Their boat finally docked at the port, and Venos gave them the go-ahead to step onto solid ground. The moment their feet touched the stone walkway, a hush of awe settled over them. Only then did they truly grasp the sheer scale of the city before them.
Towering walls stretched endlessly in both directions, disappearing into the mist like the ribs of a sleeping giant. Buildings weren't just tall—they were monolithic, rising so high they seemed to scrape the clouds. Balconies jutted out like stacked ledges on a cliffside, and statues the size of ships loomed over them with watchful eyes carved from stone. Roads were wide enough to host festivals, parades, and a battalion of marching soldiers all at once.
From where they stood, the capital looked like it had been built not for humans, but for titans. Every step forward felt like walking into the shadow of something ancient and overwhelming.
"Holy fish scales! This place is colossal! Hell yeah! Razor's already itching to whip up some snacks!" Razor hollered, her tentacle arms flailing in sheer excitement. She was clearly in her element—after all, she'd spent most of her days lurking beneath the waves, not strutting down sprawling urban avenues.
Yet, Chiaki's day was far from joyful. Ever since that disconcerting disturbance on the boat—ever since that haunting voice had invaded her mind—fear had been creeping up on her relentlessly, a dark whisper of the unknown that she just couldn't shake.
"Alright, listen up," Venos called out with a brisk cheer as he turned to leave them. "I'll be off finding a tavern to drown my sorrows. Go on ahead and do whatever it is you've come here to do. When you're ready to head back, give me a shout—but try not to get too freaky." With that, he waddled away like a duck in a parade, his soles slapping the ground in a rhythmic beat while his arms flapped about as if they were wings.
"How are you feeling, Chiaki?" Fioren asked with genuine concern, her eyes searching Chiaki's face for hints of distress. Despite knowing the cause had nothing to do with her, Fioren couldn't bear to see Chiaki's strange state unnoticed.
Razor suddenly bounced into the conversation, snorting with laughter, "Ooooh! Maybe she's just too hot and bothered to admit it around lover boy over there! Wa-hahahaha!"
Then, Razor, ever the eccentric, slithered around the port with wild, unbridled curiosity. She inspected every odd detail with the precision of a mischievous cat, pausing at a weathered stone pillar, running a tentacle along its ancient carvings. "Ooh, check out these scratches—must be from a giant fish, or maybe just some really angry seagulls!" she quipped, laughing at her own remark. Not stopping there, she scampered over to a stack of crates by the dock, poking them inquisitively. "And what's this? Crates full of salted seaweed? My stomach's already doing somersaults!" she exclaimed, her voice bubbling with excitement as she juggled the thought of a spontaneous seaside snack fest.
Every corner of the bustling port was her playground—rusted lampposts, faded murals, even the whimsical shape of a seagull statue received her relentless scrutiny. "This city might be massive, but it definitely hasn't lost its sense of humor!" she declared with giddy delight, her eyes alight with mischief and wonder.
Unbeknownst to them, someone was lurking in the shadows, hidden from view, quietly listening to their conversation. Whether it was a man or a woman, their identity remained a mystery.
Fioren placed her hand on her chin and glanced around, stretching as though trying to find a moment of relaxation amidst the bustling noise of the city.
"Lyvoria Crest isn't just massive—it's alive, vibrant, and full of energy, unlike Cascade Cradle. People are everywhere, busy with their lives. It doesn't feel anything like home," Fioren observed, her eyes drifting toward the residential areas where citizens moved about, each absorbed in their daily tasks or hobbies.
"Most cities are like this," Temoshí replied, "Back in Cascade Cradle, people were afraid of their own surroundings. But now that the threat is gone, they'll slowly begin to open up. Phalris and the Royal Guards should be taking good care of them. As for Desmond..." His voice trailed off as memories of the marine admiral—who had played both sides and acted as a spy—crept into his mind. After their battle, he hadn't heard anything more about him.
As Chiaki stood in the colorless world, the swirling chaos of battle surrounded her. But this time, her eyes were no longer her own. She had been thrust into the mind and body of another—a woman caught in the heart of war.
The air was thick with smoke and ash, the sky clouded with dark, roiling clouds as the sounds of clashing steel echoed across the battlefield. The woman's boots pounded against the blood-soaked earth, her armor battered and bloodstained. Her breath came in sharp gasps as she swung her sword, her every movement driven by the instinct to survive. She was a soldier, one of many who had been thrust into this conflict, but she was different—haunted.
"Keep fighting!" someone shouted in the distance. "For the kingdom!" But the words were hollow. The kingdom had already fallen. This was no longer about loyalty. It was about survival.
Her heart raced as she forced herself to push through the chaos, the faces of fallen comrades flashing before her eyes. The ground beneath her feet shook, sending tremors through the earth as explosions erupted nearby. But she didn't flinch. She had no time to.
