"Who... am I?"
His voice barely left his throat, like it was afraid of the answer.
Fingers trembling, he reached out and touched the mirror's surface—cold. Distant.
The figure staring back wasn't a stranger.
It was him.
Sigh.
This wasn't the time to figure things out. He needed to move.
Clatter-clank.
As soon as he heard the sound of armor plates jostling roughly, he rolled to the side.
THUNK—SHATTER!
The mirror exploded under the blunt force of a sword.
"Shit... more of those things."
He turned and slashed—steel meeting steel.
CLANG. Sparks flew.
That creature—no, it was almost human-shaped.
Its rotted flesh had fused with rusted armor.
He swung again.
The sword bit into the shoulder plate—
But stuck.
He yanked.
Nothing.
The creature lifted its weapon. Quick, he kicked it from its hand.
It lurched forward, mouth open in a wet, breathless hiss.
No time to think.
He let go of the blade, stepped in, and drove his fist right into its face.
Once.
Twice.
The third time—crack.
The helmet caved.
He grabbed both sides of the thing's head and slammed it into the wall—again, and again, and again—until the metal folded like paper and something soft gave way beneath.
The thing twitched, then dropped in a heap of meat and rust.
Panting.
Knuckles torn.
He looked down at the body.
"...Fuck."
Then he yanked his sword free from the ruined shoulder.
Still breathing heavy.
Still alive.
Somehow.
'Should I take its armor?'
He eyed it for a moment.
But no. Too loud. Too heavy. He needed to be fast. Quiet.
He'd already made enough noise.
It was bound to draw the wrong kind of attention.
He ran to the end of the hallway.
A stairway.
He climbed.
And stepped into an atrium vast, hollow, and silent.
At the center stood a tree.
Tree...
His eyes locked onto it like it was the only thing that mattered.
Its trunk wasn't wood.
It was flesh. Blackened. Rotting. Wet with decay.
Faces stretched across its surface—twisted in agony, half-swallowed by the bark, mouths frozen in screams, eyes wide with eternal horror.
Blood wept from deep pores in the trunk—thick and slow, like syrup.
Bodies hung from the branches, mutilated and limp. Veins like ropes held them by the neck. Their limbs bent at unnatural angles, skin sagging like cloth. Eyes wide. Empty.
The stench was unbearable—like rot, mold, and something older. Something worse.
And yet...
He stared.
And whispered.
"It's… beautiful."
He stepped closer.
The warmth hit him like a wave—thick and cloying. Like a mother's embrace.
His body was cold. It had been cold since he woke.
His heart ached for that warmth.
Closer.
Closer still.
The roots moved.
Slithering.
Like arms.
They reached out to him.
One brushed his leg.
Another wrapped around his waist.
Then his chest.
Then his throat.
It squeezed—not violent. Not yet.
Like a lover's touch. Gentle. Welcoming.
He didn't fight.
He just stood there.
Eyes wide.
Lips parted.
As the root tightened around his neck, his breath hitched.
And still...
He reached out and touched the trunk.
The flesh beneath his hand writhed—and fused with his skin.
The grip on his neck grew tighter.
Tighter.
Drool spilled from his mouth.
His eyes turned red. Bulging.
Popping.
But he didn't resist.
He smiled.
Like being reunited with a long-lost friend.
The tree embraced him.
Dark.
His body melted into the bark.
Flesh to flesh.
Bone to root.
And the world went darker still.
===============================================================
It was cold.
The same kind of cold he felt in that endless sleep.
Water surged into his lungs.
Choking.
He jolted awake—coughing, gagging, spewing it out.
GLRK—KAHH!
Each breath was a blade. Sharp. Panicked. Wet.
He sat up, dripping. Shivering.
Darkness surrounded him—thick and endless.
But he could see.
Shadows bent in ways they shouldn't, yet he saw them. Felt them watching.
Then—a voice.
"You're finally awake… my child."
It didn't echo in the room.
It echoed in him.
It came from everywhere.
And nowhere.
