The land stretched endlessly beneath a sky the color of old ash, where the sun hung like a faded bruise behind a veil of perpetual dust. Nothing moved here—not the air, not the cracked earth, not even time. Jagged stones jutted from the ground like the bones of a long-dead beast, their shadows sharp and still. Once, perhaps, rivers carved paths through this wasteland, and trees reached toward the heavens. Now, all that remained were ghostly stumps, charred and splintered, half-swallowed by sand and silence.
Everywhere, the scent of rust and old sorrow lingered, carried by a wind that had long since forgotten how to whisper. Ruins dotted the horizon—crumbling towers, collapsed shelters—monuments to a people who had either vanished or were never meant to be remembered. Even the stars refused to shine above this place, as if the heavens themselves turned away in quiet mourning.
It was a place untouched by hope, where nothing was born, and nothing dared to die.
Through the choking haze, something crawled across the fractured earth—slow, ragged, almost inhuman. Its limbs dragged behind it like forgotten tools, every movement etched with exhaustion. From a distance, it could've been a shadow come loose from the ruins, desperate to find something it had lost.
Dust clung to its back like a second skin, and its breath came in soft, broken rasps. The land offered no comfort, only the cruel kiss of sharp stone and silence. Each scrape forward stirred ancient dust, revealing nothing beneath but more of the same—emptiness upon emptiness.
Still, it moved.
"Not yet," the thought scratched across the inside of the it's mind like a voice buried under sand. "Not here. Not like this." Its fingers, blood-caked and trembling, curled around a patch of earth, dragging the rest of the body forward. The bones in its shoulder popped with the motion, but it didn't stop. There had to be something—anything—beyond the horizon.
The sky hung low, a dull bruise above a world that had long since stopped caring. But in his heart, a tiny ember glowed—faint, flickering, maddeningly stubborn.
"She is waiting."
Memory blurred with delusion, but it didn't matter. Real or not, it gave shape to the void. A reason to move. A reason to crawl across a dead land that would rather bury him than let him go.
He is sometimes a man.
Sometimes a ghost.
Sometimes nothing more than a memory with a spine, crawling through a dead land that forgot its own name.
And he is sometimes looking into the compass, head bowed, fingers trembling, eyes searching for something the world no longer offers.
The compass is cracked, rusted, its needle twitching like a nervous heartbeat. It points nowhere. Or maybe everywhere. Hard to say. But he stares into it, anyway, hoping it might remember the way.
Sometimes, he imagines it still remembers. That buried in its rust and rattle is a direction that matters. That somewhere beyond the dust and bones, something is still waiting.
But the land is silent.
So, he crawls, dragging his broken body forward, each breath a battle, each movement a refusal to give in.
Until he doesn't.
Until the breath catches.
Until the knees buckle.
Until he collapses.
He sinks down quietly, face in the dirt, limbs left where they fall.The compass lands beside him, lid hanging open.The needle turns, slow and steady.Not guiding. Just turning.
There is no wind.
No sun.
Only the sound of silence breathing over a broken frame.
Behind his closed eyes, the world stirs.
He opens his eyes. The air smells of bread and warm linen, and the wind carries laughter. Not the hollow kind that echoes in empty places—but soft, familiar, full of life.
He is small again. Barefoot, running through tall grass. His mother's voice floats from the doorway, calling him inside. There's flour on her hands, and her black hair is tied back with that same red ribbon she always wore when she sang. Her eyes meet his, and they shine—not with sorrow, but joy.
Beside her, a little girl peeks from behind the doorframe—his sister, younger than he remembers. She grins, gap-toothed and wild, a smudge of jam on her chin. She runs to him, arms outstretched, and he lifts her without effort, both of them spinning under the golden light.
For a moment, he forgets the dust. The hunger. The compass.
He is home.
Then something tugs.
His mother, still in the doorway. Eyes fixed to his. Mouth trembling with words that don't reach him. He leans in, straining to hear.
But no sound comes.
Only the wind.
Except… there was no wind before.
It's sharp now. Cold. Wrong. The warmth vanishes like breath on glass. The red ribbon in her hair unravels, twisting into the sky like blood in water. Her smile melts into something that doesn't belong to her—something stretched too wide, teeth too many, eyes too hollow.
The house begins to rot.
Boards blacken and curl inward. The walls collapse in silence, like paper touched by flame. His sister's giggle echoes once, too high, too close. Then it shifts. Gurgles. Becomes a shriek.
He spins.
She's still there—but not. Her limbs bend wrong. Her mouth is open, but it's not hers. From her throat pours a sound that isn't crying, isn't human—just wrong. A chorus of grief and hunger, ancient and bone deep.
