just stood there, blood drying across his skin, breath steady despite everything his body had endured.

Then, quietly, “I know you’re there.” The words didn’t echo.

“I don’t know what you expected of me,” he continued, voice calm, stripped bare of pretense. “Or if you expected anything at all.” A pause. His eyes lifted slightly, not searching, just acknowledging. “But I’m still here.”
Another breath.

“They aren’t.”

No pride. No apology. Just truth.

“I don’t know if that’s enough. But it’s what I have.”

Silence answered him. Ancient. Endless. Sunny gave the faintest nod, as if that silence was answer enough. Then he stepped back, set his feet, and began.

The first movement was slow. Deliberate. A shift of weight, a turn of the body, arms rising, not in defense, not in attack, but in something older than either. The dance came to him the way it always did, not learned, not practiced, but remembered. As if it had been carved into something deeper than flesh. His body followed without resistance.

Step. Turn. Flow.

The shadows stirred. They stretched along the floor, climbed the walls, drawn to him like a tide answering the pull of the moon. His movements sharpened, gained rhythm, gained purpose. He was no longer a wounded boy in a forgotten temple. He was something else, a vessel, a story being told again.

His arms cut through the air in precise arcs, each motion blending seamlessly into the next. No hesitation. No wasted effort. Only flow. Only intent. Beautiful. Terrible. Perfect. He moved as she had, the woman from his dream, the temple slave who had danced not for survival, but for something greater, something sacred and unforgiving. His feet struck the stone in soft, measured beats. His body twisted, bent, extended, every motion exact. The dance demanded everything. And he gave it.

Pain flared in his ribs. His lungs burned with every breath. His muscles screamed, already pushed far beyond their limits. He did not stop. He could not. The dance drove him forward, deeper into its rhythm, deeper into something that consumed thought itself. Sweat began to bead along his skin, then run freely, cutting clean lines through the dried blood that covered him. Still he moved. Faster now. Sharper.

The shadows thickened, pooling around him, rising and falling with each step as if they were part of the dance itself, as if they belonged to him, or he to them. His breath came harder, but his form never broke. Not once. Not a single misstep. Every movement flawless. Every transition seamless. He was not performing the dance. He was the dance.

Time stretched, or perhaps it ceased to matter. All that existed was motion. Shadow. And the silent gaze of something ancient and unseen. Sweat dripped from his brow, from his jaw, falling to the stone below. His body trembled at the edges now, strain building beneath the surface, but still, he held it together. Still, he moved with impossible precision, refusing to falter. Refusing to fail.

Not here. Not now. Not before that gaze.

The final movements came like a closing breath. Slow. Controlled. Absolute. He stepped forward, turned, lowered himself and stilled. The last motion settled into silence, his body locking into the final stance as if carved from the same black stone as the altar before him. For a long moment, nothing moved. Not the air. Not the shadows. Not even him.

Sweat rolled down his face in quiet streams, his chest rising and falling with controlled, measured breaths, but his form remained perfect. Unbroken. Offered. And in that stillness, beneath the weight of an unseen gaze, Sunny stood.

The last movement settled into stillness, and for a time, Sunny did not move. His body trembled beneath the surface, the cost of the dance finally demanding its due. His breath came slower now, deeper, as he forced control back into limbs that had given everything without hesitation. Sweat ran down his face, cooling against his skin as the temple returned to its heavy, ancient silence. He stood before the altar and waited.

Nothing came. No voice. No sign. No blessing. Only that same distant, watching presence.

Sunny exhaled once, long and steady, then turned. He made his way back toward the entrance, each step quieter now, measured again, not the dance, but the man. At the threshold of the chamber, he paused just long enough to steady his breathing.

“Hero!” he called, his voice carrying through the dark halls. “You can come in!”

A moment passed. Then Sunny stepped back into the shadows. His form blurred, edges dissolving as the darkness welcomed him. In a heartbeat, he was gone, no sound, no presence, nothing left behind. He watched.

Hero entered cautiously, boots echoing against the stone. His eyes swept the chamber, adjusting to the darkness, searching. “Sunny?” he called. No answer. He stepped further in, frowning. “Don’t tell me you…”

The temple shifted. Not visibly, but unmistakably. Sunny felt it from within the shadows, the ancient will turning, focusing, judging. The guardian surged.

