Zephyr stood in the heart of a forest filled with towering trees, their trunks like ancient giants watching silently. Shafts of golden light pierced through the bruised purple sky, casting a gentle warmth on his skin, while the air itself carried a crisp chill, clean and alive.
"This looks like a VR game," he muttered, eyes wide. "A really realistic one."
The awe of it all gripped him for a moment. But then a thought struck—'my appearance'. Panic bubbling in his chest, he sprinted toward a still body of water ahead. He skidded to a stop at its edge and stared.
Relief washed over him—then confusion.
"I mean… I did like his character, but this is too much."
The reflection staring back at him had crimson red eyes and tousled red hair—his own. But everything else screamed otherwise.
He wore a light-gray, short-sleeved zippered shirt, left open at the chest. A thick purple rope belt tied in a bow around his waist, dark blue pants tucked into black arm warmers, and open-toed ninja sandals. And strapped to his back… a massive scythe.
"Sasuke Uchiha?" he whispered, incredulous.
He turned side to side, watching the reflection copy him. The iconic outfit, the posture, the weapon—it all mirrored one of anime's most infamous characters, except with his eyes and hair.
"This is cosplay on steroids."
His fingers brushed his face, half-expecting the illusion to ripple away. But it stayed. Real. Tangible.
Still staring, he muttered, "I mean, I don't hate the look…"
A strange sense of power stirred in him—confidence, resolve. Was it the outfit? The scythe? Or just the way the breeze tugged at his clothes like he belonged here?
"If I look like this… then I better live up to it."
Reaching behind, his hand wrapped around the scythe's handle. It was cold—unnaturally cold.
He pulled it forward.
The shaft was obsidian black, etched with cryptic runes. The blade gleamed a vicious crimson, jagged near the edge like it had been carved from frozen blood. Where metal met handle, twisted black roots gripped it like a curse refusing to die.
Faint wisps of icy mist drifted from the blade.
He stared. A strange feeling crawled into his chest, something familiar—right on the edge of his tongue.
And then—
Memories flooded in.
He wasn't watching them. He was reliving them.
He saw the pit.
He felt the pit.
A young Zephyr, ripped from his mother's arms and thrown into darkness with nothing but a scythe and his loyal dog. No food. No shelter. Just fear.
By the second day, hunger gnawed at him, whispering madness. His dog—faithful, loving—stayed close, faring better than its Aetherless master.
But on the third day…
The dog moved first.
Without hesitation, it impaled itself on the scythe, offering its flesh to the boy it loved.
Zephyr had wept and screamed. He hadn't touched the meat at first. But hunger… hunger turned tears into teeth.
He ate.
Even now, he could taste that rotting, bloody meat on his tongue. The smell. The warmth leaving the fur.
He choked.
More memories surged—age eleven, given an ultimatum: awaken Aether in three years, or watch his mother die. He tried. He failed.
At thirteen, they made him watch as Keede—his aunt—raised his own scythe and took his mother's head.
That was the day he died.
The rest of the years? Torture. Training. All blurred into the endless replay of her death, the wet sound of it, the cold silence that followed.
Now, in this quiet forest, his knees buckled. He collapsed, clutching his chest. Tears poured freely, his breath shallow and ragged.
A burning lump swelled in his throat.
"…Keede."
The name came out low, primal. A growl from the depths of a shattered soul.
She had done it.
She had taken everything.
And now… now he remembered.
"I wi-will kil-kill her". His throat was still blocked with that lump on his throat.
Then he felt something, not the quiet rustling of leaves, but something else, it was space parting way for someone, or something.
Without hesitation or was it instinct, he moved his body into a jump, narrowing avoiding the sword slashing through his head. Still high up in the sky he could see the look of surprise on the face of the girl.
The girl surprised look gave way for indifferent as she blurred, on instinct he raised his scythe in front of him, a clanging sound rang out. He was pushed back, his feet digging deep into the earth to reduce his momentum. Raising his head her saw the girl's sword in the air, her hand clasped together and a whisper.
Sanguis— Needlevine hair.
Her hair surged and like a wave crushed towards his direction, without hesitation he threw his scythe into the air, his hand clasped together— his two pinky fingers stretched out, his two thumbs pointed upward. And a whisper.
Limbo— Border Jail.
Space Locked around him, the hair hit his hardened space with a clang. Seeing it unable to penetrate, a evil grin spread through his face with a single thought.
'i will rip her apart'. But his thoughts were put to hold when he heard the cold voice
Sanguis— Maw of Thrist.
The hair surging around him immediately closed on the confined space covering the hardened space. Zephyr was suddenly in darkness until he heard it, large gulping sound rang out, and he felt it, first like a tug and then his Aether flooded out of his body though his Art, through the hair, and in less than a few moments Zephyr Aether was snapped out. The hardened space softened as the whisper sounded out again.
Sanguis— Needlevine hair.
The hair straighten again and stabbed into his defenseless body— turning him into a porcupine.
With a jot he woke up to the hall. And the voice rang out.
"Zephyr Demios— ranked 150th".
He had failed.