Divinity: Tomb- One shot!
Beyond the curtain of dying stars, past the echoes of dead constellations, loomed a singularity unlike any mapped by sentient eyes—SGR-76. The registry called it a black hole. But to those who spoke of it in hushed terror across cosmic circles, it was something more.
They called it—The Maw.
It did not pull. It devoured. Slowly. Silently. Relentlessly.
"Three hundred astronomical units and closing, sir," the first mate barked over the hum of the aging vessel, his voice cracking from both static and fear. "Another forty AU and we start flirting with the event horizon."
"Hold her steady," the captain replied, rough hands gripping the polished railing. His eyes, grey and sunken, flicked toward the figure standing at the prow — silent, unmoving. Cloaked in tattered black, the lone traveler seemed almost a part of the void itself, his cloak swallowing starlight, his hair shimmering like threads of dead comets.
With heavy steps, the captain crossed the deck, stopping a few paces behind the figure. "Sir," he began, his voice lowering, as if the Maw itself might overhear, "we approach the critical boundary. Shall we reduce speed?"
Without turning, the figure spoke—calm, final, undeniable:
"Stop the vessel here. Let the Maw taste the winds, but not our bones."
A shudder ran through the ship as the engines whined into compliance, falling silent just shy of the black hole's faint pull. The stars around them bent unnaturally, but here, in this thin margin between hunger and annihilation, they would wait.
The man in black stood unmoved at the ship's edge, the curvature of the Maw reflecting in his eyes like dying stars. They glowed — not with power, but with certainty. Purpose. A silence followed, tense and ancient. Then, his voice tore through it like a blade.
"Captain. Take the vessel back. Chart a course back home. Ensure the protection of my wife. That is not a request!"
The crew stiffened, but the captain stepped closer, hesitant, the weight of years hanging off his shoulders.
"And you?" he asked quietly. "You intend to enter... that?"
"I do."
The captain looked past him at the impossible dark, the lightless wound in the heavens. He exhaled slowly. "Is it really in there? The thing you're after? Worth dying for?"
He did not answer at first. Instead, his gaze never left the Maw. After a beat, he whispered, "It isn't a question of worth. It's a question of debt."
The captain's lips pressed into a tight line. He wanted to protest. To pull rank. To beg. But none of it mattered. Not before this man, not before that void.
"You'll vanish."
"So be it."
And with that, he turned away from all of them — toward the great silence, as if it had called his name and he was simply answering.
The ship's engines hummed a low dirge as he turned, his long coat whispering against the metallic floor. He made for the exit ramp without a word, his figure a solemn monolith against the vastness of the void. Behind him, the captain, driven by a last desperate concern, called out — offering him a small, reinforced vessel designed for solo navigation. A craft meant to weather at least the outer disturbances of a black hole's pull. He paused at the threshold, the edge of the ship yawning open before him like the maw of some unseen beast. He did not answer immediately. Only after a heartbeat, with his back still turned, did he give a simple, almost dismissive nod. "Very well, then," he said — voice colder than the space beyond. Yet, as the crew scrambled to ready the vessel, he ignored them, stepped onto the ledge — and with a final glance into the swirling abyss, leapt. His body drifted forward, unbound, unprotected, a lone shard of willpower sailing through the dark toward the waiting mouth of the Maw!
The void wrapped around him like an endless shroud as He floated onward, the distant gravitational breath of the Maw tugging ever so gently at his form. He let his body go limp, arms spread like broken wings, and closed his eyes to the silent cosmos. In that darkness behind his lids, thoughts came unbidden — fleeting echoes of a life he had carved for himself from the bones of exile. He thought of her — the warmth of a new home built beneath unfamiliar stars, her laughter like bells in the distance, the weight of the promise he had sworn: I will return.
Yet the memory soured quickly, unraveling into older scars. The Universal Corps — legions forged of many worlds — hunting him across systems, their blades dipped in righteous fury. And farther still, a battlefield beneath a dying sun, where he had crossed paths with personas once whispered in reverence. The blood-crowned god of war, whose eyes burned like a forge — and the ancient warden of the Sun Disc, his silhouette a golden specter against the ash-choked sky.
He had heard tales — fragmented whispers of gods and discs and the power to shape existence itself. But it was only then, in the furnace of battle, that myth had bled into brutal reality. He floated, a ghost amid stars, as these memories clawed at him — fragments of an endless, unfinished war — a war he had no choice but to survive.
