The world shattered like glass dropped from heaven.
One second, Elias stood in the filthy alley of Ashwell—medieval stone walls pressing close, the stench of horse dung and rotting vegetables thick in the air, the distant clang of the blacksmith's hammer echoing through the narrow streets. The next, reality twisted. Colors bled into one another. The cobblestones beneath his feet dissolved. His stomach lurched as gravity lost all meaning.
He fell.
Or rose.
Or both.
Direction had no meaning here.
He screamed—a raw, animal sound torn from his throat. But the scream had no echo. The void swallowed it whole, hungry and indifferent.
Then, impact.
* * *
Elias hit the ground hard. Every bone in his body rattled. Pain exploded across his back, his shoulders, his skull. For a long moment, he couldn't breathe—his lungs refused to remember how.
Then air rushed back in. He gasped, rolled onto his side, coughed blood. His vision swam, darkened at the edges, then slowly cleared.
"Shit," he wheezed, spitting red. "Shit, shit, shit."
He pushed himself up slowly, limbs shaking. Everything hurt. But nothing was broken. Somehow. He ran his hands over his ribs, his arms, his legs. Bruised. Battered. But intact.
He blinked, forcing his eyes to focus.
And froze.
This wasn't Ashwell.
The sky—if you could call it that—was a swirling mass of colors that had no names. Purple that wasn't purple. Gold that hurt to look at. Black that breathed, expanding and contracting like the chest of some sleeping god.
The ground beneath him was smooth, dark, reflective—like obsidian glass. But it pulsed. Slowly. Rhythmically. As if something massive slept beneath it, dreaming dreams that warped reality itself.
In the distance, jagged mountains rose like broken teeth. Their peaks glowed faintly, flickering like dying embers. Between them, vast chasms yawned—bottomless wounds in the earth that exhaled cold mist.
And the silence.
God, the silence.
It wasn't just quiet. It was absence. No wind. No insects. No distant sounds of life. Just a vast, oppressive nothingness that pressed against his ears like deep water.
Elias stood slowly, legs trembling. His breath came in short, sharp gasps.
"Okay," he muttered, voice hoarse and cracking. "Okay. So... what the hell is this place? Where the hell am I?"
No answer.
He spun around, searching for something—anything—familiar. A landmark. A person. A way out. A way back to the stinking, filthy streets of Ashwell where at least he knew how to survive.
Nothing.
His breathing quickened. Panic crawled up his spine like cold fingers, digging into the base of his skull. His heart hammered against his ribs.
"Sanctus?" His voice cracked, broke. "Sanctus, You said You'd be here! Where the hell are You?! Where—"
Silence pressed against his ears like water. Like drowning.
Then—
A whisper.
Not from outside.
From within.
"Look."
Elias froze. That voice. Gentle. Absolute. The same one from before. From the hospital. From death.
"Look where?" he whispered, voice barely audible.
"Around you. See what truly walks this world."
Elias forced himself to breathe. To focus. To see.
He looked.
Really looked.
And he saw them.
The demons.
They weren't shadows.
They were things. Physical. Solid. Real.
Twisted humanoid forms that crawled, slithered, shambled across the obsidian ground. Some walked on two legs. Others on four. Or six. Their bodies were wrong—angles that hurt to look at, proportions that defied geometry.
One floated past him—close enough to touch. Its skin was translucent, veined with black ichor. No face. No features. Just a blank expanse of flesh stretched over a skull that was too long, too narrow. But Elias felt it watching him. Felt its hunger. Its hatred.
His skin crawled. His stomach twisted.
"What... what are those?" he breathed.
"Demons. Class 4. The weakest of their kind. But still dangerous. Still deadly."
Demons.
The word settled in his chest like a stone. Like a curse.
He'd heard stories back in Ashwell. Street legends whispered in taverns and brothels. Crazy people ranting in the market square about spirits and possession and the end of days. He'd always thought they were just... broken. High on bad ale or fermented mushrooms. Insane.
But now...