The sky above splits. Not with light—but with darkness so pure it hums.
Something enormous moves behind it.
He tries to run, but his legs won't obey. The grass beneath him is gone. Replaced with flesh. Slick, pulsating, whispering his name in voices that sound like his own. Hands—small, delicate—grab at his ankles. His sister's. His mother's. Others. Too many.
They pull.
They smile.
He screams—but the sound never escapes. It stays caught inside him, swelling, choking, drowning him in silence.
Then—
"Nooo!"
He awakens with a cry, thrashing, breath ripping in and out of his lungs like broken glass.
He sits up sharply, heart hammering in his chest, sweat mixing with dust on his brow. His breathing is ragged. He clutches at his chest, staring wild-eyed into the barren landscape.
Nothing.
Only the silence.
He stays there for a long moment, just breathing. The compass lies beside him, twitching in the dirt.
Eventually, he moves.
He pulls himself upright. Knees scream. He walks again. Again. He doesn't know how long he's been moving, or how far he's come.
He walks. He will not stop. Not until he finds it.
Time drips. Meaningless.
As he moving, suddenly the compass in his hand begins to tremble.
He halts.
Looks around.
Far, far in the distance—so far it seems a dream—he sees a violet glow.
From where he stands, it is nothing more than a dot.
He steps toward it.
Hope flares faint in his chest. His eyes glimmer.
He walks.
But he does not reach it.
The dot remains a dot. Fixed. Unchanging. As if distance itself bends to avoid him.
Still, he moves. Like something lost to life, no longer driven by thought but by need.
Walking. Walking.
He forgets how long it's been. How he's endured. But finally, the violet glow grows. Slowly. Subtly.
Closer.
He walks faster.
The air changes. Thickens.
In the distance, an unnatural darkness looms. It pulses, slow and deliberate. Not a shadow—an orb. A floating mass of black, flickering with waves of energy that warp the air around it.
The demon orb.
It doesn't call. Doesn't speak. But its presence is undeniable sickening. The ground beneath it trembles, shifting away from its malignant touch. A throb echoes in his chest, syncing with the orb's pulse—a horrible, familiar rhythm.
He doesn't want to look.
But he does.
As he moves closer, the orb swells in his periphery—grotesque, unyielding.
The air thickens. The ground hardens beneath his boots, resisting. Then he sees it: a violet barrier surrounds the orb. It shimmers like oil on water, runes twisting and vanishing when stared at.
An energy shield.
It hums—cold, impassable. The orb within floats, pulsing in time with the dread in his chest.
He doesn't hesitate.
His hand reaches for the hilt on his back. The sword, weathered and worn, slides free with a whisper. His breath tightens.
He raises the blade.
And swings.
It crashes against the barrier—and rebounds with a shriek of energy, nearly tearing from his grip.
He steadies.
Grits his teeth.
"Break," he growls.
He swings again.
The sword strikes and recoils, sparks scattering like dying stars. The barrier holds, cold and cruel, humming with ancient defiance.
"Just break," he mutters, voice low, almost pleading.
Again.
Clang.
His hands ache. His breath burns. His body screams. But still he moves.
You don't get to win, he thinks. You don't get to stop me now.
Cling. Cling.
The blade sings with each strike. Not beautiful but violent and desperate.
His world narrows to this: the rhythm of resistance. The sound of steel against the barrier. Sweat blinds him. Blood seeps through cracked fingers. His feet root to the ground like stone.
This is the way forward. There is no other.
"Break," he snarls through clenched teeth. "Break! I'm not leaving without it!"
Clang.
Again.
Clang.
His consciousness begins to slip, overtaken by rhythm and resolve. His body becomes ritual—each swing a declaration, each breath a curse. The land may be dead, time may be broken, but his will is not.
Still, he swings.
Then—
A sound.
Soft. Distant.
Real.
"Zen."
A voice.
It cuts through the haze like light in water.
"Zen."
Smaller but familiar.
"Sister."
His hands falter. Arms trembling—not from weakness, but recognition. Her voice wraps around his heart like a tether to something lost.
He lifts the blade once more.
Not harder. Not faster.
Just true.
A breath escapes his cracked lips—part cry, part prayer.
"Break…"
The blade strikes the barrier with a flash.
The shield howls with a cracking sound. Cracks race across it like lightning. Then—
It shatters.
Power collapses in a wave. Dust kicks into a spiraling wind.
The orb remains—throbbing.
But exposed.
Zen staggers. Lowers his blade. Drops—not from exhaustion, but relief.
The world tried to resist him.
But it could not bend his will.