Capítulo 1: Twilight
A lady with white wings on her left and black wings on her right soars through the sky, her form cutting elegantly through the chaos beneath. But suddenly, a blinding beam of light pierces down from above, searing through her body. The force of it knocks her off balance, and she plummets toward the ground—a ground that's already in ruins.
Below, tall, demonic creatures with massive, leathery wings spread havoc, tearing through everything in their path. Their black flames lick the air, swallowing once—peaceful castles, lush crops, and homes that once stood together in harmony. The world is a battlefield of ash and fire, where every step brings destruction.
I see it all unfold as if I'm standing there myself, my vision pulled toward two children caught in the middle of the devastation. One child wears white—his hair, clothes, even his eyes—radiant and pure, the color of light itself. He's shielded by another child, who is his perfect opposite: clad in black, with hair and eyes dark as midnight. But even in their desperation, even as they huddle close to one another, there is no mercy from the creatures that descend upon them.
The demonic beings lift their cruel, shadowed swords high into the air, and in one swift motion, they bring them down. The blades slice through the children, and at the instant of contact, the sharp edge ignites a black flame that consumes their small bodies, turning them to ash. The fire spreads, hungry and unrelenting, scorching the ground where they stood, leaving only charred earth in its wake.
Above, angelic beings descend with their radiant wings, gliding through the sky like falling stars. But they do not bring salvation. They rain down beams of light that cut through the already burning land, their faces emotionless, detached from the horror they unleash. Below, the demonic creatures wade through the sea of flames, their massive swords tearing apart anything that dares to stand, spreading their destruction further.
And in between them, this land—a haven for hybrid beings, for those who blend angel and human (nephilim), demon and human (cambion), angel and demon (crepuscule)—is being torn apart. The crops, once green and fertile, wither in seconds; the tall structures that sheltered life are leveled to the ground, crumbling into dust. Every flicker of hope, every peaceful existence, every smile and act of kindness—gone, swallowed by the relentless storm of light and darkness, of flame and blade.
Hope, peace, life, coexistence—all fade away in an instant, lost without reason, destroyed without hesitation.
All of this plays out before me, like a relentless, inescapable movie within my dreams, leaving me to watch helplessly as everything is torn to pieces.
"Chiaro! Leave and go to the Avatar Realm!"
The voices ring around me, echoing from all directions, desperate and urgent. Their urgency coils around me like a tightening chain, pushing me to move, to act, to do something-
"Chiaro... the three of you... are our only..."
I whip around, trying to find the source, but it's just flashes of scenes—people shouting, crying, pleading for something I can't grasp. Blood spurts through the air, a red arc across the scene, as a light beam pierces through a figure from behind.
"...last hope..."
And I stand, frozen in the middle of it all, watching these scenes flicker and shift like pages of a chaotic storybook being ripped apart. I can't move. I can't scream. My body feels like it's made of lead, my voice lodged in my throat as I struggle to even breathe.
"Chiaro... promise me you'll live a normal life... out there."
The scenes whirl around me, constantly changing—the light beams, the bloodshed, the despair. It's as if I'm caught in a storm of memories that aren't mine, and in the middle of it all, a voice... a voice like ice, chilling and sharp, pierces through the chaos, cutting into my very soul.
"Chiaro."
The voice slices through everything else—sharper than a blade, cold as steel, I look around frantically, trying to find who's calling my name, but the scenes keep shifting. A thousand faces, a thousand screams, all tangled together, until-
"CHIARO."
The voice booms, louder, as if the very sky is tearing open. I clutch my ears, my hands trembling against the piercing sound, but the voice only intensifies. Each syllable stabs like a dagger, relentless and overpowering.
"CHIARO!"
It's deafening. The voice crescendos into a shriek, so sharp it feels like my eardrums are going to burst. I can't bear it, I press my hands harder against my ears, eyes squeezing shut as I'm swallowed by the noise.
Then, silence.
My hands slowly fall away, and I open my eyes, gasping for breath. I find myself standing in front of a vast midnight expanse. It's quiet. Too quiet. The war, the screams—all of it is gone, replaced by this endless void of dark, starless sky stretching before me. It's serene, almost peaceful, but that feeling gnaws at me like a lie.
