The journey home felt like an eternity for Nyx. His body was a battlefield of pain, bruises, burns, and deep, throbbing wounds. But the deeper wounds were the ones that didn't show. The grief in his chest, the hollowness that had taken root in his soul those were the ones that wouldn't heal. He had watched a man he had come to consider a friend die in front of him, watched the man's family suffer a fate far worse than death, and now there was nothing left for him in this broken world. Not even the hunger for revenge could fill the void he felt inside.
The sight of his home what was left of it didn't bring comfort. It had been reduced to rubble, a crumbled shell of the place that had once been a refuge. Nyx's hand curled into a fist as he stood there, staring at the wreckage of what was once familiar. He felt nothing but bitterness.
"Why?" His voice cracked as the question escaped his lips, the question that had haunted him for so long. "Why did I survive all this? What was the point? What's the damn point of any of it?"
He kicked a piece of rubble in frustration, the sound echoing through the silent street. He couldn't stand it anymore. The world had crushed him into the dirt, and now he was left to crawl through the wreckage of his own life.
"Fate's a sick joke," he muttered to himself, his breath ragged. "I keep fighting, but it doesn't matter. None of it matters. Nothing ever does."
His hands trembled at his sides as he continued walking through the wreckage. Every step felt heavier than the last. His mind spun in circles, each thought darker than the next. He wasn't sure what he was even looking for anymore. Maybe some kind of answer. Maybe just the solace of silence.
As he turned the corner, a sudden chill ran down his spine. Something wasn't right. His senses went on high alert, despite the exhaustion that weighed down on him. The hairs on the back of his neck stood on end.
He barely had time to react.
From the shadows, figures emerged black-clad soldiers, the unmistakable insignia of the military emblazoned on their armor. The soldiers moved in with swift precision, and Nyx's heart sank. He had no strength left to fight, no will to resist. His hands clenched at his sides, his body swaying as the world spun around him.
"Not again," he muttered bitterly. "Just leave me alone."
But the soldiers had no mercy. Without a word, they advanced on him, weapons raised.
Nyx's eyes darted around, his instincts screaming at him to run, to flee, but his legs wouldn't move. He was too broken, too weak. He was about to be taken again, to be crushed under the boot of a world that didn't care.
Just as one of the soldiers lunged forward, a figure appeared an old man, gray hair and tattered clothes, but with a strength in his movements that belied his age. He was fast, too fast for his apparent age, and with a single motion, he grabbed the soldier's arm, twisting it behind his back with ease. The soldier cried out in surprise, his weapon falling to the ground with a loud clang.
"Get away from him!" the old man shouted, his voice rough but filled with authority.
From behind the soldiers, a woman emerged, her face stern, eyes sharp. She wore a cloak that billowed behind her, and her eyes flickered with an intensity that immediately put Nyx on edge. She moved with the grace of someone who had seen more than their fair share of violence.
The woman swiftly closed the gap, pulling out a blade that gleamed in the dim light. She swung it in a smooth arc, cutting through the air with terrifying precision. The soldiers hesitated for only a moment before the woman moved again, and then chaos erupted.
The soldiers who had been surrounding Nyx were quickly dispatched, their movements clumsy and confused as they tried to defend themselves against the old man's surprising strength and the woman's lethal blade. The sounds of combat echoed through the ruined streets, the hiss of blades cutting through air, the crunch of bones breaking under the pressure of the old man's grip.
Nyx, still dazed from the shock, staggered backward, his hands raised in an instinctive defense. But the soldiers were already being dealt with. One by one, they fell, and soon, the military presence that had been closing in on Nyx was no more. The battlefield was littered with fallen bodies, and the two figures old and young stood triumphant over the chaos they had wrought.
The woman sheathed her blade with a swift motion, her eyes meeting Nyx's for the first time. She seemed to assess him, her gaze sharp, almost piercing.
"You're lucky we were nearby," the old man said, panting but still standing tall. "Otherwise, you wouldn't have made it out of here alive."
Nyx shook his head, the reality of the situation sinking in. "I don't need saving. I never asked for it."
The old man chuckled darkly. "You might not have asked for it, but it looks like you needed it."
Nyx didn't know how to respond. He felt a mix of relief and frustration swirling inside him. He had been saved, but for what purpose? What was the point of surviving when the world seemed determined to break him over and over again?
"I don't know why you're helping me," Nyx said through clenched teeth, trying to ignore the raw emotion clawing at his chest. "Why even bother?"
The woman spoke then, her voice soft but firm. "Because someone has to fight back. Someone has to care."
The words stung more than he expected, and Nyx swallowed hard, trying to keep his composure. He had been fighting for so long what was the point? Why should he keep going? What was there left for him?
But before he could answer, the old man placed a hand on his shoulder, his grip firm yet reassuring. "You're not alone, boy. Not anymore."
Nyx looked at the two of them, the old man with his gruff demeanor, the woman with her silent strength. They weren't like the others the ones who had walked away from the carnage or the ones who had turned a blind eye to the suffering. They were different. And for some reason, Nyx felt like he could trust them.
"Why?" Nyx asked again, the question this time softer. "Why are you helping me?"
The woman's eyes softened, and she finally spoke, her tone almost gentle. "Because we've been where you are. And we know what it's like to be crushed by this world. But you don't have to go through it alone."
Nyx looked at them, feeling a flicker of something he hadn't felt in so long hope. It was fragile, barely there, but it was there.
The old man nodded toward the street, where the remaining soldiers lay defeated. "Come with us. We're heading to a safe house. You'll be able to rest there, and we'll talk."
Nyx hesitated, but only for a moment. The thought of safety, of being around people who didn't want to see him dead, felt foreign, but for the first time in a long while, it didn't seem like the worst option.
Without another word, Nyx nodded and followed them. His steps were slow, heavy, but with each one, a small piece of the broken man he had been seemed to lift. Perhaps there was still a chance for him yet.