Hero reacted instantly. He didn’t see it, but he felt it. Something in him snapped tight, instincts flaring. He twisted, bringing his weapon up just as the unseen force struck. Steel met nothing, and yet it held, for a heartbeat. Then the impact came. He was thrown back, boots scraping across stone as he caught himself, breath sharp.

“What the hell?!”

The guardian pressed again. Invisible. Relentless. Sunny watched, senses stretched thin. He could feel it, not see it, not fully, but its presence distorted the shadows themselves. It had shape in absence, form in pressure.
And Hero, Hero was weakening. The poison had begun its work. Subtle at first, but now undeniable. His movements slowed. His strength bled from him, little by little. Sunny felt a flicker of tension tighten in his chest. This wasn’t how it was supposed to go. But he did not move. Not yet.

Hero roared and struck again, blade cutting through empty air, then connecting. Resistance. Impact. Something real. The guardian recoiled. For the first time, it had been wounded.
Hero grinned through blood. “Got you…”

Then it struck back. Harder. Faster. An unseen force tore through his defense. There was a wet, tearing sound, sharp, final. Hero screamed. His arm was gone. Ripped clean from his body. Blood sprayed across the black stone as he staggered, collapsing to one knee, then barely managing to stay upright. His breathing turned ragged, uneven, poison and blood loss tearing through him. Still, he fought. He swung again, wild now, desperate but unbroken. His blade struck something, again, again, driving the guardian back. Each hit landed weaker than the last, but it landed. It mattered. Sunny felt it. The guardian was faltering. Its presence flickered, destabilizing. Hero stumbled. Fell. Hit the ground hard, his weapon slipping from his grasp. Blood pooled beneath him as he lay there, broken, breathing shallow, barely clinging to life.

The temple fell silent. The guardian rose above him, gathering itself for the final blow. Hero looked up into nothing and waited for death. Sunny moved.
From the shadows, silent as the space between heartbeats. He had been waiting for this moment. Perfect. Final.

He surged forward, as the sword drove forward with everything he had left. Steel met something solid, then pierced. The blade drove through the back of the guardian’s unseen head, sinking deep. For a single heartbeat, everything froze.
Then blood, dark, unnatural, burst outward, spraying across Hero as the guardian convulsed. A sound tore through the temple, not quite a scream, something older, something ending. Sunny twisted the blade. Hard. The presence shattered. Collapsed. Gone.

[You have killed an Ascended Demon: Temple Guardian.]
[Your shadow grows stronger.]
[You have received a Memory.]

The invisible weight that had filled the chamber vanished in an instant, leaving only silence behind. The body—whatever it had been—fell, its form never fully revealed, only hinted at by the spreading stain across the stone.
Sunny stood over it, breathing slow and steady, the sword still buried deep.

At Sunny’s feet, Hero lay broken. Barely breathing.

Blood pooled beneath him, dark and spreading, his body torn apart by the battle and the poison alike. His remaining hand twitched weakly against the floor, fingers scraping at the stone as if searching for something to hold onto. Sunny pulled his blade free and turned without hesitation.

He stepped over the corpse of the unseen guardian and walked toward Hero, boots echoing softly through the vast chamber. The man’s chest rose in shallow, uneven breaths, each weaker than the last. Still alive. Still conscious. Sunny reached down, grabbed him by the back of his collar, and began to drag him across the floor. Hero gasped as his body scraped against the stone, leaving a thick smear of blood in his wake.

“Wha…” he choked, voice raw, barely forming the words. “You…” He coughed violently, blood spilling from his lips. “You set me up…” There was anger in it. Even now. Sunny didn’t slow.

“Shut up,” he said flatly.

Hero let out a broken laugh that turned into another cough. “You think… this changes anything…?” he rasped. “You’re still…”

“Shut up,” Sunny repeated, colder this time. “Auro of the Nine.”

The words struck harder than any blow. Hero froze. For a moment, even the pain seemed to fall away as his eyes widened, confusion cutting through the haze.

“…What?” he whispered. Sunny kept dragging him.

