"Sometimes, all it takes is a single moment to erase everything you thought was real."
The taste of blood lingered in Michael's mouth.
It wasn't metaphorical. His jaw throbbed, his lip split clean down the middle. Somewhere above him, the roar of New York traffic faded into something distant, muffled, like sound underwater.
He blinked.
His head spun. He tried to push himself up from the cracked sidewalk, but his arms trembled under his own weight. A fight? A car? He couldn't remember. The sky overhead was no longer gray but a deep, impossible purple. Stars swirled like living veins.
He exhaled.
The breath came out in steam, though the air was warm.
A shadow passed over him.
Michael's eyes adjusted slowly. Where traffic lights and buildings should've been, there now stood... trees. Towering, black-barked trees with glowing white leaves that drifted down like dying embers. The wind carried whispers—alien syllables that echoed in his skull.
This wasn't Earth.
He stumbled backward, trying to breathe, trying to understand. Where were the sounds? The cars? The concrete?
His phone—gone. His clothes were still damp with sweat, but different: his T-shirt replaced with a rough, coarse tunic. His jeans were intact, but a thick belt now ran across his waist, and something cold pressed against his back.
A blade?
Michael turned. It was a sword. Long, curved slightly at the tip, sheathed in cracked black leather. It pulsed faintly. Like a heartbeat.
"Where the hell am I?" he muttered.
No answer. Just that whispering wind again, brushing the treetops.
Suddenly, pain shot up his spine. He dropped to one knee, groaning.
Something was wrong inside his body.
Like... heat. Not fever. Not poison. Power.
It moved in his blood like smoke, slow and deliberate.
Then—footsteps.
Three figures emerged from the treeline. Tall, hooded, draped in silvery robes. Symbols shimmered around their hands—circles, runes, floating glyphs.
Michael instinctively stepped back. His fists clenched.
"Mana-less," one of them sneered. "A mortal beast without resonance."
"Not even a flicker," another said, voice cold and amused. "How did it appear here? The rift was sealed."
Michael didn't understand the words. But the tone? That, he understood.
They looked at him like an animal. Not human. Not dangerous.
Weak.
One raised a hand. Magic flared—a spiral of red energy forming in the air. Heat cracked through the forest.
Michael didn't think. He lunged.
His fingers wrapped around the sword's hilt—and something in the world shifted.
Time slowed.
Sound died.
The blade came free with a whisper, not a scream. Its surface glowed faintly blue, etched with symbols he couldn't read. A wave of pressure exploded outward.
The mage hesitated.
Michael moved on instinct. No technique. No training. Just survival. The blade flashed once—sharp, clean, final.
The spell shattered mid-air.
So did the mage's shoulder.
He dropped, screaming, blood pouring between his fingers.
The other two backed away in shock.
Michael stood, the sword dripping, his hands trembling.
He didn't feel triumph. He felt... clarity.
A voice echoed in his skull. Calm. Timeless.
"You are the chosen bearer of the last sword.
The gods have turned blind. The world has rotted. But the blade remembers.
Walk forward. Or die like the rest."
Michael blinked. The voice was gone.
The two surviving figures vanished into light, teleporting—or fleeing.
He was alone again.
The silence returned, thicker now. The trees bent lower, watching.
Michael looked at the sword.
He should've been afraid. He wasn't.
He gripped the hilt tighter.
"I don't know what this place is," he whispered to the trees. "But I'm not dying here."