Stark
stood in a vast white room that stretched endlessly. Before him stood
a massive dark gate, bound by rusted chains and weathered talismans
that pulsed faintly with an glow. At its center, a large purple eye
swiveled, inspecting him intently, moving from side to side.
He
was paralyzed with terror. He couldn’t
move.
Another
dream? Again...what the hell is this?
Stark
glanced down at his body, only to feel a fresh wave of unease. He was
floating in the air. Where his legs should have been was a swirling
mass of black smoke. His entire form was translucent, with smoke
curling up.
The
large purple eye narrowed, giving the uncanny impression of a
sinister smile hidden behind the gate. The massive structure
shuddered and groaned as it creaked open. Tendrils of dark smoke
spilled forth, consuming the white light.
Stark
gulped anxiously, despite his smoky form.
This
time, no smoky hands lashed out at him.
Time
passed.
Nothing.
Stark’s
eyes remained fixed on the gate.
THUMP.
A
heavy footstep echoed.
The
sound grew louder with each passing moment. More black smoke poured
from the gaping void beyond the gate.
A
figure emerged.
It
was utterly dark—an abyss in humanoid shape. No eyes, no face, no
features—just a form of nightmarish black. An ominous red halo
hovered above its head, pulsating faintly.
The
figure stepped forward.
Stark
began to shake, his entire form trembling uncontrollably. The air
around him grew oppressive, suffocating in its sheer hostility.
Suddenly,
a shadowy hand lashed out from the figure’s
chest.
The
hand coiled around Stark’s
neck, its grip suffocating. He tried to breathe, but his essence
seemed to tremble, snuffed out like a dying flame. His pupils
dilated, trembling as if they could shatter under the fear.
The
figure drew him closer.
A
single eye snapped open on its forehead, its crimson pupil glowing.
A
sound, cold echoed in Stark’s
head.
“So
You are the Prince of the False Heavens? Not bad….I shall use you
to fulfill the pact.”
…?
And Pact…?
“You
are not worthy to know, yet.”
What
do you mean? Worthy of what?
“Cross
the Immortal Divide. Only then shall you have your answers.”
What
if I don
The
weight in the air shifted, crashing down like a tidal wave. Stark’s
form shivered violently as the force threatened to obliterate him
entirely. His very soul felt as though it was unraveling, torn apart
like threads.
“You
are a bold one I give you that.” A
cold, mocking laugh echoed. “So
I shall leave you with a little parting gift.”
A
dark hand pierced his chest, gripping his heart. A searing-hot pain
erupted inside him, burning. His smoky body convulsed violently, his
hands clawing at his chest, desperate to tear it open and relieve the
agony.
The
figure’s
eyes burned brighter
“Choose
your path wisely… O Chosen One.”
The
world plunged into darkness as Stark was hurled into the gaping void
like a rag doll.
He
woke with a start, drenched in cold sweat. His chest heaved, and his
heart racing uncontrollably. Stark clutched his chest, struggling to
catch his breath.
“Haaa…
Haaa… Haaa…” He took deep, shuddering breaths to stabilize
himself.
What
the hell was that?
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Stark
looked down at his chest. Apart from the slave mark, there were no
injuries but he was sure that his chest was burning like molten lava
but there was a mark on his chest, a small red mark right in the
center where the hand entered his chest
This
mark…was
it there before?
His
forehead dripped with sweat as his trembling legs refused to steady.
The figure, the gate, the words—it was all burned into his mind.
Immortal
Divide? False Heavens? He racked his brain, trying to make sense of the phrase, but it was
useless.
Stark’s
head throbbed from the lingering fear and stress. He forced himself
to his feet.
Fuck!!
I need to clear my mind.
He
began to exercise, hoping to push the thoughts out of his system.
Gripping
his training sword, Stark began swinging it, repeating the basic
movements Krul had taught him.
He
fixed his gaze on the tip of the blade, channeling all his energy
into the motion.
Again
And
Again.
He
swung the sword until his arms gave out.
This
was part of his morning regimen. Krul had explained that he couldn’t
teach Stark his style of swordsmanship, as it was heavily reliant on
magic—which Stark had no aptitude for.
Instead,
Krul had focused on building Stark’s
foundation. Footwork, positioning, attack, and defense—these were
the essential pillars of sword arts, and Stark repeated those drills
endlessly.
His
legs trembled again.
“Damn
that… dream,” he muttered under his breath. “I can’t get it
out of my head.”
Hundreds
of Questions flooded his mind. The gate, the things beyond the gate,
chosen one and the Immortal Divide stayed in his mind.
Stark
shook his head in frustration.
He
was confused—and the scared of the unknown.
After
a few hours of rest, Stark set out to hunt. The devil remained in his
study, engrossed in something. Stark had caught glimpses of Krul
scribbling furiously on sheets of paper, but he didn’t
bother to ask what it was. Whatever it was, Stark doubted he would
understand it anyway.