“How…” Hero’s voice trembled now, something deeper creeping in. “How do you know that name?”

Sunny didn’t answer right away. He reached the base of the altar and let Hero’s body drop against the black stone with a dull, final weight. Hero groaned, barely able to lift his head. Sunny stood over him.

“I know enough,” he said calmly. “Enough about your little mission. About what you think you’re doing.”

Hero’s breathing hitched. Sunny’s gaze didn’t waver.

“Alethia. Eurys,” he continued, voice steady, cutting through the silence. “The gods you want to tear down.”

Shock flickered across Hero’s face, real, unguarded.

“You…” he started, then faltered. “That’s not possible…”

Sunny tilted his head slightly.

“And I know about the Nine,” he went on. “What you did. What you caused.”

His voice dropped, colder now. “The world didn’t break on its own.”

Hero stared at him, and for the first time, something like fear surfaced beneath the pain. Sunny let the silence stretch just long enough. Then he looked away.

“Enough,” he said.

Hero tried to speak again—to demand answers, to cling to whatever control he thought he still had, but Sunny cut him off before the words could form.

“I said shut up.”

His tone wasn’t louder. Just final. Sunny turned back toward the altar, his attention shifting completely, as if Hero had already ceased to matter.

“I have someone more important to talk to.”

And with that, he left Hero there—broken, bleeding, and full of questions that would never be answered—while he faced the ancient stone once more.

Sunny turned to the altar. For a moment, he said nothing. The silence pressed in, heavy and ancient, as if the temple itself leaned closer to listen. Behind him, Hero struggled to breathe, each inhale wet and uneven, his strength slipping further with every passing second. Still, his eyes were open, fixed on Sunny. Watching. Listening.

“I know you’re listening,” Sunny said, voice low, stripped of everything but truth. “You always are.”

Hero’s brow twitched faintly at that. A flicker of confusion. Then irritation. As if he thought Sunny was speaking to himself… or worse, to nothing at all. Sunny didn’t look back.

“I don’t care what you think of me,” he continued. “Or what I’ve done. Or what I will do.” A pause. His jaw tightened. “But I failed.”

The word hung in the air. Hero’s breathing hitched. Not in sympathy—no, something else. Recognition. A man like him knew what failure looked like when it stood naked in front of him.

“I failed to stop the Dreamspawn.”

Hero’s eyes narrowed slightly, trying to follow, to understand. The name meant something, but not enough.

“I failed to save humanity.”

A weak, strained exhale left Hero’s lips. He shifted slightly, wincing, as if the weight of that claim pressed against him in a way he couldn’t quite grasp.

“I failed my friends.”

Hero swallowed.

“I failed my sister.”

A flicker of something passed over his face, brief, involuntary. And then…

“I failed her…Nephis…”

That one landed. Hero didn’t know who she was. But he knew what that tone meant. Sunny’s hands curled at his sides.

“I did everything I could,” he said, anger creeping in now, cold, controlled. “Everything I had… and it wasn’t enough.”

Hero’s gaze hardened, a trace of defiance returning despite his condition.

“Welcome to the world,” he rasped weakly, voice barely holding together. “That’s how it works.”

“Shut up,” Sunny said without turning.

Hero’s jaw clenched. But he fell silent.

“So, this time,” Sunny continued, “I don’t start over empty. I can’t start over empty.”

That made Hero pause. Really pause. Something in those words didn’t sit right. Sunny stepped closer to the altar.

“I can’t crawl my way back up from nothing again. I can’t waste years getting strong enough to almost matter.”

Hero’s eyes sharpened despite the haze creeping in around them. There was something wrong here, something deeper than madness.

“If I’m going to win, if I’m going to change anything, I need more.”

The air felt tighter now. Even Hero could feel it.

“I need your help.”

Hero let out a weak, disbelieving breath. “You’re begging them?” he muttered, voice laced with bitter disbelief. “After everything...”

“I said shut up.”

Sunny’s voice didn’t rise. It didn’t need to. Hero went still.

“I need the shadows,” Sunny said. “All of them.”

Hero’s confusion deepened.

“I need my cores.”

His brow furrowed.

“I need my memories.”

Now there was something else creeping in, unease.