As he drifted deeper, the invisible hand of the Maw began to tighten around him. First, it was a faint tug at his legs — almost playful — but quickly, it grew into a savage, hungry pull. His body jerked downward with violent force, spinning him through the black waters of space. He gritted his teeth, struggling to stabilize himself, one arm slashing across his face to shield his eyes from the blinding distortion of stars.
But the Maw was patient. The pressure built like an invisible tide, pulling at his bones, gnashing at his skin, stealing the breath from his chest. He clutched the hilt of his blade tighter — the last anchor of sanity — as the crushing gravity threatened to tear him apart molecule by molecule.
A guttural cry ripped from his throat, not at all heard, torn between defiance and despair. "I... I am the Eclipse Sovereign!" he roared into the consuming dark, "And there's no way I'd breathe my last in here—"
The words faltered. His voice broke, strangled by the crushing force that bent even light itself. In one last, desperate gasp, he tried to push back — but the cosmos swallowed him whole.
His consciousness unraveled, and he fell into the void.
Slowly, consciousness clawed its way back into him. One eye opened — greeted by suffocating darkness. The other twitched, then fluttered open.
"Ugh... what now?" He groaned, his voice a hoarse whisper swallowed instantly by the heavy stillness.
He pushed himself up, coughing, spitting out fine, cold sand that coated his mouth and throat. His hands scraped against the black grains as he struggled to dig himself out. "Lovely," he muttered dryly. "Buried alive in the middle of nowhere. How poetic."
Finally pulling free, he staggered upright. Around him stretched a desert — endless, black as pitch, shimmering faintly under a sky of stars and galaxies. They hung impossibly close, stitched into the heavens like scattered jewels across velvet.
He stood still for a long moment, eyes wide with disbelief."No light source... no moons... no suns..." he said aloud, glancing up at the heavens. "And yet here I am. Seeing it all clear as day. Heh... figures."
He took a cautious step forward. Instantly, the sand shifted, collapsing into itself, erasing his footprint.
He paused, staring down. "Oh, great," he said sarcastically. "A place that doesn't even want me leaving a mark. Perfect hospitality."
He checked his body carefully — patting down arms, chest, legs. Sword — still there. Limbs — intact. Wounds — surprisingly absent.
"Huh... still alive," he mused aloud, a smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. "Well, for now anyway."
With a grunt, he climbed the nearest dune, the sand surprisingly soft underfoot.
At its peak, he stood — hands on his hips — surveying the endless, alien wasteland before him.
"Congratulations, you," he said grandly, throwing out his arms. "You've officially reached the armpit of the universe."
Despite himself, he chuckled. A low, rough sound that vanished instantly into the empty air.
For a moment — a fleeting, rare moment — he let himself simply be. Small. Insignificant. A single soul floating in a forgotten place beyond time.
He wandered aimlessly, his boots crunching against the midnight sand beneath him. Every few steps, he'd glance behind, only to see his footprints vanish like whispers—erased not by wind, for there was none, but as if the very ground rejected the notion of being marked. "No wind, no erosion… this sand's just dramatic," he muttered, eyes glinting with bemusement. He began experimenting—jogging, doubling back, even tracing the word "B" with his heel, just to watch it vanish under a slow, lazy ripple of sand. "Oh, now you're just showing off," he scoffed at the desert, as if it were a sentient prankster. The weight of his armor, once noble and imposing, now felt like wearing an oven made of gold. With a groan, he unlatched it and let the pieces fall one by one, clattering against the dunes with muffled thuds. "Well, if I'm gonna die out here, might as well look fabulous doing it," he quipped, stretching out like a man vacationing at the edge of existence. His blade still hung at his side—a reminder that while the sand may play games, this was no dream. This was something else.
He strolled farther, his mood slowly shifting from curiosity to light frustration. There was nothing. No ruins, no hidden messages etched into the dunes, not even a suspicious rock trying too hard to look inconspicuous. He paced in wide circles, hands on his hips, squinting up at the skies above. "Maybe the stars'll tell me something," he mumbled. But the constellations up here were an unrecognizable mess—twisting, spiraling things that looked like someone shook a box of glitter onto the universe and called it a day. There were galaxies upon galaxies gleaming like spilled ink and silver, but no sense of orientation, no patterns, no familiar signs. He rubbed his temples, already regretting the idea of consulting the cosmos. "Thanks for the input, Space," he muttered dryly.
