It was a palace, or what remained of one.
A colossal mausoleum, erected in an age where time itself seemed to have forgotten to pass, now surrendered to the slow, merciless embrace of decay. The air was heavy, laden with the scent of cold stone, millennial dust, and the petrified sorrow of a lost history. What had once been a majestic monument, with carvings of unimaginable beauty, was now just the carcass of a dream, fractured and filthy, falling to pieces under the weight of its own eternity.
They were at the foundations of the world.
A vast grotto, a vacuum pocket carved into Chisanatora's bedrock, housed those ruins. The only glimpse of the "outside" was a gigantic, deep hole in the stone ceiling, an open wound leading back to the abyss, from which a gray, phantasmal light barely managed to penetrate. At the far end of the cavern, a dark archway promised an exit, a tunnel leading to yet more blackness.
Great, titanic pillars, wide as towers, rose toward the distant ceiling. Eternal flames spiraled up their surfaces, a pale fire that burned without consuming, lit for countless eons. They flanked a grand stairway, its worn steps leading to the palace entrance at the top. The architecture was alien, its geometry unsettling, the work of a people so ancient no history book dared to catalog them.
And there, in the center of that forgotten sanctuary, between the flaming pillars, the two figures faced each other.
The woman was wreathed in power. Demonic features had taken her face, distorting her beauty into something grotesque and ecstatic. A macabre, sick smile pulled at her lips, and her eyes, now pure vortexes of purple and yellow energy, vibrated with a promise of annihilation.
And before her, stood Tom.
She held her stance, her body poised for battle. The world around her had vanished; the pillars, the ruins, the pain. Her face was focused, her vision narrowed until only the woman existed.
The blue sparks of the lunar runes crepitated around her body, an unstable and furious power. The blood, hot and sticky, stained her clothes and ran from her forehead and mouth, a constant reminder of her mortality.
The pain was a symphony of agony in every fiber of her being.
It was a reminder that this girl, in this instant, refused to recall.
During that moment… That boy grabbed me by my face… forced me to open the vortex… He already expected me to appear behind him… He read me… He… HE…
The realization exploded in the woman's mind with the force of a supernova. The manic ecstasy from seconds ago was instantly poisoned, curdling into a fury so pure and absolute that her own power reacted. The boy hadn't just reacted; he had anticipated. He had read her. That bloodied insect had dared to profane her strategy, to treat her power as something predictable.
The humiliation was acid.
"HOW DARE YOU??!!!"
The scream that tore from her throat was not human. It was a distorted, multifaceted sound, as if a thousand voices shrieked in unison from within her.
The purple and yellow vortex within her being crepitated, responding to her rage. The air in the ancient grotto was sucked toward her with a deafening groan. The stone floor beneath her feet imploded. The solid rock disintegrated like dust, dragged into her as a crater formed rapidly, a famished gravity well.
Blinded by hatred, she struck.
Her arm cut the air, and reality itself tore. The colossal pillars, the stale air, the ancient rocks—everything in her path was consumed. A wave of annihilation, a visible distortion in space, advanced, erasing matter from existence as it rushed toward Tom.
The Herald, however, was already in motion.
Tom spun the staves, which she held by the central shaft. The silver metal flowed like mercury under the pale light, forming the circular lunar shield. She positioned it before her an instant before impact.
The wave of nothingness struck the barrier. The sound was horrific, a high, deafening shhhhhh of conflicting energies, the vacuum trying to devour the metal that refused to be erased. The matter around the shield was consumed, leaving Tom intact on an island of existence.
The woman expected that. A sick smile pulled at her lips.
Tom also knew what came next. She felt the distortion in space, the vacuum forming behind her.
But the woman was faster.
Tom launched herself toward the only free vector: up. She leaped, her body still aching and bleeding, escaping the blow of annihilation that erased the spot where her feet had been a millisecond before.
She was in the air, vulnerable. And the purple vortex appeared instantly above her head.
Tom twisted her body, her eyes, shining cold blue, raised to the portal, preparing to defend, expecting the blast of energy, the spatial cut, any magic the woman might conjure.
She braced for disintegration. Instead, a brutal physical impact struck her.