Something is wrong.
I glance down, and my heart skips a beat. The ground beneath me is not black like the night in front of me—it's white, pristine, glowing faintly like it's been touched by moonlight. I spin around, and my breath catches in my throat.
Behind me, a vast expanse of light—pure, blinding, endless light. It radiates outwards, like an empty sun, illuminating everything it touches. I stand in the border of two worlds, split between darkness and light, the cold gloom stretching in front of me and the overwhelming brightness behind. I look back and forth, trying to make sense of this surreal division. The light so stark it stings my eyes, the dark so deep it seems to pull me in.
Then, I hear it—a footstep. Sharp. Cold. Echoing through the endless midnight expanse. My heart races as I slowly turn my head toward the sound, but there's nothing there, just the darkness stretching endlessly. Yet the sound persists, each step cutting through the silence like a knife. It grows louder, sharper, sending a chill down my spine until, finally, a silhouette emerges from the gloom.
The figure, engulfed entirely in black, moves toward me, a smear of darkness against the empty night. I try to focus, to make sense of who or what he is, but no matter how close he gets, he remains just a black silhouette—featureless, formless, but unmistakably there. Something is wrong with him, something unsettling that makes me instinctively look down at my own hands, my fingers trembling as I hold them up to the pale light.
And that's when I see it—I'm a silhouette too. But not like him. My form is engulfed in white, a figure carved out of pure, glowing light. The realization makes my chest tighten, and I stagger back, hearing my own footstep—a peaceful, gentle sound like a whispered breeze—and the white expanse shifts with me, as if it's attached to my very soul. And it's the same with him—every step he takes pulls the midnight expanse closer, like the darkness is part of him, stretching and moving as he does.
"Chiaro, can you speak?"
His voice is sharp, cold, unnaturally calm, slicing through the silence with a chilling precision. I want to answer him, to ask who he is, but my mouth feels full of air, heavy and thick. No sound comes out. I try again, but it's like the words are trapped in my throat, blocked by something invisible and suffocating. I retreat further, the light clinging to me like a second skin, and he keeps advancing, the darkness spilling from his form.
"Chiaro, can you hear me?"
His voice pierces the quiet again, demanding, relentless. And yet, suddenly, he stops. Just like that. No more steps, no more advancing. He stands there, an unmoving shadow amidst the sea of black.
"Seems like you've regained your consciousness and emotions."
His words hang in the air, cutting through the surreal silence like a proclamation. And for a moment, the world stands still, divided between my light and his shadow, caught in a fragile balance that feels like it could shatter with a single breath.
"What are you talking about?" I manage to choke out, my voice weak, a struggle against the air that seems to press down on me. The words claw their way out of my throat, heavy and raw.
"Where am I?" My gaze drops to my hands, and to my horror, they're no longer engulfed in light—my palms and the backs of my hands are bare, no longer glowing. But my arms, up to my elbows, still burn with white radiance. The change sends a spike of panic through me, and I look back up at him—this silhouette, this black void of a figure who seems to see right through me.
"Who am I?" The question comes out in a whisper, desperation curling around the edges of my voice. But he doesn't change, doesn't shift—he's still just a silhouette, a mass of darkness against the midnight behind him.
"And now you can talk and think," he says, his voice steady and cold, but I can feel his eyes on me, burning into mine despite his featureless form.
"Seems like Lunox's ability didn't kill you, and the transportation was successful." He exhales deeply, the sound almost relieved. "We almost died—"
As he breathes out, his figure and the midnight expanse around him are swallowed in white, merging with the light that surrounds me. My surroundings become blinding, almost overwhelming, but behind me, I feel something—a presence, warm and sharp, a pressure that pierces through the radiance like a blade.
"Chiaro," his voice whispers, the cold seeping into my ear like the edge of ice, so sharp it feels like it could slice through flesh. My blood runs cold, and in that instant, I know he's there. Right behind me.