Finally, he cupped his hands and shouted at the sky with mock grandeur: "HELLO? I'm the Eclipse Sovereign, intergalactic outlaw and all-around amazing guest! Anyone gonna pick me up, or do I need to rate this desert zero stars ?" His voice echoed slightly, as if the universe was trying not to laugh.
Eventually, even his endless patience cracked. With an exaggerated groan, he yanked his sword free from its hilt, the steel singing sharply in the dead silence. "If the universe won't entertain me, I'll entertain myself!" he barked,his voice filled with a manic sort of humor. He started swinging the blade around like a madman—wild, flowing arcs slicing the empty air. As he walked, he kept slashing, his steps steady, the sand trailing after his movements like loyal hounds.
"This is what instinct looks like, huh?" he mocked himself mid-swing. "Some damn great warrior you are, following gut feelings straight into a sandbox." He chuckled dryly, spinning and twirling his sword in absurd patterns as if taunting the desert itself.
And then—crack.
Losing his temper, he drove his blade straight down with a roar. The impact split the desert floor, sending a sharp tremor underfoot. The sand gave way, peeling back like curtains, revealing what had been hidden just below the surface: scattered boxes, ancient weapons, tattered clothes—and a single skeleton, half-buried but unmistakably clear.
Its finger pointed rigidly—not forward, not the way he had been walking—but back, as if warning him he had already passed something important.
He blinked, the humor draining from his face as he stared.
"...Huh," he muttered. "Well, that's ominous as hell."
He crouched slowly, squinting down at the boxes with all the caution of a child unwrapping a birthday gift after being told there might be a punch to the face inside. He pried one open with the tip of his sword… only to find it filled to the brim with—
"…Sand," he muttered flatly. "Of course. Of course it's sand. Wouldn't want to break the theme."
He opened another. More sand.
A third. Still sand.
He stared at them in disbelief. "You've got to be kidding me. Is this place trying to mock me?"
The sound of soft shifting broke his thoughts—the sand he'd disturbed earlier had begun to slide back, unnaturally smooth, flowing over the boxes, the weapons, the clothes... all slowly vanishing under its creeping weight, like the desert was reclaiming its secrets.
He stepped back cautiously, brushing sand off his arm, before turning his attention to the skeleton still half-propped up, its bony finger still pointing stiffly in the opposite direction.
He walked over and tapped the skull lightly. "Good evening, sir," he said, solemn as a priest. "Bit of a bad time to be laying down, don't you think?"
He knelt beside it, speaking as if the skeleton might answer. "Now, listen. I don't know who you are or why you're pointing that way, but I assume you didn't just get bored and die dramatically for the fun of it. So, thanks for the creepy advice. I'll walk in that direction instead."
He stood up, brushing sand off his knees, then gave the skeleton a small salute. "May your bones remain… pointed."
And with that, the sand hissed again behind him, beginning to consume even the skeleton's arm. He gave it one last glance.
"…Real clingy, this place," he muttered. " A creepy desert with abandonment issues."
He kept marching forward, every few steps swinging his sword down like a lumberjack trying to split open the world itself. Every time the blade struck the sand, the ground cracked and revealed something ridiculous — a broken spear here, a rusted helmet there, a supply box that, once cracked open, offered nothing but a royal helping of fine-grain disappointment. "What is this, a bargain bin apocalypse?" he muttered, kicking one of the boxes aside, watching it tumble and sink halfway into the shifting dunes. He spoke out loud, weaving tall tales to amuse himself: maybe he had stumbled upon the lost treasure of a forgotten army, or maybe this was some cosmic joke where the universe gave him sand for every swing of his sword. Between the jokes, though, he couldn't help but notice the stray bones — femurs, skulls, broken ribs — half-buried under the soft layer of desert. "Lovely," he chuckled dryly. "It's a party. Guess I wasn't invit-"
It was mid-ramble, that he caught it — wavy patterns on the sand. Strange, flowing impressions, as if something had swept over the desert surface. Not random. Not natural. They slithered forward like the ripples of a river long dried up... or something more sinister. He froze, blinking. "Water? No... couldn't be. Blood? Pfft, charming." He scratched his chin thoughtfully with the tip of his sword, staring down the wavering trail. His curiosity, like a mischievous gremlin, kicked him into gear. Without hesitation, he smirked, adjusted the strap of his discarded armor slung lazily over one shoulder, and began to follow the strange trail, whistling to himself like an explorer with nothing better to do — or like a fool too stubborn to admit he should probably be worried.
