The sword hummed.
It was not just a weapon.
It was a reminder — of those who had carried it before, and the ones it had failed to protect.
Elias could feel their voices in his bones.
Whispers of warriors.
Warnings of fools.
He held it tighter.
Ahead, the scorched road twisted into the lands of Ash'Var — where the air shimmered with heat, and the ground still bled from battles long ended.
Shadow's domain.
From the shadows of a dead watchtower, two figures watched him.
One tall, skin like coal and eyes burning orange.
The other, smaller — cloaked — silent.
"They sent a boy," the tall one murmured.
"Not a boy," the cloaked one replied. "A key."
"To what?"
"To Shadow's judgment."
Elias crossed into the borderlands.
The sky went black.
Not with clouds — with presence. The lingering will of a king not born, but forged.
The trees whispered his name.
The dirt recoiled under his boots.
He kept walking.
Deep within the throne-spire of Ash'Var, Shadow sat.
His horns had returned.
His scars still glowed.
But there was something different now — a stillness, colder than silence.
He knew the Breaker had entered the realm.
And he remembered the sword.
That cursed, star-born sword.
A relic not of men — but of a people that once chose the light over balance.
Fools.
He rose.
In a broken city long abandoned, Elias encountered the first guardians — remnants of demon blood and royal oath.
They did not speak.
They charged.
Elias raised the blade.
It burned the very air.
And in three precise cuts, the guardians fell — not screaming, but fading. As if they had never lived.
His hands shook.
Not from fear.
From doubt.
Was this what it meant to be chosen?
He slept that night under the hollow remains of a temple.
In his dreams, fire again.
But this time, it spoke:
"Your light is not enough."
A voice behind him — familiar, cruel.
"Because light burns too."
Elias turned.
Shadow stood in the flames, smiling without joy.
"Let me show you."
He awoke gasping.
And the sword was already in his grip.
Elsewhere, in the lands once ruled by mortals, the rulers trembled.
The Chosen One had entered the Hells.
Shadow had not moved — not truly — in years.
But now?
The realm shook again.
They prayed for peace.
But peace does not answer prayers.
Only war does.
In the quiet hours before dawn, Elias reached the gate.
The Gates of Ash.
Wrought from bone and flame.
And there — waiting — was Shadow.
Cloaked in silence.
Bladeless.
He didn't need one.
He was the weapon.
"You've come far," Shadow said, his voice like cracking stone.
"I had to," Elias answered.
Shadow looked at the boy's stance.
His eyes.
His fear.
"I see the fire in you," he said. "But I wonder… will it survive the storm?"
And with that…
He struck.