Zario stood in the middle of this space, and the air around him wasn't just thick; it was taut, like someone else's skin stretched to the point of cracking. Every glance directed his way carried the same intent, albeit couched differently: he must be killed. If not now, then immediately. Not out of duty, but out of thirst. Out of the relief that would come when he was gone.
He felt it not as pressure, but as a presence. As if hundreds of thoughts were simultaneously touching his back, the back of his head, his neck, trying to find the most comfortable place to plunge in. And strangely enough, it didn't anger him at all. It didn't even frighten him. There was something almost… familiar about it.
So this is what it feels like, flashed through his mind. To be hated not for who you are, but for what you've already done.
Until that moment, the world around him had seemed simply disintegrating. Broken lands, twisted creatures, people with eyes that hadn't seen sleep in a long time. But now the picture suddenly came together into a coherent image, and it didn't make it easier, but rather harder to breathe.
He was not at the beginning of the disaster.
And not in the middle of it.
He found himself in a time where fear had grown tired of being a shock and had become commonplace. Where his name was spoken not as a threat, but as a fact from which one could not turn away. Here, people feared not his aura—it, as it turned out, could be confused. Here, they feared the consequences. What this world had already endured under the hands of the owner of this body.
Apocalypse... The word surfaced itself, without pathos, without trembling.
That's why the title. That's why it's "Bearer." Not because he'll bring it, but because it's already here.
A decisive war. Not in the future, not in prophecy, but right now. A war in which the sides had long since ceased to be abstractions. Good and evil didn't argue here; they were at each other's throats, and victory for one meant not triumph, but the right to dictate how the world would ache in the future.
The realization came smoothly, without hysteria. Zario simply accepted it, the way one accepts the pain of an old scar – it's not new, but it reminds one of its presence in time.
Maribel was still laughing. Her laughter was harsh, uneven, as if she were forcing it out of herself, clinging to it like a last anchor. And just then, behind her, something changed.
First came the sounds.
Not a scream. Not a roar. A dull, multilayered rumble, as if the earth itself had decided to remind them that it, too, could move. It grew not from a single point, but from all directions at once, rolling, churning, overlapping. The grass beneath their feet trembled, then cracked, and somewhere in the distance, something massive collapsed, not from the impact, but from the pressure.
Zario slowly turned his head.
Silhouettes appeared on the horizon.
There were too many of them to count. They marched in a dense mass, but not chaotically; each line moved with measured precision, as if it weren't a march but the execution of a long-rehearsed sentence. Their armor didn't shine, as it turned out; it looked as if the light refused to touch it. The banners were heavy, saturated with something dark, and hung not from the wind but from their own weight.
Guardians.
No. Not just any guardians. Everything the Empire could afford to salvage from the depths.
The mages walked separately, their presence felt not by the eyes but by the skin. The air around them trembled differently, as if the space had already reminded them of themselves even before they set foot there. Behind them moved heavy troops, their every step echoing in the bones rather than the ears. Somewhere between the ranks, figures flitted, trying to blend in, and that was precisely what made them especially noticeable.
When the first wave of the army emerged into the open, the battlefield seemed to freeze. Even the creatures that had been tearing each other apart just a moment before began to retreat, backing away, making room. No one shouted. No one gave out loud commands. Everyone understood: these were not reinforcements.
That was the end of the discussion.
Maribel stopped laughing.
She turned slowly, her expression changing layers: first surprise, then realization, and only then something akin to horror, but not for herself. For the situation.
"…Empire," she breathed out, almost silently.
Zario watched the approaching mass and felt the attitude around him change. The fear had changed. Not a sharp, present fear, but a heavy one. People no longer doubted who stood before them. Doubts vanish, like a shadow vanishing when too many lights are turned on at once.
Zario's real body stood here.
This was clear to everyone.
There remained only one question that no one dared to say out loud, neither his enemies nor those who just a second ago considered themselves his supporters:
Who is inside this body now?
Zario took a slow breath. And for the first time since waking up, he felt the world around him not just reacting to him, but waiting to see what he would do in such a seemingly desperate situation.
***
The chaos didn't subside - it simply changed shape, and now resembled not a storm, but a slowly rotating crater, in the center of which stood Zario, not taking a step, not raising his hands and not even changing his facial expression, while screams, the crunch of bones and the wet sounds of tearing flesh cut through the space around him, mixed with the smell of hot metal, blood and scorched earth, so densely saturated with magic that the air felt thick and heavy, as if it could be cut with a blade.
He was surrounded, but not by enemies – around him moved those who recognized him even before he had time to realize the very fact of their existence, and these people did not shout, did not shout battle slogans and did not look to him for orders, because orders were superfluous when his very presence acted as a law, not formulated in words, but etched into reality at the level of instinct.
They killed quickly, without ostentatious rage, not for pleasure or glory, but as a machine operates, one that has no doubt about the correctness of its movement, and the blood fell in layers on the ground, flowed down the fragments of armor, soaked into the grass, turned into a dark mush, while the bodies of the enemies fell one after another, leaving behind a silence that grew denser with each passing second.
Zario merely shifted his gaze, slowly, without haste, noting how on one side a man with a torn ribcage was trying to breathe air that no longer existed for him, and on the other, a magical projectile, never released, was scattering into sparks in trembling fingers because the hand that held it was severed before the brain had time to comprehend the intention, and in this spectacle there was neither surprise nor disgust, only a calm acceptance of the fact that the world around him obeyed a logic in which he occupied the center.
The shooters at the far positions raised their weapons, took aim, held their breath, but their fingers didn't press the trigger, and even they themselves couldn't understand what exactly was holding them back from shooting, because fear here didn't look like panic – it looked like an internal prohibition, like a feeling that any attack against him was not just pointless, but forbidden by the very structure of reality. And Zario felt it in his skin, not understanding the cause, but clearly registering the effect.
When the last enemy collapsed in the mud, and the sounds of battle crumbled into isolated echoes, he was surrounded by a tight ring in which there was no fuss, only a measured distance, aimed blades, taut bowstrings and frozen spells, ready to break loose at any moment if something changed, and Maribel was already standing among them, deprived of her former bravado, with a face in which the fear had not disappeared, but had become deeper and quieter, like a crack in stone, not noticeable, but capable of splitting it entirely.
She was speaking to someone whom Zario did not immediately notice, because this person did not shout or openly demonstrate force, but his presence was felt as a pressure distributed evenly throughout the entire space, and when he took a step forward, the circle seemed to expand itself, giving way not out of respect, but from the understanding that it was impossible to come any closer.
His armour was neither gleaming nor adorned with excess, but every line, every joint of metal spoke of a purpose for war, not parade, and his beard was neatly trimmed, stiff and dark, highlighting the sharp features of a face that showed no anger, no doubt, only the concentration of a man accustomed to facing disaster.
His long black hair fell onto his shoulders, undisturbed by the battle, as if the battle itself did not dare touch them, and the aura emanating from him did not press directly, but forced those around him to involuntarily exchange glances, because everyone here felt the approach of the moment after which the world would no longer return to its previous state, regardless of who survives and who falls.
Zario looked at him calmly, allowing his gaze to linger just long enough to catch the main point, and in that moment it became clear that the next phrase uttered by either of them would be not just words, but the starting point for this entire war.