The battle was endless, the war unyielding. Every swing of her sword was a desperate act, one she had repeated too many times. The once-proud city of Lyvoria Crest was now a ruin, its towers crumbling as flames consumed what was left. The palace, once gleaming with gold and silver, now lay in ruins, a shattered monument to a broken past.
The woman's eyes were hardened with years of war, her body scarred from countless battles. Yet there was something in her gaze that spoke of a deeper fear, something far worse than any physical wound. She had seen the destruction firsthand, had watched her comrades fall, and had witnessed the madness that this war had birthed. And now, she was about to witness something worse.
A shadow moved through the battlefield, not a soldier, but something far darker. It was a figure, cloaked in black, walking calmly through the carnage. Its footsteps were silent, as if it didn't touch the earth at all. It was a presence, a force that bent the air around it, and wherever it went, the fighting ceased.
The woman froze as she saw the shadow approach a fallen soldier. The man's body lay twisted on the ground, his breath ragged. He reached out with a trembling hand, but the shadow didn't stop. It glided past him, moving as though it were part of the wind.
Then, in an instant, the soldier's body went still. His eyes widened in fear, his mouth opening in a silent scream. But there was no sound. The shadow had reached him, and with a subtle motion, the man's body seemed to stiffen, his soul slipping from his body like smoke into the air.
The woman's breath caught in her throat. This was no ordinary soldier. This was no mortal enemy. The shadow was something far more sinister—a harbinger of death itself, a being that walked the battlefield, severing souls from the bodies of the living.
The shadow's figure turned, and for the first time, its presence felt directed. The woman felt the air around her freeze, her body trembling under an invisible weight. The shadow moved toward her, its form coiling with an eerie inevitability.
She gripped her sword tightly, her knuckles white. She had faced many enemies, but this was different. This wasn't a battle of flesh and steel. This was a battle for something far more intangible. Her soul.
A voice, deep and resonant, broke the oppressive silence.
"Do you understand what you are witnessing?" The shadow spoke as though it had always been there, lingering just beyond her senses.
The woman's eyes widened in fear, her throat tightening. "What are you?" she whispered, her voice barely audible over the raging battle around them.
The shadow stood before her, its presence cold and overpowering. It was a being of darkness, its eyes hidden beneath the cloak, its features hidden in shadow. The voice came again, not from its mouth, but from everywhere.
"I am the end of the path that all must walk," the voice intoned. "And now you are at that threshold. The souls of those you have killed, and the souls of those who have died in this wretched war, are mine to sever. To take. To claim."
The woman swallowed hard, her pulse quickening. She tried to step back, but her legs felt rooted to the spot. The shadow's presence was suffocating.
"You think the war has a purpose," the shadow continued, "but you are just pawns in a game that stretches beyond your understanding. I sever the ties that bind life to flesh. When I take a soul, it is not just death I bring—it is the severing of everything that has ever mattered to that person. Their memories. Their love. Their regrets. Everything they were, and could have been, is erased."
The woman's grip tightened around her sword, her knuckles burning with the effort to hold on. Her heart thudded in her chest. "I won't let you."
The shadow's voice seemed to darken, becoming more ominous. "You cannot stop me. No one can. I walk the line between life and death, and I sever the connections between them. It is what I do. It is what I have always done."
Her sword wavered in her hands, the weight of the situation almost unbearable. She had fought for so long, had survived the horrors of this war, but now she was faced with something she couldn't comprehend—something far darker than anything she had ever faced.
"Your soul will be severed too," the shadow whispered, a cold, breathless promise. "When the time comes, you will understand."
The woman's heart raced. She knew that she was no longer fighting for survival. She was fighting against an inevitability. The shadow would take her soul as it had taken so many others.
But just before the shadow could take its next step toward her, the world began to distort. The battlefield, the smoke, and the ruins began to flicker, like a broken picture. The woman's grip on her sword faltered, and she felt herself falling away from the world of war, the world of battle, and the shadow's chilling presence.
Chiaki gasped, her chest heaving as she returned to her own body, back in the colorless world. The connection to the woman was severed as the vision shattered. But the haunting words of the shadow remained, lingering in her mind like an echo.
The fear that had gripped the woman now gripped her, and she couldn't shake it. What had she seen? What was this shadow, and what did it mean for her? The terror that had once belonged to the woman had found a new home inside her.
"Hey, Chiaki." Temoshí's voice pulled her from the haze. She turned to see him, his figure blurry at first, but it soon became clearer. "Wha—" Her words caught in her throat, her breath quickening. She couldn't form a full sentence, the shock overwhelming her.
"You zoned out and just stood there. What happened?" he asked, but Chiaki couldn't answer. The words stuck in her throat, tangled in the confusion and terror that still gripped her. "That woman... And that shadow..." she finally managed to whisper, but it made no sense to him. Even with their soul link, he couldn't grasp what she had just gone through.
"Was that... a memory? A vision?" That was all Chiaki could manage to say, though deep down, it felt like the most plausible explanation. "But even if it was... this memory... this vision. It can't be connected to me. C-Could it?"
To be continued...