“I need my shadows.”

Hero’s fingers twitched faintly against the stone.

“I need my shades.”

The words didn’t sound like desperation anymore. They sounded like… reclamation.

“I need everything I had,” Sunny said, voice steady, unyielding. “Everything I built. Everything I earned.”

Hero stared at him. Something cold began to settle in his chest.

“And more.”

A long silence followed. Then…

“Weaver.”

The name struck differently. Hero’s breath caught. His eyes widened, just a fraction.

“…No…” he whispered, barely audible.

“I know you’re there too,” Sunny continued.

Hero’s heartbeat quickened despite the poison dragging him down.

“No more games. No more half-measures. If you want this world to survive, if you want your little pieces to keep moving, then help me.”

Hero tried to push himself up and failed.

“You don’t know what you’re talking about…” he rasped, but there was no conviction left in it. Only fear. Sunny didn’t acknowledge him.

“I can’t start from nothing again.”

Hero froze. Something clicked. Something terrible.

“It wasn’t enough last time.”

Hero’s eyes widened fully now, clarity cutting through the fog of pain and poison. “…Last time?” he whispered.

His gaze locked onto Sunny’s back. Understanding came slow. Then all at once.

“It won’t be enough this time,” Sunny finished.

Hero’s breath hitched sharply.

“You…” His voice cracked. “You’ve…” Another cough tore through him, blood spilling from his lips. “…done this before…”

Sunny stepped closer to the altar.

“I don’t need your approval,” he said. “I don’t need your mercy.”

Hero stared at him, horror creeping into his expression.

“I need your power.”

Silence answered. Ancient. Endless.

Hero lay there, broken and bleeding, eyes fixed on the man standing before the altar, no longer seeing just a slave, or even an enemy…but something far more dangerous. And Sunny, Sunny stood unmoving, staring into the darkness beyond the altar. Waiting. Not with hope. Not with faith. But with the cold certainty of someone who had already watched the world end once and refused to let it happen again.

He turned without warning, crossing the distance back to Hero in a few quiet steps. Before the man could react—before he could even muster the strength to speak—Sunny grabbed him again, this time with far less restraint.
Hero gasped as he was hauled upright, his broken body screaming in protest.

“Wha…wait!” he choked, his voice raw with pain and panic. “What are you…”

Sunny didn’t answer. He dragged him forward, boots scraping across the blood-slick stone, and with a single, brutal motion, hoisted him up and threw him onto the altar. Hero hit the black stone hard, a strangled cry tearing from his throat as what little strength he had left tried and failed to push him away.

“No…no!” he rasped, his remaining hand clawing weakly at the surface. “You don’t…don’t do this!”

Sunny stepped up beside him, calm. Steady. Cold.

“In addition to everything I’ve already given you,” Sunny said, voice quiet but carrying in the vast chamber, “I’ve brought something more.” Hero froze. Not from strength. From fear. Sunny’s gaze settled on him. “Auro of the Nine.”

The name hit like a hammer. Hero’s eyes widened, something primal breaking through the pain.

“Don’t!” he gasped, shaking his head weakly. “You don’t understand…you can’t!”

“One of the Nine,” Sunny continued, as if he hadn’t spoken, “who helped bring about the downfall of the gods… the daemons…”

A slight pause.

“And everything that lived between them.”

Hero’s breath came faster now, ragged, desperate. “That’s not…” he coughed violently, blood spilling down his chin. “That’s not how it…, listen to me!”

Sunny didn’t.

“This is my offering.”

Hero’s hand shot out, grabbing weakly at Sunny’s arm. “WAIT!”

For a fraction of a second, their eyes met. There was fear in Hero’s. Real fear. Not of death. Of what came after.

“Don’t do this,” he whispered, voice cracking. “You have no idea what you’re…”

Sunny moved.

The dagger flashed. Clean. Precise. Final.

The blade slid across Hero’s throat in a single, unbroken motion. For a heartbeat, nothing happened. Then…blood poured. Hero’s words dissolved into a wet, choking sound as his grip slackened, fingers slipping uselessly against Sunny’s arm before falling away completely. His body convulsed once, twice, eyes wide, locked on Sunny with something between fury and disbelief, then fading. Fast. His chest hitched. Stopped. Stillness took him.

