Veyle awoke with a jolt, his body stiff from a restless sleep on the cold, unforgiving ground. His stomach twisted painfully with hunger, a gnawing reminder that he hadn't eaten in what felt like ages. The sharp, empty silence of the wilderness around him seemed to press in from all sides, making every breath feel heavier than the last. The sun hung low in the sky, barely offering warmth, casting long shadows across the desolate landscape.
For a moment, he simply lay still, his eyes scanning the surrounding environment. His hand instinctively brushed over the hilt of his dagger, the cold metal a brief comfort against his worn fingertips. The weapon had become an extension of himself over the past months—his only reliable companion in this hostile land. His heart raced as he pushed himself upright, the crunch of dry earth beneath him the only sound that dared to break the stillness.
He stretched carefully, testing his limbs for any stiffness. Every movement felt too loud, too intrusive in the vast emptiness that surrounded him. The wind rustled through the sparse trees, and the faintest echo of distant rustling reached his ears, but otherwise, it was silent. Too silent.
For what felt like hours, he walked. His feet carried him through the land with no real destination other than the hope of finding water—something to drink, something to ease the dry, cracked sensation in his throat. Yet, despite his careful steps, every crackling twig, every gust of wind felt like a warning.
He walked.
No, not walked—crept. Every motion slow, deliberate. The air here didn't feel right. It was dry, but somehow clung to his skin like breath on the back of his neck. Hunger twisted in his gut like something alive. A low, squirming pain that scratched behind his ribs. His mouth was desert-dry. His throat, cracked glass.
Eat. Drink. Or die again.
Veyle pushed forward, eyes scanning the grey. All around, the architecture of some dead civilization loomed—concrete towers that wept rust, metal beams that bent like softened wax. The sky had no sun, no clouds, just a flat sheet of bone-colored light.
And then—
Something shifted.
Far away.
A ripple on the horizon.
He squinted.
A shape.
A mass.
At first, it looked like a wall of smoke. But it had weight. Presence. It rolled, not like a creature, but like a living continent—oozing forward, dragging a continent-sized mass of warped flesh across the land.
And eyes.
Hundreds of them.
Thousands.
Blinking, twitching, staring at nothing and everything, embedded across its skin like parasites. Bloodless veins pulsed beneath translucent flesh. Its body was so massive that it blotted out everything behind it. The earth cracked beneath it with every inch of movement. It made no roar, no scream—just a low hum. The kind of hum you feel in your teeth and bones.
He stared.
Frozen.
His mouth hung open. No words came. His brain couldn't process it. It was like staring into the
fucking divine—if the divine had been stitched together from nightmares and tumors and infant gods too young to be sane.
The thing wasn't just big.
It was goddamn unreal.
It shouldn't exist.
It was one of them.
A Berka.
The thought wasn't in words. Just a sensation. A truth shoved into his skull like a spike: this thing wasn't part of reality. It had broken in. Crawled out from somewhere else—somewhere bigger, darker, worse.
It was around 864,000 miles wide.
That was the truth of it.
Bigger than the fucking sun.
And it didn't even see him.
It slid past, gliding over the cracked earth like a slug made of eyeballs and wet meat, its edges stretching past the horizon.
The silence that followed was worse than the sight.
He couldn't breathe.
He pissed himself without realizing.
His knees gave out.
His hands clutched at the dust, shaking.
If it had looked at him—just once—he was sure his brain would have fucking broken.
Tears streamed down his face, but he wasn't crying.
Not in the normal sense.
His body was just leaking.
And then it was gone.
Still in view, but slowly gliding away. Farther. Distant. Dismissing him as nothing.
And that was what snapped him out of it.
being ignored.
As if he was beneath notice. Not even worth squashing. Not even a bacteria on the sole of its limb.
His stomach growled.
Hard.
He tasted bile.
He forced himself to his feet, swaying.
His fingers clenched.
"I need… fucking water," he whispered.
And he turned.
And he ran.
His breath came in rasps.
From the idea of dying again he ran, and ran.
The tremors in his legs weren't stopping.
Every step felt like hauling stone—his bones heavy, lungs scraping like rusted bellows. The terror left by the Berka still gnawed at his ribs like unseen teeth, every nerve on fire, sweat clinging to his skin despite the cold air. It wasn't just fear. It was something deeper, older.
A sense of insignificance.
He'd watched a mountain of flesh—no, something larger than a god—slide across the world like a drifting thought. And it hadn't even noticed him. Not a glance. Not even a twitch.
Like he was dust.
Now, the hunger came.
His stomach cramped, muscles crumpling in on themselves. The last time he'd eaten was… when? The hospital. That jelly cup. Days ago? Hours? Minutes?