Instinctively, my body reacts. I thrust my elbow backward, my arm bare of light but strong, feeling the wind whistle past as I twist around to confront him. But he moves before I can make contact, leaping back with an inhuman speed. I spin on my heel, and there he stands—his midnight expanse intact, as if he's brought the darkness with him, as if it's a cloak he wears and moves in.
"And now you can fight. Great," he says, his voice carrying a dark satisfaction as he takes a few measured steps back, the black expanse swirling around him like a living shadow.
"Who are you?" I ask, my voice husky and raw, the words scratching their way out of my throat like I'm clawing through stone.
"I am you, Chiaro," he replies, and as he lifts his finger, his voice rings with a strange familiarity that makes my skin crawl.
"Your white hair," he says, pointing directly at me, and as he does, black hair spills down the shadow of his form, slowly revealing a face that is too familiar, too close to mine.
"Your white eyes," he continues, and his finger shifts to my eyes. The shadow clinging to him begins to fade like smoke in the wind, revealing a pair of black eyes that bore into mine—eyes that are the mirror of my own, yet their inverse.
"Your yellow four-pointed star pupil." His voice drops to a whisper as I meet his gaze, and I see it—the dark, deep abyss of his own eyes, the four-pointed star within them, a dark reflection of the one I know is in mine. "We are the same, Chiaro."
And as he speaks those words, the world shifts. I blink, and suddenly I am no longer engulfed in white. He's no longer cloaked in black. We stand exposed, face to face, and yet it's as if I'm looking into a mirror. My reflection—but not. Everything about him is a twisted inversion, the dark to my light, his presence a contradiction that makes my heart race.
"You say that," I spit out, my suspicion sharpening like a blade, "but you're the complete opposite of me." My eyes flicker around the space, this place that feels like a dream and a nightmare all at once. Nothing about it feels real, or right.
"That's because—" he starts, but his words are abruptly cut off. His head tilts slightly as if listening to something far away. Then, his voice lowers, the words heavy with meaning. "Seems like you're awakening now."
"Huh?" I blink, trying to make sense of his words, my mind racing to catch up. The tension coils in my chest, instinct urging me to prepare for something—anything. I watch his demeanor, the shift in his voice, every subtle movement, ready to act the second something changes.
"You've regained your consciousness," he says, his tone measured, his gaze unflinching as it pierces into me, "your emotions, your instincts, and your appearance. You're... alive."
The words hang in the air, and a strange stillness washes over everything, the expanse of light and dark around us pulsing, like the calm before a storm that threatens to tear everything apart.
As his words echo through the air, the world around us—split between stark black and white—begins to fracture. Cracks splinter across the ground like shattered glass, creeping toward me, splintering into countless pieces. Even without fire, the fragments turn to ash, disintegrating as if blown away by a strong, howling wind. I twist around frantically, watching as the pristine white beneath my feet begins to crumble, the edges peeling away and flaking off into nothingness.
He speaks, his voice clear amidst the chaos. "Survive, Chiaro, for everyone who died."
I spin back to face him, and I see it—his figure disintegrating, fading like smoke. The dark expanse around him crumbles, and mine—the white I thought was mine—fractures too, all of it disintegrating, falling away into oblivion. Everything shatters into a flurry of ash, swirling around me as if caught in an unseen storm. And then I look down.
The ground beneath me, the last piece of the pristine floor, shatters completely. I plummet, gravity ripping me down into the abyss below. The void swallows me, the wind rushing past my ears as I fall. He watches me, his form a fading silhouette, looking down with a smile that chills me to my core.
"We'll meet soon," he says, his voice trailing off as his body, his face, all of him, vanishes along with the world around me.
And then it's just me, falling. The air grows thick, pressing against my skin as if the very atmosphere is trying to choke me. It's hard to breathe, my lungs feel like they're constricting tighter and tighter, my chest on fire with each desperate gasp. I can't look around—I'm too consumed by the weight of the air around me, the heaviness pulling at my limbs, dragging me down into a bottomless pit.