One of the creatures moved closer. It stretched, elongated, twisted into something almost humanoid. Claws—long, black, dripping with something viscous—extended from what might have been hands.
And Elias heard it.
Not with his ears.
In his mind.
Worthless.
Pathetic.
No one will ever love you.
You should die here. Alone. Forgotten.
Elias staggered back. His chest tightened. Words he'd heard a thousand times before—from drunk merchants, from cruel guild masters, from the mirror when he was too tired to lie to himself.
But hearing them here—in this place of nightmares—it was different. It was poison, pure and concentrated, injected directly into his soul.
The creature drifted closer. Its claws scraped against the obsidian ground, leaving deep gouges.
You should just give up. Die here. No one will miss you. No one even knows you're gone.
Elias's hands clenched into fists. His jaw tightened. Heat—sudden and violent—surged in his chest.
"Shut up," he muttered through gritted teeth.
The demon laughed—a sound like breaking glass, like screaming children, like every nightmare he'd ever had.
Make me.
And then it lunged.
Fast. Impossibly fast.
Claws slashed toward his throat.
Elias dove. Hit the ground. Rolled. The claws whistled past his neck, so close he felt the air displace, felt the cold malice radiating from them.
He scrambled to his feet, heart pounding, adrenaline screaming through his veins.
The demon turned. No eyes. But he felt its gaze. Felt its hunger.
And then—
Heat exploded in Elias's chest.
Not pain.
Not fear.
Fire.
Golden fire.
It surged through his veins like molten light, like liquid sun. His right hand ignited—literally ignited—wreathed in flames that didn't burn his skin but blazed with a light that hurt to see.
Elias stared at his hand, eyes wide, breath caught in his throat.
"What the—"
"Strike. Now."
Sanctus's voice. Calm. Commanding. Absolute.
The demon lunged again.
Elias swung.
His fist—wrapped in golden flame—connected with the demon's chest.
The creature shrieked.
A high, piercing wail that made Elias's teeth ache, that vibrated in his bones. The demon writhed, convulsed, its body smoking, burning from the inside out.
And then—
It dissolved.
Like smoke in wind. Like ash scattered by a storm.
Gone.
Elias stood there, panting, fist still raised, heart hammering. The golden flames around his hand flickered, dimmed, then faded completely.
He looked at his hand. No burns. No marks. Just... skin. Scarred, calloused, but intact.
"What... what the hell just happened?" he whispered, voice hoarse.
"You discovered your Aspect. Your weapon. Golden Flame—fire that burns corruption, destroys darkness, purifies evil."
Elias turned, searching for the source of the voice. But there was no one. Just him. And the swirling sky. And dozens—no, hundreds—of twisted forms shambling closer from the shadows.
"My... Aspect?"
"Your power. Given by Me. You will need it."
Elias looked at the approaching horde. Creatures with too many limbs. Mouths that opened where eyes should be. Claws that dripped black poison.
His throat went dry.
"I have to kill... how many?"
"One hundred."
"One hundred?!" His voice cracked. "Are You insane?! Look at me! I'm a street kid! I steal bread to eat! I don't—"
"You are Mine. And I am with you. That is enough."
"And if I don't? If I fail?"
Silence. Heavy. Final.
Then, softly:
"You die. Here. Forever."
Elias swallowed hard. His hands trembled. The demons were closer now. He could hear them—the scrape of claws, the wet sound of flesh dragging across stone, the whispers that promised pain and death and eternal darkness.
He clenched his fists. Felt the heat stir in his chest again, waiting, ready.
"Alright," he muttered. "Alright. Fine. You want a hundred demons dead?"
He rolled his shoulders. Cracked his neck. And smiled—that old, familiar smile from the streets. The one that said, "Fuck it. Let's see what happens."
"Then come on," he said to the horde. "Let's dance."
The golden fire ignited in both hands. Blazing. Brilliant. Defiant.
And the first demon lunged, claws extended, mouth opened in a silent scream of hunger.
Elias met it head-on.