The woman emerged from the vortex itself, her movement fluid and predatory. The smile on her face was one of pure contempt. Ignoring magic, she simply delivered a powerful kick. The sole of her geta struck Tom square in the chest, hurling her violently backward like a broken ragdoll.
Tom's body collided with the colossal stone stairway that led to the palace. The dull thud of flesh and bone against ancient rock echoed through the grotto, and a cloud of millennial dust exploded from the cracked steps.
The curtain of dust from the millennial rock exploded around her, filling the air with the dry scent of fractured stone and decay. Tom's body slammed hard against the steps, and she slid a few meters before stopping, inert. Pain throbbed in her chest, in her back, everywhere.
Her hand, flung forward by the impact, hovered for an instant. Then, the arm fell slowly, heavy, defeated, the hand open.
She heard the sound of loose stones bouncing and rolling away…
The sound grew softer. The air stopped scratching her lungs. The falling hand, descending toward the cold, dirty stone, was promptly caught by a gentle touch.
A warm touch.
Familiar.
The ancient dust, with its tomb-like scent, was replaced by the living aroma of damp earth and green leaves. The oppressive sound of breaking rocks was replaced by the clear song of birds and the whisper of wind in a canopy of leaves.
"Ingrid! I told you to be careful!"
A male voice echoed, full of a reprimand that was softened by gentle concern.
He was young, just a few years older than she was now. He wore practical travel clothes, a thick tunic and linen trousers, much like the ones Tom wore now. His hair was short, in an almost military style, and his gaze was serious, that of an older brother who took his duty seriously.
Yes… I remember…
The sound of a small stream burbled cheerfully, the crystalline water rushing over smooth stones. She had taken an overly confident leap, missed her footing, and her foot slipped on the wet rock. A small cry escaped her, but he saved her before she fell, his hand grabbing hers with firmness.
Her own hair, at the time, was long, falling in waves of a brown so strong and vibrant that, under the sunlight penetrating the trees, it looked almost scarlet. Her face, framed by those strands, was delicate, as if painted on a canvas. She wore a simple, cream-colored summer dress with a delicate lace hem that was now splattered by the stream's water.
"S-sorry, Onii-sama," she replied, her voice shy, as she righted herself on the safety of the rock.
"Why did you want to come with me?" he asked, letting out an exaggerated sigh and placing his hands on his hips, a pose of forced exhaustion. "Mom's going to be furious if she sees her little princess in the middle of the dirty forest…"
"But I want to play with Onii-sama!" she protested, forcing her arms down in a stubborn gesture. Her cheeks puffed out, the classic look of a spoiled little girl. Which, in her case, she was.
He crossed his arms, feigning indifference. He turned his face away and, with his eyes closed, said, "I'm not the one who wants to get yelled at by Mom."
All he heard in reply was the low groan of a child throwing a tantrum.
He opened one eye, just a slit, to peek at the child glaring at him. A short, amused laugh escaped his lips.
"Onii-sama!!"
"Sorry… my bad, my bad…" he replied, his seriousness melting as he held his stomach from laughing. He extended his hand to her again. "Come on, Ingrid."
The girl, then, placed her hand in his. With her brother's help, she hopped from stone to stone, carefully this time, until she crossed the small stream.
Yes… I remember…
The two hands joined. The brother's, large and strong; the sister's, small and delicate. She held him as her base, her foundation. And he held her as his purpose.
But the hand, his hand… dissolved.
The warmth vanished. The gentle touch dissolved into nothing.
And the hand that was falling toward safety lost its base. The memory shattered, and Tom's hand completed its fall, slamming hard against the cold, broken rock of the stairway.
The shock of the sharp stone against her skin was a brutal return to reality. The blood, running from the cuts on her arm, now flowed over that empty hand. Her body was fallen and aching upon the cracked steps, amid the dust and desolation of those ruins.
The sharp clack of the geta on ancient stone echoed through the silent grotto.
Each step was deliberate, a mocking clock marking the approach. The woman walked slowly toward the stairway, her silhouette cut against the flames that cast dancing shadows.
"Ara? Dead already?" Her voice was melodious, forcing an innocent curiosity that dripped venom.