My eyes squeeze shut against the relentless wind tearing at my face. I struggle to breathe, forcing each breath past the crushing pressure that bears down on my body. I keep falling, deeper, deeper, the feeling of the void closing in around me until—
My eyes snap open, and I'm met by a moonlit night sky, the stars hanging above like silent watchers. For a moment, I can't move, my body paralyzed, heavy like stone. All I can do is look, my eyes darting from side to side as I try to make sense of where I am. The cool, damp air brushes against my skin, bringing the scent of fresh grass and earth. I'm lying in a vast expanse of grassland, the blades tickling my skin, the humidity settling around me like a blanket, grounding me in reality.
I feel it—the dampness of sweat clinging to my skin, the heaving of my chest as my lungs struggle for air, each breath raspy and heavy. I'm awake. I'm alive.
With a monumental effort, I try to move the tips of my fingers. It feels like they're glued to the ground, but I push against the paralysis, my body fighting me at every moment. Finally, my right hand lifts, trembling, weak, but moving. Slowly, I raise it higher, the effort burning through my muscles as I reach out toward the moon, stretching my fingers like I could grasp it, like I could pull myself out of this endless confusion.
After raising my right hand, I struggle to control my raspy, quick breaths. I close my eyes, shaping my mouth into an "O," and inhale slowly, deliberately, forcing the air to flow smoothly in and out. It takes effort, but gradually, my breathing steadies, the frantic rhythm slowing to a calm, controlled pace. Every breath pulls my scattered thoughts back together, and I feel my muscles respond, the tension loosening, my body becoming my own again.
With a deep breath, I shift my weight, slowly pushing myself up to sit. My body feels heavy, like I'm carrying invisible chains, but I grit my teeth and manage to rise. I look down at my right palm, staring at the lines etched into it. I know something happened—something cruel, disastrous, and terrible—but it slips away, like trying to grasp smoke.
"What was it..." I whisper, my voice trembling with confusion. But no answers come. I don't know where I am. I don't know why I'm here. All I know is that my name is Chiaro Crepuscule, and in the hollow of my chest, there's a desperate need to live.
Shaking off the haze of fear, I force myself to stand, my legs shaky but strong enough to support me. Being overwhelmed won't help—I have to push through this uncertainty. I roll my shoulders back, stretch my arms, grounding myself in the sensation of movement, forcing my muscles to wake up, to feel.
I close my eyes, take a deep breath, and look up at the night sky as I open them again, the stars above shimmering like tiny flames in the darkness.
"I will live and discover who I am."
I declare, my voice firm, cutting through the silence. It's the only truth I have—the only thread keeping me anchored. No directions, no memories, nothing but my name and the drive to survive, to discover my purpose.
I stretch out my arms and legs, my body waking up with each stretch, loosening the stiffness that holds me captive. The grass around me whispers with the breeze, and I look around, taking in my surroundings. It's endless grass in all directions, but on the horizon, I see the faint outline of houses and flickering lights, a sign of life. Behind me, a dense cluster of trees looms, their branches swaying gently in the wind. Weighing my options, I decide to head toward the houses, the lights that promise some semblance of answers.
But before I can take a step, a whistle slices through the air—a sharp, deadly whistle. Instinctively, I freeze, and a silver dagger cuts in front of my face, embedding itself in the ground inches from where I stand. My breath hitches, the blade still quivering from the impact, its edge gleaming wickedly under the moonlight. If I had taken just one more step forward, that dagger would have found my skull.
The realization makes my heart pound like a drum in my chest. Someone—or something—is watching me. And they don't want me to move.
But I'm not about to let them have their way. Panic, fear—none of it will help. Somehow, I know this deep in my bones, like it's woven into the fabric of who I am. So, in a split second, I shove the fear aside and force my mind to steady. Analyze. The dagger missed. It came from my right. That means whoever threw it is far—far enough that they had to predict my movements and missed because of the distance. They're keeping their distance, meaning they know how to fight from afar.