With nothing better to do — and frankly no better company than a suspicious ripple in the sand — he shrugged and kept following the trail. He even bent down once or twice to talk to the trail itself, wagging his finger like an old man scolding a mischievous child.
"You better not lead me into some cosmic quicksand, you slippery little rascal," he muttered.
After a while, he paused, chuckling to himself. "I'm talking a lot today," he admitted out loud, laughing in a self-deprecating tone.
Then, with a small sigh, almost too soft to notice, he added, "Well... it's not like I had much chance to run my mouth with the others around. Gotta keep up the big scary act, huh?"
He gave a lopsided smirk, as if amused by the thought. His feet dragged forward, following the endless shimmering pattern.
Hours — or maybe days — seemed to pass. Time didn't exist properly here. His strength finally gave out and, with a heavy groan, he flopped down onto the soft, deceptively inviting sand. "Ah, finally... my royal bedchamber," he said dramatically, throwing an arm over his face. "Go ahead, you cursed desert, swallow me up while I'm taking a nap. That'd be a hell of a story for the history books." He laughed to himself weakly, his voice trailing off into the surreal, endless night, the comforting weight of the galaxies above pressing down on him like a silent audience.
He lay sprawled across the midnight sands, the comforting chill of the cosmic desert embracing him like an old friend. His breathing was soft, slow, lost somewhere between dreaming and waking. Even in sleep, his body was restless — his fingers twitching, his lips mumbling incoherent words.
"...Still... walking... damn trail..." he muttered, frowning deeply as if locked inside a dream where he never stopped moving.
In his dream, the endless desert stretched out forever, the trail teasing him just ahead, never closer, never farther.
Then— a shift.
Something subtle. Something wrong.
The fine layer of sand atop the wavy trail began to... ripple. To flow.
It wasn't the wind.
It wasn't his imagination.
He stirred awake, his instincts snapping him back. His eyes shot open, the familiar ceiling of swirling galaxies greeting him like indifferent gods.
He sat up slowly, squinting at the movement. Only the trail moved, slithering quietly across the desert like a living thing. Everything else — the stars, the dunes, even the dead air — remained eerily still.
He didn't say a word at first.
He just watched it, his mind strangely empty for once.
Finally, with a tired grunt, he heaved himself up, slinging his battered armor over his shoulder like a bag of meaningless weight. His sword clinked against his hip as he limped toward the shifting trail.
"Fine," he muttered, almost amused. "Lead the way, you smug little bastard."
His voice was hoarse, his body heavy, but something in his chest — that stubborn fire — refused to go out.
And so, dragging his burdens behind him, he walked once more into the endless, uncaring night.
The trail slithered ahead like a lazy snake, and he stomped after it, armor clanking softly against his back.
Every few steps, he glared at the wavy line in the sand like it was a traitorous guide.
"I swear, if you lead me into another damn sand pit, I'll slice you in half," he muttered darkly, pointing his sword at the innocent-looking trail.
The desert remained silent, unimpressed by his threats.
There was no wind — no comforting breeze, no dust kicking up — just the heavy, eternal stillness pressing down on everything.
Ahead, a towering dune loomed — a mountain of silver-black sand under the endless stars. stopped, squinting up at it.
He sighed. A long, loud sigh of someone who had officially run out of patience.
"Fantastic," he growled. "Brilliant. Top notch."
And he began climbing.
One step.
Another.
Sand shifting treacherously under his boots.
By the tenth step, was already cursing under his breath.
By the twentieth, he was cursing louder.
"This cursed place... this cursed sand... this cursed trail..." he huffed, wiping the sweat from his forehead with the back of his hand.
"The whole bloody galaxy can go rot! And you, stupid stars!" He shook his fist dramatically at the unmoving, twinkling sky.
"You think you're funny, huh?! Sparkling there like smug little spectators!"
He stumbled forward a few more feet, slipping a little.
"And you!" he jabbed at the ground with his sword, as if scolding a naughty child. "You call yourself 'solid ground'? You're just dry quicksand, you little traitor!"
And then, he cursed himself.
"And me... oh, me! The biggest fool of them all! I had to go follow a moving line in a damn void desert, didn't I? Good thinking, you, real tactical genius! Should've been promoted to Emperor of Idiots!"