A white-hot iron tore through his skull.
Like his mind was trying to unravel something it was never meant to understand.
"You slept for a long time," the voice said, coiling around his thoughts like smoke.
And something inside him—something deep—remembered it.
Not what came before.
Not who he was.
Just the weight of centuries.
The taste of dirt.
The warmth of blood on his lips.
And that voice...
That godless, familiar voice.
He painfully cleared his throat.
"Do I know you?" His voice was quiet. Fragile.
"Oh… no. We've never met before," the voice said, almost gently.
"Then why do you sound familiar?"
"It's normal."
"What?"
"This is a timeless realm. Past, present, future—none of it means anything here."
"…"
"That's why you recognize my voice. You heard it before time had a name."
"So you know…"
"Yes."
"Then you must know my name."
"I'll tell you. At the end."
Sigh.
"Where are you?" the man asked. "Why can't I see you?"
"So desperate to see me," the voice mocked.
"Show yourself."
And there it was.
A figure, standing.
Still as stone.
Like a monument to everything dead and forgotten.
Not walking. Not alive. Just there.
The robes it wore were more shadow than cloth—black, shredded at the edges, drifting like smoke from a funeral pyre that never went out. They didn't sway in the air. They bled into it.
Its chest was wrapped in bone and old iron, held together by rust, dust, and the kind of magic people don't speak of anymore. A cracked medallion rested against it—gold, choked with grime, pulsing like it remembered what the sun used to feel like.
Its head was wrapped. No face. Just a void.
A hole where God should've been.
And from that hole, light spilled—not warm. Not divine.
The kind of glow you see right before the noose tightens.
One hand reached out—long, crooked fingers curled like they were calling something home. The other gripped a staff—tall, brutal, topped with a shattered crown or a weapon that forgot what mercy meant.
It didn't move.
It didn't have to.
Things died just for being near it.
This was Death made flesh.
And then he realized—
He was dead.
And the figure standing before him was death.
No... this can't be.
"Am I—" he began.
"Yes," the god said. "You're dead."
The man stood silent.
Staring.
Shocked.
"Bit disappointing, I know," the voice continued. "But don't worry."
"You'll live."
"You'll live... and suffer. And before you even ask why—"
"It's because I'm bored."
"What?" the man's voice rose, cracked.
"After the Shattering, people died without meaning. Without will. Without purpose. How am I supposed to enjoy taking lives like that?"
"Is this a joke?" he asked, anger boiling.
"No, my child. No. This is fun."
"It's fun to watch you suffer."
"Fuc—" he tried to speak, but his voice wouldn't come out.
"You asked for your name, remember?"
The figure laughed.
"I'll give you a title. One you'll carry with all your soul."
"Bastard Child of Death."
The words dripped with venom. Not ceremony. Not honor.
Just spite.
The man heard it this time—malice. Old, festering malice, buried deep in that voice like knives under silk.
"You'll never find your true name."
A pause.
Like the god was holding something in—barely.
"So…"
"I give you a name."
The voice boomed. Not loud. Heavy. Like a world being crushed under its own weight.
"Desan Mourn." The name struck like thunder—final, damning.
"Bastard Child of Death."
And with it came the storm.
The calm in Death's voice shattered.
Gone was the mocking calm.
What came now was pure hate.
"Do not think this as some divine gift" the god spat. The shadows behind him churned like something alive.
"I did not name you because I care. I named you so I could watch your soul bleed every time you die."
"You may ask why—why me?"
Desan felt it then—hate, the rage of a God crashing down on him like a curse.
"It's because I hate you. I hate you."
The space around him cracked, flickered—reality bending under the weight of his rage.
"Let me tell you something..... You're no hero. No chosen one."
"But go on. With all your might, try saving this world."
"And when you fail, wanting to die, when your body is broken and your mind is ash—"
His voice dropped to a whisper, and it was worse than the roar.
"I will not come for you."
"I will watch."
Then silence.
And Desan Mourn stood alone.
Not just named.
Marked.