[You have slain an Awakened Human: Auro of the Nine.]
[Your shadow grows stronger]
[You have received a Memory.]

The blood spread across the altar, dark and heavy, seeping into the ancient stone as if it had been waiting for it. Sunny didn’t look away. Not for a second. When it was done, he reached down. And without hesitation, drew the dagger across his own palm. The cut was deep. Deliberate. His blood followed, brighter, warmer, spilling over the altar, mixing with Hero’s in slow, steady streams. An offering. Not just of death. But of himself. Sunny stood there, hand bleeding freely, gaze fixed forward as the black stone drank it in.

“Now,” he said quietly.

His voice did not waver.

“Are you listening?”

 

[You have offered an Awakened Human as a sacrifice to the Gods: Auro of the Nine.]
[You have offered yourself as a sacrifice to the Gods.]
[The gods are dead and cannot hear you.]
[Your soul bears the Mark of Divinity]
[You are a Forsaken Slave]
[Shadow God stirs in his eternal slumber.]
[You shown true humility in the face of the divine.]
[He is entertained by your struggle!]
[You performed an ancient art and impressed Shadow.]
[He sends a new blessing from beyond the grave.]
[Shadow God has named you his Heir.]
[You refused to yield to your fate.]
[You are an unbecoming shadow.]
[You are a treacherous human.]
[But you are a true weaver...]
[You returned to grow stronger.]
[You are a unique existence.]
[The Daemon of Fate is entertained by your struggle!]
[He sends a new blessing from beyond the grave.]
[Shadow and Weaver struck an accord on your behalf.]
[Together they have remade you.]
[Heir of Shadow, receive your blessing!]
[Wake up, Sunless! Your Nightmare is over.]
[Prepare for appraisal...]

Chapter Text

The world unraveled. The battlefield, the blood, the mountain, all of it dissolved into nothing as the Spell took hold. Sunny felt it wrap around him, pulling him free of the waking world, dragging him into that familiar void between breaths, between thoughts, between dreams. The place of appraisal. Or at least… it should have been. For a moment, everything was the same as the first time he experienced the appraisal from the Spell. Endless dark stretched in all directions, empty and silent. The Spell’s presence pressed against his mind, vast and mechanical, ancient beyond comprehension. Then, it stuttered. A flicker. Subtle. Wrong. Sunny’s eyes narrowed.

The presence of the Spell faltered, just for a fraction of a second, but it was enough. Enough to feel it hesitate. Enough to feel something interrupted. That hadn’t happened before. A low, distorted hum rippled through the void, like a blade dragged across something unseen. The gray space trembled, cracking, warping, breaking. Sunny didn’t move. Didn’t speak. He simply watched. The world around him folded in on itself, collapsing inward like a dying star. The emptiness twisted, compressed, and then, he was somewhere else.

A room. If it could be called that. There were no walls he could see, no ceiling, no ground, yet he stood. The air was still, heavy with a presence that made the space itself feel smaller, as if reality had been forced to accommodate something it was never meant to hold. Sunny’s breath slowed. He knew, immediately, this was not the Spell. He was no longer alone.

Two figures stood before him. They did not emerge. They did not arrive. They were simply… there. One was shadow given form. A shape that swallowed light without effort, its edges shifting, unstable, as if it refused to be fully understood. It stood tall, vast in a way that had nothing to do with size, its presence pressing down on the world like a silent, inevitable truth. The other was wrong. Not in form, in nature. It stood in contrast, yet somehow more unsettling. Its outline was clear, almost human, almost defined, but the longer Sunny looked, the less certain it became. Lines shifted where they shouldn’t. Angles bent in ways that made no sense. It was as if reality itself struggled to keep it consistent. It felt like threads, countless invisible strands stretching outward from it in every direction, weaving through past, present, and future all at once.

Watching. Measuring. Waiting. Sunny didn’t need to be told. He knew. Shadow God. Weaver, the Daemon of Fate. They stood in silence before him. Sunny understood. Their earlier conversation was yet to be completed.

Weaver regarded him with quiet fascination. “Another shocking performance.”