There was no answer — just his own voice, loud and absurd against the vast, silent world.
Not even a gust of wind bothered to blow.
Only the soft, pitiful sound of sand sifting around his ankles as he climbed, utterly alone.
Finally — finally — he reached the top.
Panting, sweating, glaring daggers at the uncaring cosmos above — and then he saw it.
There, half-buried in the dunes below, was a ruined stone temple.
Old and cracked, the temple looked like it had been forgotten by the universe itself.
Strange, broken pillars jutted out of the sand like crooked fingers. The entrance yawned open — a jagged mouth leading into darkness.
He stared down the long, steep slope of the dune.
He narrowed his eyes.
He could already feel the betrayal coming.
Carefully, carefully, he placed one foot forward into the sand, testing his weight, his stance that of a seasoned warrior about to step into battle.
And immediately —
whoosh —
his foot sank deep, the ground giving way like a trapdoor.
"Awh, hell," he grunted — just before gravity yanked him downward.
First it was a stumble —
then a skid —
then a full-blown, out-of-control tumble.
He pinwheeled through the air, his armor clanging ridiculously around him, sword slipping from his hand and bouncing down the slope alongside him like a drunken companion.
"Son of a—! STOP—!"
he barked at his own legs, as if he could command physics to behave.
For a few desperate seconds, he tried fighting it — flailing arms, twisting torso — but the universe had already made its decision.
With a long, drawn-out groan of defeat, he gave up and just let himself flop helplessly down the hill, limbs flying.
At last — with a mighty thud and a face full of sand — he skidded to a stop at the bottom.
He lay there, dazed, arms and legs splayed out like a broken marionette.
A soft, almost pitiful pfft escaped his mouth as he spat out a mouthful of dry sand.
He pushed himself up slowly, brushing sand off himself with sharp, angry swipes, muttering the entire time:
"Yeah. Great. Fantastic. Welcome to my Excellent Adventure. Starring me... and a metric ton of sand."
But then —
he heard it.
A low, ominous rumbling.
He looked up just in time to see the dune he'd so 'gracefully' descended starting to disintegrate.
A wall of sand — no, a tsunami of sand — was rolling toward him like a slow, malicious tidal wave.
His eyes widened.
"Oh, COME ON!!"
He turned tail and ran.
Or at least, he tried.
Running in sand is about as effective as swimming in pudding.
He flailed forward in big, ridiculous strides, waving his arms like a man on fire.
He shouted back at the dune, as if personally offended:
"I ALREADY FELL ONCE, YOU PATHETIC PILE OF DIRT! WHAT MORE DO YOU WANT FROM ME?!"
The sand roared behind him, merciless and uncaring.
He managed — somehow — to scramble far enough that the collapsing dune stopped chasing him.
Panting, furious, and absolutely covered from head to toe in dust, he staggered to a stop.
He turned around and shook his fist at the mountain of sand now innocently sitting there, pretending like nothing had happened.
"You're lucky I don't have explosives," he growled under his breath. "I'd level your whole damn family."
Then, without another word, he sheathed his sword, squared his shoulders, and stomped toward the dark, yawning entrance of the ruined temple —
dignity, pride, and patience officially zero.
His steps crunched against the worn, sand-choked stones leading to the temple's entrance.
Something prickled at the back of his neck — the faintest, sharpest buzz of instinct.
His senses, dulled by the long trek and tumble, snapped awake.
Without a word, he dropped his armor from his back onto the ground with a clank and started strapping it on — piece by piece — muttering under his breath:
"Oh good. Yes. Because if getting buried alive wasn't enough excitement for one day, clearly now is the perfect time to get stabbed too."
With a final grunt, he yanked his breastplate into place and tugged on his gauntlets.
Fully armored, fully suspicious, and fully annoyed, he approached the massive stone door.
From a distance, it had looked a little ajar —
but up close, it was shut tight, sealed like a tomb.
Except...
A thin stream of sand from multiple trails, was slithering in from underneath.
Slow, deliberate, like a living thing.
The sand wound in lazy patterns along the cracked threshold, as if it were... inviting him.
He stopped.
Eyed the door.
Then, very seriously, he whispered to the door:
"Don't think I won't cut you down just because you're ancient and impressive-looking."
No response, of course.
He stood there awkwardly, almost willing it to open just by sheer stubbornness.
Nothing.
He sighed heavily, like a man accepting a terrible chore.
