The realm of limbo blazed with an intensity that rivaled the heart of the sun, casting a fiery glow over the desolate landscape.
Amidst this was devastation, and walking through it was an imposing figure, his very presence seeming to fuel the inferno.
He was an Asian-looking youth in his late adolescent years, his face set in a stoic expression despite the turmoil that wracked his body.
Blood poured from his wounds, covering his skin in a crimson sheen that glistened in the blinding light. Yet, even as the fluid flowed, his injuries began to heal at an impossible rate, the flesh knitting together with a speed that defied mortal comprehension.
But the respite was short-lived. As soon as the wounds closed, they burst open anew, unleashing a fresh torrent of blood that drenched his tattered black samurai armor.
The garment hung in shreds from his frame, a testament to the brutal battle he had just endured. His shoulder-length hair was tied back in a ponytail, a striking white forelock cascading down his forehead like a banner of fate, contrasting against the black background of tresses like his purity corrupted amidst vileness.
In his hand, he grasped a katana unlike any other. The blade was forged from pure, blazing fire of hell, its heat so intense that it appeared like a stabilized fabric of lightning itself. The sword's presence was a destructive force, consuming everything within miles in a slow, relentless wave.
Its temperature far surpassed that of the sun, imbuing the air around it with an aura of palpable inferno.
As the youth walked, his strides were measured and deliberate, his eyes fixed on a figure in the distance. A woman knelt amidst the debris, her body weakened and exhausted.
Her form was shrouded in shadows, making it difficult to discern her features, but her posture spoke of defeat and despair.
The youth's gaze never wavered, his determination etched on his face like a promise.
With each step, the cycle of wounding and healing repeated itself, a gruesome rhythm that seemed to fuel his advance. Blood flowed, injuries closed, and then the wounds reopened, as if some malignant force was determined to keep him in a state of perpetual torment.
Despite this, he pressed onward, his grip on the fiery katana unwavering.
The landscape around him was a testament to the sword's power. Ash and blood coated the ground, mingling with the dust of corpses he'd slain and the shattered remnants of what once were structures he'd destroyed.
Ruins stretched as far as the eye could see, a graveyard of civilizations laid low by the youth's unyielding march.
The air reeked of smoke and char, the acrid tang burning the lungs. Yet, the youth breathed deeply, his chest rising and falling with a steady rhythm that belied the turmoil within.
His eyes burned with an inner fire, a flame that seemed to fuel his every step.
As he drew closer to the kneeling figure, the woman's head lifted, her gaze meeting his across the expanse of devastation.
For a moment, their eyes locked, a spark of recognition flaring between them. Then, the youth continued his approach, his movements unhurried, his purpose clear.
The woman's form slumped further, her body trembling with exhaustion.
Despite her weakness, a glimmer of hope seemed to flicker within her, a spark that ignited as she beheld the youth's determined stride.
Perhaps, in his presence, she saw a chance for redemption, a possibility for escape from the desolate realm that had claimed so much.
The youth reached her side, his katana still blazing with an intensity that seemed to fuel the very air around them.
He stood tall, his injuries still cycling through their gruesome pattern, and gazed down at the woman with an expression that was both fierce and gentle.
In that moment, it seemed as though the fate of the world hung in the balance, poised between destruction and rebirth.
With a slow, deliberate movement, the youth extended a hand, his fingers closing around the woman's wrist. He drew her to her feet, his grip firm but not ungentle.
Together, they stood amidst the ruins, their figures silhouetted against the blazing backdrop of the realm.
The youth's eyes burned with an inner fire, a flame that seemed to guide them forward, into the unknown.
As they stood there, the cycle of wounding and healing continued, the youth's body a canvas of blood and scar tissue.
Yet, he did not falter, his determination driving him forward, into the heart of the inferno.
The woman leaned against him, her body weak but her spirit unbroken.
Together, they faced the unknown, their path lit by the fiery blade that seemed to cleave the very fabric of reality.
In that moment, it seemed as though nothing could stop them, no obstacle too great, no challenge too insurmountable. The youth's katana blazed on, a beacon of an endless conflagration.
But salvation was not to be for either of them, for as the woman made to speak, a devil within the boy commanded his hearing.
"Hast thou taken leave of thy senses. Do you wish to cease being my arrow of victory?"
The youth's grip upon the woman tightened like a vice. Her eyes widened in horror for staring into his eyes—she saw that they blazed hot, they burned like living pits of fire.
"Who are you?" She asked. "Who dares to possess the vessel of the Heir?"
And from the youth's mouth a voice spoke, a voice not his own. "Heir to whom, you beguiled Fey? You? Me? Or the abomination who bore him?"
"Is this your doing?" She asked, in reference to the destruction that surrounded them.
"This is just this beginning. The seals upon the Noxsphere has been broken. The world shall soon know the chaos I have wrought with my great wright, my arrow of victory."
"You are a curse. They shall not let this be," she said in response, rage burning in her defeated eyes.
"You think they shall avenge you? They left you and the others here to rot. Just for the crime of chasing power. Nevertheless, I mind not their vengeance. I have no fear of the Feys. Your kind does not cause me terror." With the lips of the youth, the invasive spirit smiled. "Does that strike fear into your heart? That will be quite ironic, I must say."
"As you have brought destruction upon the world so have you brought more down upon yourself, you infernal demon."
He laughed, a raspy and crackling thing.
"By the time destruction shall cross through my threshold I would have ascended to my destined and desired godhood. You think I lack wisdom, you foolish woman?"
She tried to pull away from his hold but it was the same as an ant escaping the boot that had pressed down on it. "Let me go at once."
"You are in no position to command me, Fey. Regardless, I tire of this conversation. I wish you a happy non-existence."
The youth's mouth opened to speak. "ZENMET–"
But the woman was faster, and her will greater.
"Ērāsus," she spoke.
Tears of blood rolled down the cheeks of the youth as the spirit violently vacated him, releasing a scorching wave that razed the landscape for a second time that day.
Cradling the youth, the woman laid a kiss upon his forehead.
"Now, remember," she spoke.
"Remember who you are, Son of Lucifer."