Year 25, Time Unit — Fifth Month, Day One
Location: The Blood Desert
A sandstorm writhed across the endless dunes. The air—dry, thick, hostile—clung to every breath like ash. Above, the sky had vanished, choked by a ceiling of dust, gray and dead. Then came the footsteps. Thousands of them. A stampede, not of beasts, but men—rushing, crashing, tumbling into each other like a tidal wave gone mad. They weren't fleeing anyone. They were charging toward something. No—someone.
Their cries weren't pleas for mercy. They were cheers. Chants. Ecstatic howls dipped in madness. And through the haze, the vision sharpened—A mass of bodies, indistinct and endless. The horizon drowned in motion. Flesh against flesh, charging, blind.
And at the eye of the storm—He stood.
Not a creature.
A man.
Ozal.
His skin, the shade of midnight.
His presence—immovable.
He didn't move often, but when he did—He seized a man by the mouth, lifted him like an afterthought, and drove his hand through the man's chest as if tearing through soaked parchment.
Then he turned—not wildly, but with grim efficiency—and swung the broken body like a cudgel. The impact sent limbs flying, shattered spines cracked like dry twigs, and red mist painted the air. Still, he showed no effort.
No exertion.
No fury.
Only a cold, meticulous grace—every motion deliberate, every death intentional.
.
The sun scorched everything it touched. Men fell—blistered, drenched, heaving in the heat.
But him?
He remained.
Unburned. Unbothered. Still as stone.
The desert sun, it seemed, refused to see him.
And yet, they kept coming. More and more of them. As though drawn by some unspoken promise. Madness in their eyes, dust in their lungs, and the earth beneath them thirsted endlessly for their blood. And still, he stood.
Then—without warning—he turned.
No sound had called him.
No voice, no movement.
Yet he froze, as though some invisible thread had tugged at his soul—something unspoken, unseen... but not to him.
His eyes found us.
Not by accident. As though he had always known where we stood—as if, somewhere in the blur of dust and blood, a forgotten face had reemerged.
Recognition flickered.
Not warm. Not hostile.
Ancient.
And then—he smiled.
Not with cruelty.
Not with delight.
But with that hollow, aching kind of nostalgia
reserved for faces buried by centuries.
His voice followed, soft, nearly tender—as if meant for no ears but ours:
"Ah... look who finally returned. You kept me waiting. What happened to you?"
No reply came.
Only the sound of bodies still clashing—still charging him, still believing they could harm what stood before them.
But their strikes met nothing. Their swords sliced the illusion. They weren't fighting him.
They were fighting a silhouette—a shadow cast by something far beyond their reach.
He spoke again. This time, his tone light, laced with something between sarcasm
and that unsettling confidence you can't love or hate:
"Why aren't you speaking...? Oh... that's right. Forgive me—You can't speak, can you?"
He turned slightly—not toward the crowd, but as though speaking to a phantom, to a presence only he could see. A friend? A revenant from exile?
"And you, The narrator...? What kept you away for five entire Time Units?"
And then, from somewhere—perhaps within his mind, perhaps from beyond it—came the reply. Soft. Detached. An echo that barely disturbed the air:
"The time wasn't right... to return to you."
Ozal chuckled—a quiet, knowing sound, heavy with mischief.
"Ah... so you left me here, under this sun, to rot alone in silence. But don't worry—your debt is noted. I'll collect it... eventually."
He cast a glance over the battlefield—then waved his hand, dismissive, almost bored.
"You call this war. How quaint. Me? I'm just... playing in the sand."
And for a moment—you might have thought he was jesting.
But Ozal never jokes.
For the record—these were not the humans you know.
This age had birthed monsters clothed in flesh. Ten of them, it was said, could lift a mountain three kilometers high.
Imagine that.
And still—they were not sent to defeat him.
Only to slow him down.
And even then—as they poured toward him in waves, he sneered.
"Power?" His voice curled with disdain.
"Is that what you call this? These...? Strong? Don't listen to him. He speaks drivel."
But even as he denied it, something lingered—an unspoken truth, a crack in the mask.
Perhaps... he simply didn't want to face it.
But no matter what he said—No matter what he denied—the truth lingered.
Perhaps he just didn't want to face it.
And to be clear—he was still butchering them.
Ripping bodies open. Snapping limbs like dry branches. All while addressing us.
His voice never rose.
Never cracked.
As if the carnage required no more effort
than idle conversation.
Then—he stopped.
His gaze lifted, meeting the pitiless sun overhead—and for a moment, even that eternal fire seemed to shy away from him.
He turned back toward us.
His eyes held no color. Only a mirror—reflecting something that stood just behind you.
Something ancient.
Watching.
And he said—
"Now that you're here... what truth do you seek this time? Shall I continue where we last paused?"
He smiled.
Not warmly.
Not cruelly.
Just... unsettling.
"Yes, yes... Of course you want to hear it. Very well. Let's talk."
He inhaled deeply—as if summoning a memory buried beneath eons of dust.
"The Second Age... we once called it the Age of Renewal. Do you know why?"
He laughed again—a dry, brittle sound. No mirth. Only memory.
"Because I was going to end them. Humans. Every last one. They stood on the edge—one breath from oblivion. One more step, and they would've been erased."
He paused.
"But..."
then added, voice low and laced with restrained anger:
"But my brother interfered. Yes—he ruled that age. He's the reason they still exist."
He sighed, then added with soft mockery:
"You'll meet him later. Don't worry. He's temperamental—very much so. But he knows how to guide them... Humans like him— or rather, they submit to him. Let's just say he never needs to raise his voice."
He chuckled softly—almost to himself—as if sharing a secret no one should hear:
"Heheheh... you're going to help me quite a bit."
He cleared his throat—as though the dust of ages clung to it—and continued, quieter now, but still heavy with meaning:
"That age... was humanity's last refuge from me. And so, they thrived—annoyingly so. They multiplied at a staggering rate, as if trying to fill the void my absence left."
He smiled briefly, then added:
"Had they known I was trapped in that vortex, they'd have laughed. No doubt."
"But let's set that aside."
He raised a finger, as though drawing a line through the air:
"My brother—that tiresome idealist—didn't like how fast they were breeding. So, he decided to... rebalance things. In his own way."
He chuckled again:
"He unleashed creatures upon them. Beings from no known record. They didn't just prey on humans—they made them understand
they were not the rulers of this age, but unwelcome guests."
He paused—as if recalling something more precious than words—then returned:
"Among those creatures... there was one in particular. A being I knew well. In fact, I once considered it a friend."
He looked up to the sky again—as if it held the creature's image:
"I used to call it The Black Crawler. Perhaps you remember? I mentioned it the last time we spoke—if you understood anything of what I said back then."
Then he leaned forward slightly—as if whispering a secret too deep for time itself:
"When I got trapped here... I gave it to my brother. I asked him to take care of it. I didn't know he'd unleash it on the humans... on my toys."