She climbed the steps, one by one. The sound of each footfall seemed to pierce Tom's eardrums, an auditory agony added to the physical one. She stopped, pausing directly in front of the fallen Herald. Her shadow covered Tom, stealing the little pale light.
Tom was there, motionless, a broken doll tossed against the stone. She could barely move. The impact had stolen her breath, and every attempt to inhale was a knife in her lungs, sending nauseating waves of pain through her chest. The metallic taste of her own blood filled her mouth, and she fought not to spit it out with every agonizing breath.
"You know, Herald…" The woman said, with terrifying casualty. She sat on the step beside Tom, as if they were two friends resting. Her hand, pale and long-fingered, rose slowly and touched Tom's scarlet hair, now stuck to her forehead with sweat and blood. She stroked it.
"When I saw your face earlier," she murmured, her voice thoughtful, "I wondered why you had such feminine features…"
Her hand descended, sliding from Tom's temple to her cheek. Her cold fingers touched the feverish skin, and her thumb wiped away the blood running from the cut on her forehead. Her fingers were stained red.
"I won't deny you're very pretty," she admitted. "But… when I saw you using Lunar Magic… I understood everything!"
She pulled her hand back, observing the blood that stained it. Tom just watched her, her blue eyes shining with an impotent hatred, her body paralyzed. She could do nothing.
"You have to maintain this feminine appearance to use that magic? Since Lunar Magic is a woman's thing, isn't it?"
The question was rhetorical, a triumphant conclusion. And then, in a final act of profanation, the woman brought the stained fingers to her lips and, slowly, licked Tom's blood.
"Boy… How ridiculous!"
The woman threw her head back and burst into laughter. The sound echoed through the ancient grotto, a hysterical, sick sound that mocked the pain, mocked Tom's past.
The hysterical laughter ceased, cut with the precision of a razor. The woman leaned in, the sudden silence filling the grotto oppressively. She placed her hand on Tom's face again, her cold fingers tracing the jawline beneath the grime. "Despite that face… The blood and dirt really do make you look more masculine…"
She stood up, a tall, dark figure looming over Tom. The pale light of the flames played in her eyes. "It's a shame I have to put an end to a man as handsome as you."
She clasped her hands in front of her chest, a gesture of forced, theatrical innocence. A mischievous smile lit her red lips. She blinked slowly. "Nothing personal. But I'll have to kill you now. Tehe!"
She raised her arm, hand outstretched, fingers splayed like claws, ready to slice the air and whatever was in it. The sick smile widened.
Her arm began to descend.
But before the blow could form, a blinding blue light exploded. Her vision was completely overtaken by the frigid glare.
The air above Tom vibrated. The blue runes that had previously crepitated erratically around her body converged, uniting in a complex magic circle that spun slowly in the air. The ancient script shined with an ethereal power. And in its center, unmistakable, the runes formed the silhouette of a moon.
The Moon of Celeste.
The sacred mark.
Of the Moon Goddess.
The circle became a cannon. With a sound that was both a deep hum and a celestial choir, the lunar ray exploded. A column of pure energy, blue as liquid moonlight, shot out.
The woman, caught by surprise by the speed and power, was swallowed by the beam. She was thrown backward like a bullet, crossing the grotto and colliding with the opposite wall in a deafening explosion of rock and light. A curtain of dust and debris rose, obscuring the point of impact. Within the gray cloud, the blue runes hovered and shone, like stars in a hazy night.
A scream of inhuman fury tore through the dust. The woman emerged from the rubble, her blue cloak torn, half her face and arms taken by a dark red, burned.
Her smile was replaced by a grimace of pure hatred. Her purple eyes immediately swept the darkness and caught the bluish glow. Tom was no longer fallen. She was standing, on the stairway on the other side of the Grotto.
The pain in her chest was excruciating, but that voice cut through her agony.
"Remember, Ingrid…"
The memory resurfaced, vivid. Her brother's smiling face. This time, his eyes couldn't be seen, shadowed by the sunlight, but the smile was bright. His short hair, a brown so strong it looked scarlet, swayed. He held a wooden sword in his hand.
