"You have come so far. Keep treading," a voice, as soft and silken as a venerable sage, whispered to Him. It was but one voice among the cacophony, a dialogue within a mind where millions of memories had been warring without respite, day after day.
"I say, our dwelling within your form is… how shall I put it, my friend? It is a trifle too agonizing. When your body bleeds, we bleed. And now, with your spirit so brittle, so feeble that you cannot even quicken your pace… look at yourself, comrade. I can scarce restrain my laughter," a thousand discordant voices erupted in mocking laughter, vibrating through his skull. Yet, despite the derision, he stumbled forward—a wretched figure grasping at the obsidian dark, pursuing a flicker of light like a moth drawn to a flame, knowing full well that the fire would consume it until not a wing remained to fly.
"If we held the reins of your flesh, oh, what joy we would feel! You are far too green, young lad. You possess not a shred of dignity to be revered," the laughter swelled, a tide of scorn. But it could not halt his stride. The darkness clung to his gaunt frame, tethering him like the heavy shackles of a condemned man—so weighted that even the deepest hell beneath the apex of Death had to strain to hold him back.
"I… must walk. I… must… walk. Step… and step again." He… spoke? Yes! Clearer than ever before.
A tongue that had been leaden since his emergence into this world, yet whether driven by the ambition of the bold or the resolve of the hopeless, he began to hear every voice with a newfound clarity. He had possessed the power of speech since the days of the Palace of Surging Tides; it was only that he had been too broken, too weary, or perhaps too guarded to use it. From the mere object of 'It,' he had ascended to become 'Him.' Even this small mercy was a boon.
"Breathing… is an absolute… torment." He drew a breath, pulling it deep into the hollows of his lungs. Yet, there was no chill, no heat. No mana to be felt, no true exhaustion to be found. But this sensation of utter nothingness—it was far too vivid. He felt himself returning; his mind began to organize the chaos. Millions of memories fell silent, and the flicker of a true life began to spark within him.
"In such vast darkness… why must I be cast into this sunless void?" A hoard of memories, ancient and vast, lent him the language of the surface world. Yet, for all that staggering knowledge, there remained no answer for the absolute blackness that shrouded him. There were no other thoughts now—only the silence, the rhythmic shuffle of his feet, and the leaden ache in his legs. He, with a body so gaunt, yet with skin clinging to sinews that hinted at a terrifying strength—a form that looked more monstrous than human.
"Perhaps… this is where I belong. I remember… every deed I have ever wrought. They haunt me. They flay me… I remember, only if—" He strained to recall, searching his mind from the moment of his first agony, born in the depths of the black waters before the Citadel of Primordial Wars. A war of religion, a war of faith, which in the end, left only the dead—men and all else alike. He believed he remembered, yet it was not even a fragment of a sliver, not even close to the truth.
He opened his eyes, falling again… and again… and yet again. But each time, he rose. He rose in agony, rose to face the present, rose to meet the encroaching future. A pitiful youth, standing defiant against death and malice, against wrath and ancient vendettas. Nothing remained—not love, not hope, not dreams, nor faith. There was only Him and a fractured world, crumbling into dust within the cinders of the cosmos… a void of false emptiness… that lured him to sleep, to dream, yet offered not a single drop of reality. Not one.
He began to weep—tears of blood and brine that seared his eyes. Once more, he was submerged in a deluge of emotion. The torment remained unchanged. There was no escape from the eternal dark, no flight from the frailty of a body that refused to adapt. The millions of voices had fallen hushed, yet he remained powerless. He saw more clearly, spoke more boldly, perceived more deeply… and yet, the pain only sharpened. How wretched. How… utterly miserable.
'He… can go nowhere. For he is as they are. This world—no, this fractured crust of a world—bestowed life upon him to endure. And he… can do nothing but accept it.'
"IT—IS—NOT—OVER!"
A thunderous voice erupted, as heavy and resolute as the roar of a great wolf. If one were to judge by the sound alone, the master of this voice must be a titan, too colossal to contend with. He opened his eyes to the light—a glow manifesting upon a desolate shore. An inverted triangle… The sight before him stayed his tears, and he whispered to himself once more.
"I… must go on." He pressed toward the radiance, but as he reached for the inverted triangle, a reflection shimmered—a vision accompanied by sound and a bone-deep chill…
"Cease your running! There is no escape for you!" The shout of a Sweeper echoed, pursuing a man who was but a ruin of a human being. One arm was a mass of bandages, his eyes veiled, his raiment reduced to tatters. He was the quarry of the Sweepers, fleeing through a forest of frost, ice, and slender pines whose needles wept toward the frozen earth. This was a place He tried to ignore, yet the sight of the hunted man stirred a profound, searing pity in his heart. Yes, his bruised heart felt it vividly now, even in its shattered state.
"Ha… ha…" The hunted man's breath came in frantic, maddened rasps. He glanced back, seeing only a relentless rain of arrows. It was as if an entire war was closing in to claim his life. Yet, for this man, true death was an elusive phantom.
"No! You cannot do this!" The armor that once shone with majesty upon the battlefields of the frozen wastes was now but rags and shards, cracked by a thousand conflicts. He had no strength left to fight. His eyes were blurred with exhaustion; his long hair and beard were matted, yet though his eyes were dry of tears, the soul within had already perished.
"And why can we not, O Noble One? It is truly pathetic—how your beloved sold you to the high-born, those of your own kind. You trusted too much! You trusted far too much! Do you hear me?!" The hunters' voices rang through the vast, pine-choked wilderness. There was nothing but the snow and the weeping trees. He was riddled with arrows like a common porcupine, his blood freezing as it spilled, a biting, glacial sting. Still, the hunted man fled, dodging the iron hail that fell like a storm.
"Will he survive… truly? Yes—" With a trembling hand, He touched the reflection, and—suddenly! A blinding flash erupted at the mouth of the cavern.
"The light… Oh." He gasped, a great shuddering breath, clutching legs that still quaked with tremors. He struggled to suppress a cry, slowing his breath as he stood once more. For a moment, the voices in his head were silent. He shielded his eyes from the brilliance beyond the cave, then lowered his hand as he reached the threshold.
The sight before him granted a strange, fleeting comfort—but it vanished the moment It appeared. The sound of bestial panting… the soft thud of footsteps… His senses were ever sharp; that primal instinct drove him to the brink of madness…
"YOU! SHOULD NOT! HAVE COME! HERE!" A towering silhouette stood there, draped in tattered rags of dark, scorched brown. It stood upon two legs… thick-furred and wielding steel. No—a second glance revealed the horror. It was not mere steel; it was a mass of human bone and the remains of countless wretched things, twisted, bent, and forged into the shape of a blade…
It stood not far from Him… yet, He felt no fear. For fear was the companion he knew best of all!