"Alright. Fine. If I die here because a piece of ancient furniture wouldn't cooperate, that's on you."
He lifted his sword slightly — ready to hack through it if he had to.
But before he could make a move —
he hesitantly placed one gauntleted hand against the cold, rough stone...
And with a deep groan that shook the dust from its cracks —
the door began to open.
Very slowly.
Very ominously.
The grinding of the stone against stone sounded like a dying beast wailing through the endless desert.
He instinctively stepped back, sword half-raised.
"Well that's not unsettling at all," he said dryly.
"Nope. Totally normal. Happens all the time. Doors just open themselves for weary travelers like me."
As the gap widened, a gust of stale, heavy air poured out — carrying with it the scent of ancient stone, forgotten battles, and something faintly metallic...
Maybe blood?
Maybe worse.
He squinted into the darkness beyond the door.
Inside... the trails of sand were waiting.
Curling and beckoning deeper into the gloom like the fingers of some unseen beast.
He exhaled long and slow.
"Yup. Definitely getting murdered today," he said to nobody in particular.
And with the same ridiculous, invincible bravado that had carried him this far —
he stepped through the threshold into the unknown, he walked, boots scraping softly against the worn stone.
The moment he crossed the threshold,
the massive doors behind him slammed shut with a deep, echoing BOOM that rattled the very stones.
He didn't even flinch.
"Yeah. Of course. Wouldn't want a nice, friendly exit anyway," he muttered, throwing a brief, annoyed glare at the now sealed entrance.
But when he turned around —
his sarcasm caught in his throat.
The world inside... was nothing like the midnight desert outside.
It was bright.
Blindingly bright.
The midday sun poured down from somewhere unseen — burning against his skin, making sweat immediately bead on his forehead.
Stone-paved floors stretched out before him, smooth and ancient, polished in strange swirling patterns.
Wide corridors branched off into dim rooms and compartments, their interiors swallowed in shifting shadows.
He squinted hard.
"This is... wrong," he mumbled, yanking off his helmet.
The sudden heat was real — not some hallucination — and it was already cooking him inside his armor.
With a long-suffering groan, he peeled off his armor piece by piece and threw it clattering aside, not even bothering to be careful anymore.
He wiped his brow, shook the sand out of his hair, and set off deeper into the strange temple.
The further he went, the stranger it got.
Sculptures lined the walls — proud figures of warriors, scholars, beasts —
but the faces were eroded away, featureless, like forgotten memories.
He paused at one sculpture — a giant depiction of a lion-headed knight —
and jabbed a thumb at it.
"What is this, a parade for overachievers?"
He chuckled dryly to himself and moved on.
But in the very center of it all — standing alone like a ghost at the heart of a storm —
was the statue.
A towering figure carved from stone, heroic and triumphant —
a cape flowing behind its back, a sword raised high in victory...
But no head.
Where the neck should have been, there was just a jagged, broken stump, like something had violently torn it off.
He stood before it, staring up.
He tilted his head one way.
Then the other.
"Well..." he said slowly, "...you're certainly winning the 'Most Unsettling Welcome' award today."
A bead of sweat slid down his temple as he looked around.
The heat pressed down heavy, but there was no breeze.
No sound.
Just the quiet hiss of sand occasionally slipping through unseen cracks.
His hand hovered near his sword hilt instinctively
"Wonderful," he said. "Rooms. Perfect places to get ambushed from."
Still, curiosity gnawed at him harder than fear.
And so, after one last suspicious look at the headless champion in the center,
he started exploring the temple's twisting passages
ready for whatever fresh absurdity awaited him.
He walked, boots scraping softly against the worn stone, moving along the shady passageway that wrapped around the temple's interior.
The walls were smooth and ancient, but what caught his eye were the strange... openings.
Not windows. Not really.
Just hollow, rectangular gaps where windows should have been, as if whoever built this place had either forgotten — or simply didn't care — about keeping the outside world out.
The midday sun poured in through these empty spaces, casting long, harsh rectangles of light across the passage like a series of judgmental spotlights.
He stuck to the shade as much as he could, muttering under his breath.
"Of course it's a thousand degrees in here. No doors. No windows. Perfect architectural planning, really."
Overhead, there was no ceiling — just an open sky, impossibly blue and serene,
as if this whole place was nothing but a dream crumbling under sunlight.
He shook his head with a small chuckle.
Up ahead, the passage split into two.
Left or right.