I decide right then—the houses aren't an option. If they're stopping me from going there, it won't be welcoming. Better to take my chances in the forest. I whip around, bolting for the tree line to my left. My feet pound against the grass, each step launching me further away from the open field and the eyes I know are watching me. I glance over my shoulder, scanning the horizon, but I see no one. Just the silver flash of that embedded dagger glinting in the moonlight, far behind me. They're hidden, watching. Waiting.
I keep running until the trees swallow me up, the darkness of the forest closing in around me. The scent of earth and bark surrounds me, and I dive behind the trunk of a thick tree, pressing my back against it as I gasp for breath.
"Stay calm,"
I tell myself. Panicking is a luxury I can't afford. What I need now is to survive, to figure out my next move, and to be ready for whoever is hunting me.
I slow my breathing, controlling it, feeling the air expand in my lungs, calming my heartbeat. As I press my palm against the rough bark of the tree, my eyes dart around for something—anything—that could help. And that's when I see it: a long wooden stick, half-buried in leaves, its end worn smooth. I crouch and pick it up, the wood solid and reassuring in my grip.
I steady my thoughts, firm up my resolve, and stare down at the stick in my hands, turning it over. It's not much, but it's something—a weapon, a lifeline. I tighten my grip, feeling the rough texture bite into my skin, grounding me in the reality of my situation.
"I was in a grassland. An open space. Someone threw a dagger. I retreated..." And then it hits me like a bolt of lightning. "They know"
They know where I am. They watched me retreat into the trees, followed my every move, waiting for me to think I was safe. They aren't going to let me go. Not without a fight.
Every muscle tenses as the realization hits me like a hammer. They threw that dagger from a distance, aiming to predict my movements. And if I keep my distance, I'm a sitting duck. They won't let me go, not without a fight.
"Someone who fights from a distance is usually at a disadvantage up close,"
I mutter under my breath, clinging to that thin strand of logic. I close my eyes, grip the stick so tight my knuckles turn white, and take a deep, steadying breath. It's been only minutes—maybe even seconds—since I woke up from whatever long sleep I was trapped in, and already I have to fight to survive. Everything hinges on this moment—now or never.
I snap my eyes open, adrenaline coursing through my veins like fire, sharpening my vision and heightening my hearing to every faint whisper of the forest. I plant my feet firmly on the ground, crouching low, stick raised, ready to sprint, ready to face whatever comes. But then—
Shhpt
A sound cuts through the silence from directly in front of me, sharp and whistling through the air. My eyes go wide as I realize: it's the same sound as before—a dagger, hurtling toward me.
Without a second thought, I whip the stick in front of my face, my arms reacting faster than my thoughts. The dagger clangs against the wood, its force vibrating through the stick and down my arms. It deflects, spinning off and embedding itself into a tree beside me. I deflect the blow, but there's no time for relief. If anything, the deflection heightens my awareness, my body burning with readiness, my thoughts firing off in a desperate cascade.
"They threw from my right before, from a distance... and they missed. They had to be far."
"I ran in the opposite direction, got behind cover, increased the distance between us..."
"And yet, a dagger just came from in front of me. How?"
The possibilities slam into me all at once.
"Either there's more than one of them"
I think, my heartbeat thudding like a drum in my ears
"Or they're fast—insanely fast."
Running isn't an option. I steady my grip on the stick, brace my stance, and ready myself to face whoever—or whatever—is coming for me. The shadows around me seem to thicken, closing in as if they're alive, and every breath feels like the calm before a storm.
"Either way, they're here, and they're near."
With that realization burning through me, I burst into a full sprint, hurtling toward the direction of the dagger's origin. No more running away—I'm running straight for them. I cling to that logic like a lifeline: they're a distance fighter. If I close in, they're at a disadvantage, and if I get close enough, I have the upper hand. I don't know how I know I'm good at this, but the instinct runs deep, pushing me to take this gamble.
The trees rush past in a blur, my feet pounding the ground, each stride fueled by adrenaline. I dart between trunks, weaving and zigzagging, trying to distort my movements, to be unpredictable. I feel no pain, no exhaustion—nothing but pure focus. My eyes scan every inch of the forest as I rush, my senses reaching out, seeking that presence, searching for the source of that threat.
