"I hate this world!"
The cry echoed under the high arches of the half-empty hall, reflecting off the cracked walls of the ancient temple. The voice was shrill, saturated with rage and pain, as if the very air trembled from these words.
There were six people in the hall.
Three men and three women—but one of them stood apart, as if deliberately separating himself from the others not only by distance but also by determination.
Straight posture, measured movements, a tense, almost painfully composed figure.
The man's pink hair fell freely below his shoulders, reflecting the dim light of the torches with a cold glint.
He stood at the very base of the pedestal, almost touching the crooked but surprisingly smooth black stone—an ancient artifact whose origin had long been erased from people's memory.
His palm rested on the surface of the stone.
The cold seeped through his skin, but the man did not even flinch.
"Are you sure you want this with all your heart?" a voice came from deep within the stone. It was even. Devoid of emotion. "There will be no turning back, mortal."
The man slowly clenched his fingers, as if gathering the last remnants of his composure.
"I hate this world..." he repeated more quietly, almost in a whisper. There was no longer any shouting in his voice, only fatigue and emptiness. "I want to leave. Anywhere. Any place. Just... not here anymore."
"Regis, don't do it!" one of the men shouted, stepping forward. His black hair trembled as he clenched his fists. "Stop! If you do this... do you understand that you will lose everything?!"
There was no immediate response.
The pink-haired man only pressed his palm harder against the stone, as if afraid that if he took even one step back, his resolve would crumble.
"I beg you..." His voice broke, but he forced himself to continue. "Do my will. I will fulfill my part of the bargain. I swear. I will keep my promise... whatever it takes."
"Yes... it shall be so!" said the voice.
At that moment, the black stone flashed with an ominous, dense glow—not light, but something far more ancient and frightening. Darkness spread across the pedestal as if it were alive, pulsing and distorting the space around it.
"Regis!" the man cried desperately and lunged forward.
But he was too late.
His friends grabbed him, holding him back with all their might, as if they understood that if he took another step, they would lose not only him, but themselves as well.
"Let go!" his voice broke. "Regis, stop!"
One of the women stepped forward sharply, assuming a fighting stance. The air around her trembled, and a silver spark flashed between her fingers, quickly taking the form of a spell. Without hesitation, she directed the magic toward the pink-haired man.
But the spell never reached its target.
A dark glow surged like a black wave and completely dispelled the magic, absorbing it as if it had never existed.
And the man...
His pink hair swayed gently as he slowly turned around.
His gaze was empty.
His violet eyes, devoid of their former warmth, slid indifferently over the faces of those who, just a second ago, had called him their friend. A barely noticeable smile flashed in the corner of his lips—cold and alien.
And in the next moment, he disappeared.
He dissolved into the air along with the swirling darkness, leaving no trace, no echo behind.
"Regis!"
A cry full of pain and despair broke the silence of the hall.
But it was useless.
And meaningless.
Because this world did not forgive traitors.