He hesitated only a second — and then veered left, away from the headless statue that still seemed to loom behind him like an unwelcome memory.
The corridor bent and twisted slightly before opening up into a massive, ancient court.
He stopped dead in his tracks.
Rows of stone seats lined the edges of the court — for audiences, no doubt.
Nearer the center, broader seats for courtiers and lords.
And towering above it all on a raised dais, like a crown set atop the whole room...
The throne.
Except... the throne wasn't exactly majestic anymore.
It was buried — utterly swallowed — by a thick, tangled bush of weeds and rubble.
The vines twisted up the throne's legs, wrapped around its arms, choked its back.
Bright green against the pale stone, it looked so alive it was almost violent — like nature had risen up to consume whatever power had once sat there.
He stared at it, hands on hips.
"I leave civilization for a few centuries," he muttered, "and chairs start growing their own hair. Brilliant."
He sighed, but the sound was thin.
Because something was wrong about the weeds.
They weren't just plants.
There was a pulse in them — a faint, almost invisible shimmer beneath the leaves.
A sensation that crawled across his skin the longer he looked.
His instincts — honed over countless battles — whispered warnings into his ear.
Something's alive in there.
And for the first time in a long time, he felt his fingers itch for the sword at his side.
He didn't draw it.
Not yet.
Instead, he took a cautious step forward — squinting at the thick green mass, searching for a shape or movement inside it.
"If you're a monster," he called dryly, "I'd appreciate it if you jumped out now. I'm old, I'm tired, and I don't have the patience for dramatic reveals anymore."
The weeds... rustled.
He stiffened.
Nothing else moved. No wind. No sound.
Just that low, slow shiver inside the tangled throne.
He stared.
The court, the empty seats, the dead temple — all seemed to hold their breath with him.
And for the first time, he realized —
he wasn't just walking into ruins.
He was walking into a memory that refused to die.
He stood there, hand hovering over the gnarled mess of vines and rubble strangling the throne.
Something... called to him from within.
Not a voice.
Not a feeling.
It was like the throne itself knew he had come.
Grumbling, he rolled up his sleeves, brushing aside the brittle, thorny weeds. The rubble crumbled under his hands, dry dust rising up and coating his palms.
And there — almost hidden — a glint.
A sword.
Or, what looked like a sword, half-swallowed by stone and weeds.
The hilt jutted out stubbornly, simple and unadorned except for its fading golden sheen. No jewels. No grand carvings. No divine radiance.
Just... a dusty, tired-looking weapon, forgotten by time.
He stared at it, unimpressed.
After all the haunting lights, the dead silent corridors, the slithering sand and that absolutely stupid tumble down the sandhill...
This was it?
"This...?" he muttered dryly, giving a little huff through his nose. "I cross galaxies, chew through sand for breakfast, and fight off death by boredom, just for this?"
He poked the hilt with his finger like a kid checking if something was fake.
'Of all the celestial weapons whispered about in forgotten legends — the blades said to split heaven and hell alike —
this one was supposed to reign supreme.
The Blade Above All.
The Blade That Even The Cosmos Once Feared.
...and yet here it sat, like an old kitchen knife thrown behind a shed.'
He stepped back, hands on his hips, shaking his head in disbelief.
Somehow, the sword almost felt insulted by his lack of enthusiasm.
He sighed deeply, as if already mourning the next few minutes of his life.
"Alright, old man," he muttered to himself, addressing the sword like it personally owed him an explanation. "Let's get this over with."
He reached out lazily, wrapping one gloved hand around the golden hilt.
He pulled.
Nothing.
The sword didn't even wiggle.
He blinked.
"Seriously?"
Now, slightly irritated, he spat into his palms, clamped both hands on the hilt, dug his heels into the cracked floor, and pulled harder.
For a moment, it resisted like a stubborn mule.
Then—
WHAM.
The sword erupted with a sickly green light, the energy bursting outward like a compressed storm finally uncorked.
His eyes widened just long enough to regret everything.
A shockwave blasted him clean off his feet, launching him across the great court like a human cannonball.
He flew screaming like a very undignified meteor, arms flailing, cape snapping violently behind him—
CRASH!
He smashed into the headless statue at the center of the temple.
The ancient stonework gave a sad little crack before shattering into a thousand pathetic chunks of dust and pebbles.
He lay there in the pile of rubble, staring blankly at the midday-sun-painted sky overhead, half buried under the remains of some long-dead king.