His steps staggered.
The sound of his boots crunching the dry earth slowed to uneven stumbles. His fingers trembled. His knees locked—then buckled.
Veyle collapsed.
The cracked earth greeted his face with all the tenderness of stone. He bit his lip. Iron welled up. Blood, warm in a cold world.
"No," he rasped. "No no no—"
He rolled onto his side. Tried to push himself up. His arms shook. He rose an inch, maybe two.
Then fell again.
Everything burned.
"Shit…"
He didn't scream it. He didn't have the strength. It came out a hoarse whisper, like air leaking from a broken valve.
Then—silence.
Not the peaceful kind.
The dead kind.
No birds. No wind. No life.
His eyes blurred. His vision swam. The world around him folded inward, the pale sky bending over him like the lid of a coffin. He blinked tears away. Was this it? Was this really the end?
Then…
He heard it.
Water.
A ripple. A trickle. The faintest, most fragile sound—but real. Real.
His breath hitched. He turned his head, weak and slow.
Down the slope, past the warped hills of crumbling glass and fractured bone—there it was.
A shimmer.
A lake.
Dark and mirror-like. The surface unmoving, almost unnaturally still, like it was holding its breath.
He almost laughed. But his throat made no sound.
Crawling.
That's all he could do now.
He clawed forward with his elbows, dragging himself inch by inch across the cracked plain. His knees scraped. His hospital gown tore. Blood smeared on the white dust. His gloves, once pristine, were now ragged from friction and filth.
But he moved.
One breath at a time.
One pull at a time.
"Almost there…"
He didn't know if he said it, or if he thought it.
The lake didn't get closer fast. It didn't welcome him. It watched.
Like it was waiting.
Seconds, minutes, hours, days, weeks, months, years, decades, centuries. It didn't matter anymore he was going to reach that water.
Water.
Cold. Clear. Real.
It stung like frostbite, but it was pristine. So clean it shimmered against his skin, reflecting a sky that had no sun. There was no wind, no current—just a glassy, dark stillness. Like the surface of obsidian. Quiet. Patient.
He plunged his entire arm in with a gasp, relief surging up his chest like a breath after drowning. He cupped the water and drank greedily, the chill biting his tongue, the freshness shocking his senses. No taste of iron. No sludge. Just pure, clear water.
It filled him like hope.
He fell forward, body pressed to the lake's edge, panting against the soil, hands still clutching the water like it might disappear if he let go.
It didn't.
The lake did not reject him.
But as he lay there, chest heaving, staring into the reflectionless black of the surface…
He saw no stars.
No sky.
No face.
Just the dark.
Watching back.
It didn't resist him. It didn't ripple in alarm. It welcomed the touch like it had been waiting—still and smooth as obsidian glass.
He blinked, lips cracking as he opened them.
Then, wordlessly, like a starving animal learning what mercy felt like, he dipped both hands into the lake and brought them to his mouth.
The first sip didn't quench him—it hurt.
Freezing, biting cold rushed down his throat like needles. His jaw locked. His ribs seized. It was so clean, so pure, his body rejected it at first—like it wasn't made for something so untainted.
But he didn't stop.
He drank again. And again. Sloppily at first. Then greedily. Then like a man in prayer.
The water soaked his cheeks. His chest. It ran down his chin and neck and hands. He coughed, choked, and went back for more. His stomach cramped, but he didn't care. His eyes watered. His teeth ached.
It was the best thing he had ever tasted.
No metallic sting. No mold. No dirt. No sickness.
Just water.
Cold, endless, bottomless water.
By the time he stopped, his arms were trembling. His lips were blue. But he was alive.
He stared into the surface.
It didn't reflect him. Not really.
No mirror image. No echo.
Just the black.
Still and watching.
But he didn't scream. He didn't run.
Not this time.
Instead, Veyle sat back, knees bent, hands soaked, breath slow.
He was alone.
But he was full.
And for the first time since this hell began, something inside him… settled.
standing just at the fringes of the lake. Her pure white hair tangled in the breeze, falling around her face like a curtain. She wore a kimono, its fabric tattered, stained with dirt and blood, yet it seemed to hang about her in an ethereal way, as if she were untouched by the ravages of the world around her.
Her pale, unblinking eyes met his, locking onto him with a gaze that pierced through the darkness in his mind. She didn't move. Didn't speak. She just stood there, staring.
He could see the small tremor of her body, as if she were just as fragile as he felt.
He didn't know how long they stayed like that, staring at each other across the water. The silence stretched, thick with tension, and yet... there was no danger.
She wasn't a threat. That much he knew.
But the questions flooded in—how long had she been watching? Where had she come from? Why was she here, alone in this desolate place?