The ashes gently settled back onto his broad, weary shoulders. Breathing heavily, carrying that eternal urge to sleep that nonetheless eluded him, the man stood up, leaning on his heavy, cracked greatsword. The weapon sank into the ashen earth beneath him.
He was surrounded only by ashes. Ashes and bones crumbling in the wind. The remnants of an eternal battle.
The man let out a growl, his only form of language now, and straightened up, staggering in his battered armor, the tattered bronze cape swirling around him in the wind. His blackened body was marked with blazing runes, and his bronze hair, in unruly curls that seemed uncut since the dawn of time, swayed gently in the breeze.
Before him stretched plains upon plains of ashen lands, swallowing the remnants of what seemed to be houses and apartments. Nothing lived here.
Nothing except the djinns, those monsters devoid of a breath of life.
The man growled again and forced himself to move forward, dragging his greatsword through the sand. The wind kept blowing, trying to topple him. But he kept walking, with slow, tired steps. For to fall would mean never rising again.
And his destiny ruled out that possibility. That much, at least, he knew about himself.
Everything else? A dark blur, like a page of a book erased by water, the ink spreading shapelessly.
He knew neither his name, nor his family, nor his past.
He knew only his purpose, the meaning of his existence.
To fight.
To battle on and on, no matter how many enemies he faced, no matter the difficulty… he had the certain assurance of victory.
Winning was all he was.
The invincible, the warrior at the gates of the end.
The man continued to drag himself until he reached a sort of hilly terrain, where the remnants of weapons and armor were nearly buried in the ground. He didn't know why, but he felt a sense of peace and tranquility in this particular place, mingled with a strange sense of nostalgia and shapeless sadness.
He crouched near a small white dagger planted in the ground and rummaged through the pockets of the faded uniform beneath his crumbling armor. The sound of clashing, like stones knocking together, echoed with his movements before he pulled out a yellowish orb streaked with red, faintly glowing.
The khôl, the heart of a djinn he had slain.
He sighed before bringing it to his mouth and biting into it. The bitter sensation, mixed with the taste of blood, didn't bother him much. However, he could never get used to the feeling of another's sembou, another's energy mingling with his own. His body writhed uncomfortably for a moment before collapsing to the ground, kicking up the ashes above him. His breathing slowly returned to normal, his strength came back, but he found no real satisfaction in it. So he let his eyes wander wearily over the gloomy sky.
The firmament was dark above him, with eternal clouds casting shadows over the surroundings. He wished, just once, to see beyond what this stormy sky could offer.
This melancholic thought gently lulled him as his eyes slowly closed. He told himself it was a good idea to sleep before the next wave of djinns arrived in a few hours… But a sensation of sembou, different from the others, completely chased that thought from his mind.
He stood up again, weary and tired, and gripped his greatsword.
A solitary silhouette stood out in the dimness, advancing over the uneven ground, climbing the ashen hill where he stood.
From what he saw, it was a warrior approaching him. He wore distinctive scarlet armor glowing with runes, dragging a long, thin, curved blood-colored sword. The sight of that weapon stirred something deep within the man, an emotion that, as usual, he couldn't understand.
Charms and talismans for protection and energy boosts dangled from various parts of his body. A golden loincloth with black patterns, tied at his waist, fluttered in the wind.
"Halt."
For the first time in an eternity, the man spoke. His voice was hoarse and guttural from disuse; he felt something like relief after realizing he could still speak normally.
The warrior stopped in his tracks, lifting his head toward the man in silence.
"Turn back from where you came," he said in a warning tone. "This place is no one's home, and if you've come to fight, I'll tell you now—you're no match, neither for the djinns… nor for me."
The warrior said nothing. He unhooked the helmet from his armor and lifted it, revealing a cascade of fine locks that spilled around his face. A complexion pale as curdled milk, sharp, chiseled eyes paired with proud features.
It was a woman.
And seeing her appearance was like a strange dagger in his heart. But the man shook off that unfamiliar emotion.
"My name is Shiara," the woman said solemnly, "Shiara Carvalho. And by the blood pact borne by the members of my illustrious family, I have come to slay you, invincible warrior."
The man stifled a joyless laugh, still ignoring the knot in his stomach after hearing the woman's family name.
"I suppose I must have done something terrible in the past. You're not the first to want to kill me… and you won't be the last to fail."
"No one ever really told me anything terrible about you," the woman replied in an even voice. "You are a legend to the world, an eternal warrior who has fought since time immemorial at the edge of the world, at the gates of the city of the end… Defeating you is the dream of every warrior, to enter into glory."
The man felt his joyless smile widen.
"There is no glory in this. If I die, the djinns will pour into the world with even greater ferocity."
"The Musiba has already corrupted the world, far beyond what you could know here," the woman retorted.
A heavy emotion twisted the man's gut.
"A power like yours would be of great help in saving the world."
A long silence settled…
"Thank you for the warning," the man finally said, beginning to move. "I am the only one who can defeat the king. I will put an end to this madness."
"I cannot let you leave."
The man turned to her, confused.
"Are you one of the servants of chaos?"
"By Atemit, no," the woman replied with disgust. "I must defeat you and take your power, for the honor of my family."
"Give up," the man cut in immediately. "No one deserves to suffer like this. Only I can bear this burden."
"You've done enough," the woman replied, raising her long scarlet sword.
The runes on her armor glowed with a whitish light as she assumed a fighting stance.
"The Carvalhos have sworn for generations that they will be the ones to let you rest."
The man sighed.
"There is no rest for me, warrior. This is my destiny, until the end of time. If you try to stand in my way… you will die."
"Then so be it," the woman replied proudly. "I don't need your pity. Give me a fight worthy of the name."
The man looked at her for a moment before slowly straightening, raising his greatsword into a fighting stance. The runes on the weapon glowed along the blade, and his body erupted in flames. His bronze cape swirled wildly, as if alive, as the runes on his body activated with his weapon.
"Very well, brave warrior," the man said solemnly. "I will not hold back."
The woman nodded and put her helmet back on, then assumed a strange stance. She first placed her left hand on her heart, then extended her right hand holding the weapon, her head slightly bowed.
"Fuula ak fayda" (pride and honor), she murmured under her breath.
The man watched her, unable to understand why this gesture stirred such a strange emotion in him. This woman had been giving him that odd feeling since her arrival, a sensation that made him reluctant to kill her.
But it was already too late.
The voices in his head had already begun urging him toward his next battle.