"It doesn't matter how strong the enemy is. It doesn't matter what our father says about the Honor of being a Holy Knight or not… For a true warrior…"
He extended his free hand to her. His eyes, now visible in the memory, were gentle and caring.
"The winner is the one left standing at the end. It doesn't matter how many times you fall!"
Tom, on the stairway, closed her eyes for a second. She sighed slowly, the air exiting like a cloud of vapor in the grotto's cold air. Blood dripped from her chin. She opened her eyes. The frigid blue glow returned.
What? The woman thought, her eyes narrowing.
A bluish flash, like an instant teleport, and Tom vanished from the stairs.
Above me?
In a single instant, Tom reappeared in the air, directly above the woman. Her gaze was utterly focused, a predator locked on its prey. Blood still ran from her face, and the lunar runes crepitated around her like sparks. Her arms were already in motion, holding the end of the silver staff. The central shaft was liquefied, and the third end had reconfigured in the air: the half-moon axe, ready for the cut.
"AS IF I'D LET YOU!" The woman screamed, hatred distorting her burned face.
Her arms slashed in arcs. Reality tore. The all-consuming nothingness advanced, and the purple vortexes surged with it, a storm of annihilation devastating the air toward Tom.
Who only spun.
In mid-air, she became a blur. The liquid chain of silver metal contoured around her mid-spin. The axe dematerialized. The chain, along with the other end, reconfigured instantly into a spiked flail. The liquid metal circled her, the ends multiplying, transforming Tom into the center of a lethal, rotating Morning Star.
The woman's vortex and spatial cuts struck the spinning defense. There was a sharp sound of energy being torn. The attacks were repelled, the spatial magic dissipating against the lunar power.
The woman's eyes recoiled, shocked. What? His magic… is canceling mine?
Tom spun so intensely that her body became a silver comet, falling upon the woman. She tried desperately to stop the descent with her vortexes, creating barriers of vacuum, but it was futile. The moon-infused metal was too dense, too real.
They struck the ground with a violent thud, at an absurd speed. The ancient rock shattered. The curtain of dust thrown up by the collision was massive, and the sound of the impact echoed through the grotto, rising up through the hole in the ceiling the woman had created.
From the smoke, like a torpedo, the woman shot out, her body wreathed in her own purple energy. Still in mid-leap, her arms cut the air, launching attacks back into the dust cloud.
And, like a second torpedo, Tom exploded out as well.
She now held the central shaft. The two ends had transformed into short, silver blades. She spun them at high speed, the blades dancing like a deadly windmill, deflecting every purple slash that came her way.
I… I can see!
The woman launched every attack, every spatial distortion. And Tom deflected them. She saw the intent, the slight tremor in the air before the cut formed. The pursuit soon became a macabre dance. The woman, once the hunter, was now the prey. She leaped through the ruins, cutting the air, and Tom followed relentlessly, cutting down her attacks the instant they were born.
He's… keeping up with me?? The woman's face was a visage of growing rage and fear.
This feeling… Tom thought, her body screaming in pain with every movement. I don't know how much longer my body can take this. But… it's the same feeling…
Flashes of her memory cut through her vision, mixing with the fight. The night. The white hair. Her brother, running in front of her through the dark forest.
The Underwater Panther…
In the midst of a slash, she closed in on the woman. Her arm, holding the central shaft, danced behind her head, propelling one of the blades in a powerful arc, ready to cut her down.
I hate this power… But…
The cold cut, then, descended.
In the instant of the strike, the frigid blue glow took the silver blade. Like a lightning bolt, the lunar energy emanated from it, striking the woman square on. The light swallowed her, and she was thrown with tremendous force against the same stairway where Tom had been felled.
A vision took Tom's mind, clear as day. A woman with long black hair, whose eyes shone like a cat's. Her voice was rough and a bit haughty, coming from beneath a purple cloak.
Her words echoed in her mind:
"Even if you hate it. Even if you don't want to accept yourself."
Tom stood, panting. Blood ran down her face, dripping onto the stone floor. The staves, slowly, returned to their natural state, and she held them in the usual way: one end in each hand, the central shaft arched behind her back.
"The power. It is still yours."
"I… won…" Tom finally proclaimed, her voice hoarse and exhausted.