He is not human. Not even the shadow of one. He is an echo — a whisper of a forgotten age, a presence trapped between worlds. Like a crack in reality, he appears without warning, slipping through the seams of existence, leaving behind only the feeling that something is… wrong.
They call him many names: The Devourer, The Wanderer, The Hollow, The Harbinger of the Rift. But all these names are lies. The truth is — he has no name. Or he has forgotten it.
He stands about 180 centimeters tall. His build — imperfect, bearing traces of a once-human past. But hidden beneath his dark, loose clothing — a hooded cloak, shapeless black pants, worn sneakers that seem to swallow light — it all disappears.
His face is unseen, save for two glowing white eyes — in them lies eternity and the void. A thick black mist wraps around his body. Not smoke. Not illusion. It is the void itself, cradling him in its embrace.
At his waist — an empty sheath. A bleeding wound of destiny.
Once, it held her — his katana. Not just a weapon. She was a person. A partner. His other half. A girl forged not from steel, but from meaning. Only he could wield her. Only she would allow it.
But they were torn apart. Long ago. So long that names and faces have vanished from memory. Only the searing pain remains.
She is sealed away — somewhere in a world long abandoned, long forgotten. Perhaps out of fear of their bond. Perhaps out of envy.
And now he walks. Through worlds. Through eras. Through resistance.
He doesn't destroy without reason. But every world he enters, he changes. Flips. Tests. Sometimes — cleanses. Sometimes — erases.
If a world is too far gone, it vanishes. Soundlessly. Completely.
Only he knows what that means: the world was unworthy. And he is one step closer to her.
In battle, he is unmatched. Not by technique — by essence. He tears space, bends time, makes reality tremble.
His strength is not in muscle, but in purpose. With a single gaze, he could shatter a god.
But he prefers combat. Honest. Direct.
And when he fights — a terrifying, demonic smile appears. It's not evil.
It's real. Because only in battle does he feel alive. Only then — he remembers who he is.
His voice is deep, muffled, like distant thunder. He speaks rarely, but every word is a prophecy.
He can be kind. Understanding. Saving. If he believes you're worthy.
But challenge him — and there is no mercy. He never strikes first. But he always answers.
And when he does — reality trembles, buildings vanish, cities are wiped away — as if they never existed.
Some call him a god. Others — a curse. But he is simply a man who forgot his name, searching for her.
His katana. His soul. The girl whose silence screamed louder than any voice,
whose presence was the blade in his hand and the meaning of his existence.
Sometimes, he hears her whisper in his sleep. Sometimes, he sees her shadow in water's reflection.
Sometimes, he feels the thread — thin as spider silk — stretching between worlds.
And so he walks. Through traps. Through lies. Through fakes.
He's seen blades that tried to be her. Women with her face. But they were ghosts.
Only she can be silent in a way that makes everything inside scream.
He will never forgive those who separated them. And he will not stop until he finds her.
He is a blade without a sheath. A will without a hand. Eternal, forgotten, dark — but not evil.
He is her half.
And when he finds her…
…perhaps then, it will all end.
Or begin anew.