Then, a rustle—sharp and quick—catches my ear to the left. My head snaps toward the sound, and without hesitation, I alter my direction, honing in on that point like a bullet.
But just as I'm about to barrel through, I sense it—a presence behind me, so close I can feel the heat of their breath on my neck. I know it's real, and in any other state, I'd have missed it completely. But here, in this heightened focus, every nerve in my body screams out:
"They're right behind you."
I know their pattern—they aim for the head. And I act on pure instinct. I drop into a squat so quickly that it feels like my body moves on its own. The whoosh of air over my head is the only indication of how close the attack was, just grazing the strands of my hair. In the same fluid motion, I grip the wooden stick tighter, using the momentum from my squat to pivot and swing with all the force I can muster, aiming to strike whatever is behind me.
But I hit nothing—only slicing through the tall grass that whips around me. I curse under my breath, my heart pounding as I look up. And then I see him.
He's above me, tumbling effortlessly through the air, his body arcing with fluid grace. The moonlight blinks out as his black poncho billows around him, shrouding him like a living shadow. And those eyes—sharp, silver, and unsettling—lock onto mine. They're marked with a strange symbol, like an [S] slashed through with a [\], gleaming with cold amusement.
"Oh? You have a strange pair of eyes~" he says, his voice carrying a casual, almost playful curiosity, as if this whole encounter is just a game to him. "And your clothes, you're not from here, are you?"
He lands gracefully before me, and I leap back, eyes locked on him as I put space between us. My mind races. Even as I answer, I'm already analyzing everything about this situation, trying to figure out my chances, my next move.
"I don't—" My voice falters, but my thoughts remain sharp.
"He's a skilled fighter. That entrance—he used it to distract me, came straight at me."
"Even know—" I continue, buying myself time.
"Agile, fast. He's not just fighting from a distance—he knows close combat, and he's good at it."
"Where—"
"He's got a dagger, I've got a stick. He's in the right condition to fight; I'm not. He knows this place, I don't."
"I am."
I'm in trouble, but I don't let it show. I keep my eyes on him, unflinching, as my thoughts race like wildfire.
He chuckles, the sound cold and almost mocking. "That means you're an outsi—"
"It's now or never."
Before he can finish, I launch myself at him, closing the distance in an instant, my eyes burning with resolve. The stick feels heavy but familiar in my grip, and I raise it high, muscles coiling with every ounce of force I can muster. I swing it down with all my strength in a vicious arc. He sidesteps to the left, but I'm already in motion. Before the stick can slam into the ground, I use my left hand to jerk my right arm, redirecting the stick back toward him.
He reacts instantly, leaping high to evade, his body rising above me. I can't see his face—I don't have time to—but I know he's where I need him to be: mid-air. Vulnerable.
With a surge of adrenaline, I raise the stick to my chest, ready to strike. I pivot, unleashing a rapid outward arc, aiming to catch him off guard and land the final blow. The stick whips through the air, and for a moment, it seems like I'll hit my mark.
"Oh? You're—" His voice carries a tone of casual amusement, completely unbothered, almost like he's toying with me.
Then his eyes flash, the strange symbol within them glowing brightly as he chants, "Silver Dagger Attribute: Hollow Edge."
Before the stick can connect, his body shatters like glass, exploding into a cloud of silver daggers. They scatter through the air, each blade glinting in the moonlight, and my stick slices through nothing but empty space and flashing steel. My eyes go wide with shock as the daggers swirl around me, and I leap back, desperately trying to create distance.
The scattered daggers spin and twist, and in moments they come together, coalescing into his familiar shape. He stands before me, unscathed, like a ghost that can't be touched, can't be hurt. My breath catches in my throat as I face him, the reality of the fight hitting me like a punch to the gut.
"Looks like you know how to fight." His smirk twists into something infuriating, something that makes my blood boil as he steps closer. I grit my teeth, my fingers tightening around the stick. "And it seems you've infused your essence into that wooden stick."
I instinctively retreat with each of his steps, my feet barely making a sound as they move across the grass. My mind races, trying to stay one step ahead of him.