Shadow’s presence deepened, vast and approving. “Impressive indeed, Little Shadow. I especially enjoyed the speech at the end… as well as receiving Auro as a sacrifice, even if it was only during a nightmare.”

Weaver’s tone softened, almost thoughtful. “Humility is a rare virtue. One that has been missing in you until now.”

Sunny stood still for a moment before answering, his voice low, steady, and worn in a way strength alone could not hide.

“What you say is true. Losing everything you ever cared for… everything you fought for… everything you…” He paused, just for a breath. “…love.”

His gaze hardened, but something deeper lingered beneath it. “It teaches you lessons you never knew you would need.”

The silence that followed was not empty. It lingered, thoughtful, as though the moment itself was being examined from every angle.

Weaver was the first to break it, his presence shifting with quiet curiosity. “You have changed,” he said, almost musing to himself. “Not just in strength. In understanding. That is rarer than power.”

“And more valuable,” Shadow added, his voice deep and unyielding, carrying a weight that pressed against the space itself.

Sunny didn’t answer. He had already said what needed to be said. Now he waited.

“We had intended to return you to the beginning,” Weaver continued, his tone softer now, almost reflective. “Empty. Unburdened. A clean thread, ready to be woven again—with our touch upon it.”

“A better starting hand,” Shadow said, with the faintest trace of amusement. “Enough to tilt fate, without breaking it.”

Sunny shook his head once. “That won’t work.”

Weaver did not argue. If anything, he seemed to agree. “No… it would not. You proved that.”

“I built everything once,” Sunny said, his voice tightening just slightly. “I learned everything once. I paid for it in blood.” A breath. “And it wasn’t enough.”

Shadow’s presence deepened, not dismissive, but approving. “You learned the right lesson, Little Shadow.”

Sunny stepped forward, his gaze unwavering. “I’m not starting over empty.”

Weaver regarded him for a long moment. “And you would keep everything?”

“Yes.”

This time, the silence changed. It was heavier. Not directed at him—but at what he was asking.

“No,” Weaver said at last.

The answer came quietly, but it carried finality. Sunny’s eyes narrowed slightly, but Shadow spoke before he could respond.

“Not because we would deny you,” he said. “Because we cannot.”

That stopped him.

Weaver’s tone lost its curiosity, settling into something more grounded—more constrained. “To return you with everything you have become would require more power than remains to us. What you carry now—your shadows, your strength, the weight of your fate—it is no longer small.”

“It would tear more than it restores,” Shadow added. “And break more than you intend to save.”

Sunny clenched his jaw. “So I have to start over anyway.”

Weaver regarded him for a long moment, then spoke—not with curiosity this time, but with something heavier. Older. “You understand what you are asking for.”

It wasn’t a question. Sunny didn’t answer immediately.

Weaver continued anyway. “You wish to return with your mind intact. Your memories. Your understanding. Your… pain.” A pause. “That is not strength alone.” The threads tightened slightly. “It is weight.”

Sunny’s jaw shifted, but he said nothing. Weaver pressed on, quieter now.

“Scars do not fade simply because time is reversed. Trauma does not loosen its grip because the body is made new.” A faint ripple passed through the unseen weave. “You will carry it. All of it.” A longer pause. “Through another lifetime.”

Shadow’s voice entered then, deeper, more grounded, less philosophical, more final. “Pain shapes,” he said. “But it also breaks.” The darkness pressed closer, not threatening, assessing. “You have already broken once, Little Shadow.”

Sunny’s gaze hardened. “I got back up.”

Shadow did not argue. But neither did he agree. Weaver’s tone shifted again, softer, almost… cautioning.

“And what of the moments between?” he asked. “The quiet ones. The ones where there is no battle to distract you. No enemy to hate. No goal to chase.”

The threads pulled tighter.

“What will you do with the memory of her?” he asked gently.

That landed. Harder than anything else. Sunny didn’t move.

“Her voice,” Weaver continued, almost a whisper now. “Her presence. The way she stood. The way she fell.”

A pause.

“You will remember it all.”

Sunny’s breath slowed.

“You will relive it,” Weaver said. “Again. And again. Not as it happened… but as it could have been.”

The threads trembled slightly.

