Fenrik returned to the garden for the third night in a row.
This time, he didn't pretend it was an accident.
The moon hung low, pale and distant, as if watching him with quiet curiosity. The garden greeted him with stillness—no wind, no insects, no sound at all. Even the city noise felt muted here.
Fenrik stopped a few steps away from the bench.
His chest tightened.
"Show yourself," he said, voice low but steady. "I'm done running."
The air did not respond.
Fenrik laughed weakly. "Figures."
He sat down anyway.
The stone bench was cold beneath him, seeping through his clothes. His fingers curled against his knees, knuckles pale.
"I lost my best friend," he muttered. "If this is some kind of joke… it's not funny."
For a long moment, nothing happened.
Fenrik's shoulders sagged.
Then—
Clang.
A sound echoed behind him.
Metal.
Heavy.
Fenrik spun around.
Something stood embedded in the ground behind the bench.
An axe.
Not rusted.
Not clean.
Ancient.
Its blade was massive, carved with deep grooves that glowed faintly silver under the moonlight. The handle was dark, almost black, etched with markings that looked less like writing and more like claw scars.
The air around it distorted slightly, as if the world struggled to accept its presence.
Fenrik's breath caught.
"That's…" His voice trailed off.
The moment he looked at it, his left eye burned.
Not pain.
Pressure.
As if something unseen was pushing against the darkness he had lived with his entire life.
Fenrik took a step back.
"No," he whispered. "I'm not doing this."
The axe hummed.
Soft. Low.
Like a distant growl.
Fenrik clenched his jaw. "You don't get to choose me."
The hum grew louder.
The ground beneath Fenrik's feet pulsed red.
The symbol from before reappeared—clearer now, spreading across the stone path like veins.
Fenrik staggered.
"Stop!" he shouted.
The axe answered.
Light surged from its blade, washing over Fenrik in a wave of cold silver. His left eye flared—
And for the first time in his life—
He saw.
Not clearly.
Not fully.
But something.
A blurred outline of the axe. The garden. The bench.
Fenrik gasped, clutching his face. "My eye—"
The vision vanished as quickly as it came.
But the message was clear.
The axe wasn't offering.
It was calling.
Fenrik stared at it, breathing hard.
"…If I take you," he said slowly, "what happens to me?"
The axe remained silent.
But the hum softened.
Fenrik laughed bitterly. "Figures."
He stepped forward.
The closer he got, the heavier the air became. Every instinct screamed danger. Every rational thought told him to turn back.
He ignored them all.
Fenrik wrapped his fingers around the handle.
The moment he touched it—
The world shattered.
The axe dissolved into light, flowing like liquid metal up his arm. Fenrik cried out as the markings burned themselves into his skin, not cutting—but merging.
The garden vanished.
The moon disappeared.
Fenrik fell.
Not downward.
Sideways.
Through a space that felt endless and suffocating, where whispers brushed against his mind and unseen eyes watched from every direction.
Then—
He hit the ground.
Hard.
Fenrik groaned, rolling onto his side. Cold stone pressed against his cheek. The air smelled damp and old.
He pushed himself up slowly.
This wasn't the garden.
Massive stone walls rose around him, covered in glowing red symbols. The ceiling stretched high into darkness, chains hanging loosely like decorations in a forgotten cathedral.
Torches ignited along the walls one by one.
Fenrik's heart pounded.
"…Where am I?"
A distant roar echoed through the halls.
Not close.
But not far.
Fenrik looked down at his arm.
The axe was there.
Merged with his hand, its blade extending outward as if it had always belonged to him. The markings on the handle continued up his forearm like a brand.
Fenrik swallowed.
"So this is real," he whispered.
The floor trembled.
From the shadows ahead, movement stirred.
Low growls echoed, multiple voices overlapping in a sound that wasn't human.
Fenrik tightened his grip instinctively.
"I didn't ask for this," he said, forcing himself to stand. "But I'm not dying here."
The axe pulsed once.
As if agreeing.
Far above him, unseen and unheard, something ancient observed.
And somewhere beyond this dungeon—
A counter silently activated.