"If he can do that, then attacking him directly is useless."
I try to steady my breathing, to stay calm, but fear is creeping in, coiling around my chest like a vice. I am at a disadvantage—I have nothing left, and he has everything. My thoughts spiral as I force myself to hold his gaze, to not give in.
He walks toward me, slow and deliberate, the symbol in his eyes—the [S] crossed by a [\]—starting to glow again. It seems to light up whenever he's about to do something. When he turned into those daggers earlier, it glowed. An attribute? Something about this feels familiar, like an itch I can't scratch. I feel like I know it, like I should know it, like it's within my reach. When he mentioned essence earlier... could I do it too? But how?
There's no time to think. His voice cuts through my thoughts like a blade:
"Silver Dagger Attribute: Pursuit."
The words ring in the air like an ominous bell. A silver magical circle bursts into life on his palm, glowing with an eerie intensity. Within moments, a dozen silver daggers materialize, hovering like malevolent stars in the air. He extends his hand toward me, and they lurch forward, aimed straight at me, their deadly points hungry for my flesh.
I tighten my grip on the wooden stick, my knuckles turning white. I close my eyes for a split second, forcing my mind to calm, to focus. The first dagger is already closing in on my forehead, and as it nears, I snap my eyes open wide and for some reason, my pupils, I can feel them glowing. Suddenly, time stretches and warps, the world around me slowing to a crawl.
"1, 2, 3... 10, 11, 12."
My eyes flicker across each dagger's position in this suspended moment, cataloging their approach. There are twelve of them—twelve silver flashes, each with a razor edge aimed directly at me. As the world comes crashing back into real time, my body moves on its own, faster than thought, faster than I knew possible. The stick in my hand is no longer just wood; it's an extension of my arm, of my will.
I swing the stick up, intercepting the first dagger.
Clang!
The blade crashes into the wood, its momentum redirected, and I spin on my heels, catching another on the backswing. The symphony of metal against wood reverberates through the air, sharp, chaotic, and desperate. My feet move in a wild dance, pivoting and shifting to meet each attack, the grass beneath me trembling under the intensity.
The daggers are relentless, each one striking like a viper, and I parry them one after another, the stick becoming a blur as it twirls and deflects. My body hums with energy I didn't know I had, every movement driven by a need to survive, to keep going, to not fall to these blades. With every swing, the sound of metal on wood rings out like the beat of a war drum, my senses alight, and my heart thundering in my chest.
I deflect the last silver dagger, my stick clashing against its edge with a final, desperate clang. But in the heartbeat of silence that follows, something feels wrong. The silver blades fall away, scattered, and he's not there—he's gone. A cold realization hits me like ice down my spine: while my entire focus was on deflecting the storm of daggers, he was already moving. No—he's already behind me.
I whip around, but it's too late. I feel his presence like a shadow overtaking me, the air turning sharp and cold. He knows how to distract—no, he's an expert. And I fell right into his trap.
In that moment, I know it's over. My muscles tense, and then go slack. The glow in my pupils fades. All the effort, all the drive to fight, it's gone in an instant. My breath catches in my throat as the reality settles in: I'm powerless.
"Sister Lunox, Anemoi, Danica... I'm sorry."
The names flash through my mind like fleeting glimpses of stars, fragments of something precious and long forgotten. I don't know who they are, but I know they mean something, everything, to me.
And then—
Thud.
A sharp chop strikes my nape, and a wave of darkness crashes over me, stealing the ground from beneath my feet. My limbs go numb, the stick slipping from my fingers as I crumble. His voice, smooth and mocking, cuts through the black haze swirling around my senses.
"You're an outsider who knows how to fight." His tone drips with cold amusement, like he's savoring his victory. "It'd be dumb to let you walk freely in this kingdom~"
The pain in my neck throbs, a dull, pulsing ache, and my vision blurs as the world fades. Those words—the last sound in the world—echo in my mind, a haunting melody that drags me down into unconsciousness.
Status de energia semanal
-- Ranking de
Poder 
-- Pedra de
Poder