“That is the nature of memory when paired with regret." Shadow spoke into the silence that followed. “And regret is a sharper blade than any you have carried.”

Sunny’s hands clenched slightly at his sides.

“Good,” he said. The word came low. Steady. Both presences stilled. Sunny lifted his gaze.

“I want to remember.” No hesitation. No doubt. “I want it to hurt.”

The threads shifted, unexpectedly. Not resisting. Listening.

“If I forget,” he continued, voice tightening just slightly, “then I’ll make the same mistakes. I’ll hesitate in the same places. I’ll believe the same lies.” A breath. “She’ll die again.”

That was the truth beneath everything. Shadow’s presence deepened,not cold, not distant. Approving.

“You choose burden,” he said.

Sunny nodded once, “I choose not failing again.”

Weaver watched him in silence for a long moment. Then something in the threads… settled. Not neatly. Not perfectly. But firmly.

“As you wish,” he said at last. “But understand this, Little Shadow…”

A pause.

“There will be moments where the weight you carry will feel greater than the path ahead.” The threads tightened, “and in those moments… you will have no one to blame but yourself.”

Sunny didn’t look away. “I know.”

Shadow spoke once more.

“Then carry it.”

Weaver said again, more gently this time. “You will not return as nothing.” A pause. “You will return as you are.”

Sunny frowned slightly. “As I am?”

“Your mind,” Shadow said. “Your will. Your experience.”

“Your scars,” Weaver added quietly. “Those we can return.”

Sunny’s expression darkened. “And everything else?”

“You will earn it again,” Shadow said simply. The words settled heavily.

Weaver continued, his voice thoughtful rather than dismissive. “But this time, you will not stumble blindly. You will not waste years learning what you already know. You will be faster. Sharper.”

“Deadlier,” Shadow finished.

Sunny let out a slow breath. “And still weaker.”

“At first,” Shadow replied.

That was the truth. Sunny stood there for a long moment, weighing it. Not ideal. Not what he wanted. But real.

“…Fine,” he said at last. The word carried acceptance—but not surrender.

Weaver studied him with quiet interest. “You accept limitation.”

“I accept reality,” Sunny answered.

A faint ripple of approval passed through the space.
Shadow spoke one final time, his voice deeper now, final in a way that left no room for argument.

“Then hear this, Little Shadow. There will be no third return.” A pause. “You will succeed… or you will end.”

Sunny didn’t flinch. “I know.”

Weaver’s threads settled—not into perfection, but into something chosen. Something deliberate.

“Then we will send you back,” he said softly. “Not as you were… but as you have become.”

The decision had been made. A second chance, with knowledge sharp enough to cut fate itself. Not the exact outcome Sunny had hoped for, but one he could work with. It settled into the space like a closing door—final, immovable. Shadow’s presence lingered for a moment longer, vast and suffocating, as if considering Sunny one last time. Then, without ceremony, it receded. Not fading. Not weakening. Simply… gone. The absence it left behind was louder than its presence had been. Sunny felt it. And understood. That was all he would get from him.

Weaver remained. The threads around him shifted more slowly now, less like a storm and more like something deliberate. Focused. He regarded Sunny in silence for a long moment, as though measuring him against something only he could see. Then he spoke.

“You are about to do something… difficult,” Weaver said quietly. “Not just for yourself… but for everything that touches you.”

Sunny frowned slightly. “I already did something difficult.”

Weaver’s tone carried a faint, knowing edge. “No. You failed something difficult.” A pause. “This will be worse.”

Sunny didn’t like that answer.

“What happens if I change too much?” he asked.

Weaver’s threads tightened just slightly. “Fate is not a straight line,” he said. “It is a weave. Pull one thread, and you do not simply move it—you disturb everything connected to it.” A pause. “Change too much… too quickly… and the weave does not correct itself.”

Sunny’s gaze sharpened. “It breaks.”

Weaver tilted, almost approving. “Or worse,” he said softly. “It adapts in ways you will not expect.”

That sat heavier than it should have.

Sunny crossed his arms slightly. “I don’t have a choice.”

“No,” Weaver agreed. “You do not.” Another pause stretched between them. “There is something else.”

Sunny looked at him.