After a long moment of stunned silence, he lifted a hand weakly and gave a sarcastic thumbs up to no one in particular.
"Yep... exactly what I planned," he croaked.
Dust rained gently over him, like some sick cosmic joke applauding his suffering.
Meanwhile, the sword still sat back on the throne like a smug little gremlin, its greenish glow pulsing faintly — almost mockingly — as if it were laughing at him.
He groaned, brushing shards of the shattered statue off his shoulders, still spitting dust from his mouth.
His joints protested as he stood up straight — his muscles aching in places he didn't even know existed.
He squinted toward the throne across the temple court.
And that's when he saw it.
At first, he thought it was just the sun playing tricks on him again.
Some flicker of light, maybe.
Some desert mirage.
But no.
This... was real.
Where the sword had once stood stubbornly wedged in rubble, something moved.
A pale, skeletal arm, wrapped in the remnants of decayed leather, reached upward from the rubble.
It wasn't even a full body yet — just a half-buried arm, twitching grotesquely like a broken marionette.
The bony fingers gripped the golden hilt with a sickening familiarity.
He stood frozen, heart thudding, a bitter taste rising in his throat.
The rubble spilled away in little cascades of dust and rock, revealing the rest:
A skeleton — seated proudly, almost regally — hidden beneath the ruins all along.
The sword hadn't been planted in the throne.
It had been stabbed clean through the thing's skull.
The blade sat buried into the skeleton's forehead like a cursed crown, sealing it in a grotesque eternal sleep.
And now... it was waking.
With a gruesome wrench, the skeleton pulled the sword free from its own shattered head.
The moment the blade slipped free, the skeleton's hollow eye sockets ignited.
Twin flares of olive green light burned to life, pulsing in time with the sword's sudden glow.
The once-dull blade now hummed with power, its aura spilling out into the temple like a breathing mist, twisting unnaturally in the midday "sky" above.
He, mouth slightly open, stared across the ruined hall.
He took a step back — instincts screaming — hand already halfway reaching for his own weapon.
The air grew heavy, thick with something ancient and wrong, and though no words were spoken, he felt it:
The dead had just claimed the sword.
And it was not keen on sharing.
He stared across the ruined court, the olive-green glow of the skeleton's eyes burning like twin stars in a dead sky.
The skeletal figure, still cloaked in remnants of leather and iron, shifted — slow, deliberate — as if reacquainting itself with the world.
Dust still clinging to his cloak, he narrowed his eyes.
The skeleton's hollow sockets locked with his.
A pause.
A silence so sharp it could cut skin.
Then —
The skeleton spoke, its voice like a funeral drum echoing in the pit of his soul.
"So... it is that time?"
Its words felt heavier than the desert air, hanging between the two like a guillotine.
His brows furrowed.
Confusion. Suspicion.
"The hell are you on about...?" he muttered, instinctively shifting his weight, ready for anything.
Then—a glitch in the air.
Reality itself seemed to tremble, hiccup, shudder.
The skeleton's image wavered
—then it was gone.
Gone.
"Behind!"
He barked, out of pure instinct, whirling around, sword flashing through the hot, dense air.
His blade cut nothing.
There was no one there.
No glint of steel, no cursed glow.
Only the midday desert light pouring down from above, searing the crumbled stones.
Confusion flickered across his face—
—and that's when he saw it.
The shadow.
Beneath him.
Growing.
His instincts kicked in —
No thought. No hesitation.
He threw his gaze upward.
And there —a blurred figure hurtling from the heavens, sword first.
The skeleton was descending like an angel of death, cape remnants fluttering behind it like the broken wings of a fallen angel.
He gritted his teeth.
His body screamed —
"Move. NOW!"
He threw up his sword at the last possible heartbeat.
CLANG!
The two blades collided midair with a monstrous, bone-shaking force.
The shock of it ran through his arms, rattling him down to his very bones.
For a moment —
their swords locked.
Their faces inches apart.
His blazing eyes meeting hollow sockets lit with an unholy green fire.
The skeleton's mouth was frozen in a perpetual snarl, its presence radiating a feeling that wasn't rage or hatred — but something older.
Something inevitable.
The midday sun above flickered once — like the world itself was struggling to hold onto reality.
Sweat slid down his brow, but he didn't dare blink.
Two warriors.
Two souls.
Balanced on the edge of annihilation.
The world around them seemed to hold its breath.