Instead,
he focused on the task at hand: hunting down some Stilos in the
region.
Krul
had instructed him about the areas where Stilos were most commonly
found. Armed with his gear—a raggedy leather armor, a few daggers,
a butcher knife, and his trusty metal sword—Stark headed out. The
sword had become a reliable companion over time.
Hunting
the Stilos had grown easier for him. They moved in groups, but Stark
had developed a simple and effective tactic to pick them off. He
targeted the stragglers, the ones lagging behind. Separating them
from their pack proved to be easier than he expected.
Occasionally,
two Stilos fell for his ploy, but Stark was capable enough to handle
such situations.
“This
is a good hunt,” Stark muttered, wiping the sweat from his brow.
After
killing the Stilo, Stark began preparing the meat. He severed its
head and limbs first, then sliced open its belly, carefully chopping
the crimson meat into small chunks. Once he had enough to fill the
entire leather backpack, he hoisted it over his shoulders and began
the trek back to the cave.
The
dry wind was heavy, stinging his skin as he walked. The air was thick
with dust, that limited his visibility. The desert stretched
endlessly around him, without any signs of life.
The
cave lay hidden in the middle of a mesa, concealed by the dusty air.
Reaching it was no easy task—Stark had to climb the rock face with
the weight of the backpack slowing him down. Gritting his teeth, he
made his way upward.
“Finally.”
Stark put the leather backpack down. Patting down the sand from the
journey.
Just
then, Krul emerged from his study, his long hair tied neatly in a
ponytail. He raised an eyebrow at Stark.
“You’re
early today, child.”
“I
just couldn’t sleep,” Stark replied, removing his armor and
daggers before setting them aside. Exhausted from the trek, he sank
to the ground with a heavy sigh.
Krul
studied him for a moment, then nodded. “Hmm...
I shall cook today.”
“Huh?
What?” Stark looked up in surprise.
“You
seem out of your mind, child,” Krul remarked. “And the last
time...”
Stark
winced, scratching the back of his head with an awkward smile. “Uh...
yeah...”
The
memory was fresh—he had set the cooking area on fire, charred the
meat into charcoal, and added so many ingredients that the soup was
inedible. It had been a disaster, a true trial by fire in the art of
cooking.
Stark
watched as Krul picked up the freshly-cut meat and headed to the
cooking area.
“Wait…”
He called out. Stark pointed at the red mark on his chest. “can you
take a look at this mark”
Krul
glanced back.
“What
mark?” He asked with a puzzled expression.
Stark’s
eyes widened. “Nothing…I must be imagining things. Sorry.”
With
a sigh, he turned to his equipment. He unsheathed his sword and
grabbed a cloth from the stand, wiping off the blood on both his
blade and butcher knife.
Taking
care of one’s
tools was one of Krul’s lessons. Stark wiped, ensuring every spot
was clean. Once satisfied, he held the blade up to the faint light
peeking through the dusty wind. The clean surface shined faintly.
With
a nod, Stark sheathed his sword and set the cloth aside.
Later,
Krul brought over a steaming bowl of Stilo meat stew. Stark, hungry
from the hunt, dug in heartily, savoring each bite.
“So,
Krul,” he called to the devil between mouthfuls, “what was that
beast we saw yesterday?”
Krul
raised an eyebrow, tilting his head slightly. “Hmm?”
“The
one that attacked after my fight,” Stark clarified.
“Oh...
the corrupted ones,” Krul replied with a nod.
“Corrupted?”
“Yes.
Those don’t have a collective name,” Krul explained. “Maybe
humans have named them, but I don’t recall.”
“You
call them the corrupted ones? Why, though?”
“It’s
exactly as it sounds—they are filled with corrupted souls,” Krul
said, scratching his chin thoughtfully. “They’re rare creatures,
nonetheless.”
“Corrupted
souls? Does our soul look like that?” Stark asked, his curiosity
growing.
For
Stark, Krul was a walking trove of ancient knowledge, and he never
missed a chance to learn more about the world.
“No,
no, child. Souls are insubstantial,” Krul shook his head. “You
might ask how they’re made, then. There are those who can
manipulate the souls of the dead—they derive their power from the
misery and contempt lingering.”
“They
inject these corrupted souls into inanimate objects, turning them
into a rampaging beast.”
“So,
those are the corrupted ones?” Stark asked, trying to piece it all
together.
Krul
nodded thoughtfully.
“How
do you defeat them?”
“It
varies for each one,” Krul explained. “You must find their Soul
Point and destroy it. That is their weakness.”
“I
see,” Stark said, finishing his bowl of stew and setting it down.
Krul’s
face twisted into a smirk.
“Regarding
your training,” he began, “I will be moving it up a notch,
child.”
“Eh?
Moving up?” Stark asked, raising an eyebrow.
“Yes,”
Krul replied with a amused look. “You will face much tougher
enemies starting tomorrow, We need to sharpen those skills of yours.”