Weaver’s voice lowered, quieter now. “Your return… will not be gentle.”

Sunny’s brow furrowed. “What does that mean?”

Weaver’s threads shifted, as if even explaining it resisted simplicity. “It means,” he said slowly, “that forcing you backward while preserving what you are… will not fit cleanly.”

A faint tension pulled through the space.

“It will hurt.” A beat. “It will be messy.”

Sunny stared at him. “That’s it?”

Weaver gave the faintest hint of amusement. “No.”

The threads around him tightened again—though this time, something about them felt… different. Not just reacting. Not just responding.
Choosing.

“When you return,” he continued, “you will not be… small.”

That didn’t make sense. Sunny’s confusion showed plainly. Weaver leaned into it, voice sharpening.

“Restrain yourself,” he said. “Immediately.”

Sunny frowned. “Restrain what?”

Weaver did not answer directly.

“I would prefer,” he said instead, “that you do not kill anyone… by accident.”

That landed wrong.

Sunny’s eyes narrowed. “What are you talking about?”

Weaver watched him, and for the briefest moment, something shifted beneath his tone, something almost hidden. A quiet divergence, like a thread pulled ever so slightly out of alignment with the rest of the weave.

Sunny blinked. “…What?”

The threads stirred again, tighter now, some aligning… others not.

Weaver continued, almost idly, “You will not arrive exactly as you expect.”

Sunny took a step forward. “Wait, what does that…”

Weaver’s gaze lingered on him for just a fraction longer than necessary. “Do try to survive it, Little Shadow,” he added softly.

And beneath those words, buried deep, was something else. Not warning. Not concern. Anticipation. The threads drew tight. Not all of them. The world broke. Not gradually. Not gently. It tore.
The space around him unraveled, threads snapping and collapsing inward all at once. Darkness folded, twisted, shattered into fragments that no longer made sense. Weaver’s form stretched, distorted, and for the briefest instant, Sunny thought he saw it. One thread. Unbound. Unaccounted for. Then it was gone. And before he could ask another question, before he could understand what any of it meant, everything disappeared. And all he felt, all he experienced was…pain.
It did not arrive gradually. It claimed him all at once. Every nerve ignited as if his body had been torn apart and forced back together in the same instant. There was no single point of suffering, no wound to focus on, no center to endure. It was everywhere, absolute, consuming, inescapable. Sunny tried to breathe and couldn’t. Tried to think and failed. The pain devoured everything. Thought shattered beneath it, memory dissolved, even instinct, fight, flee, endure, collapsed under the sheer weight of it. This was not pain meant to be survived. This was pain meant to break.

His body twisted, or perhaps it didn’t. He couldn’t tell. There was no sense of self left to measure against, no ground beneath him, no form to anchor to. Only the endless tearing. It felt like being forced through something far too small, like his existence itself was being compressed, crushed, rewritten, every piece of him dragged backward through time, through shape, through meaning. He wanted to scream, but he couldn’t. Wanted to die, but he couldn’t. The agony climbed higher, impossibly higher, layer upon layer until it surpassed anything he had ever known. Every injury, every torment, every moment of suffering he had endured before this became meaningless. This dwarfed it all. This redefined it.
Somewhere, deep beneath the ruin of his thoughts, Sunny understood something terrible. This was the cost. Not for power. Not for memory. For defiance. For forcing his way back against something that did not want to yield. And still, it did not end. Time lost meaning. Seconds stretched into eternity, or perhaps eternity collapsed into seconds. There was no way to measure it, no way to escape it, only endure, if that word even applied. Because this was not endurance. This was annihilation that simply refused to finish the job.

And just when it reached a peak, just when it felt as though there could be nothing beyond it, it grew worse. Something inside him tore. Not flesh. Not bone. Something deeper. Something that defined him. His awareness flickered, fractured, slipping in and out of existence like a dying flame. Each return brought the pain back in full—no mercy, no dulling, no reprieve. And through it all, one thought remained. Faint. Broken. Stubborn.

Again.

If this was what it took, if this was the price, then he would pay it. Because the alternative was losing her again.
The pain surged once more. Then something shifted. Not relief. Not yet. But direction. And for the first time since it began, there was an end.