In a land that no human map could mark—where time itself seemed broken—
A lone figure stood amid the ruins of destiny. Once a symbol of hope and rebellion, he now appeared as a faded shadow. His torn, bloodstained clothes and every ragged breath testified to defiance, a spirit betrayed by the very forces he had once challenged.
Around him, beings that defied nature gathered—creatures born from the dark dreams of ancient ambition. Their forms merged beauty with horror, each driven by a secret, inscrutable purpose.
The tallest among them, a giant with elongated blue ears and a face carved in scorn, stepped forward. His voice, heavy with mockery and threat, boomed:
"Celestial-Deceiving Phantom Demon, you have trespassed beyond mortal limits. A human daring to defy nature is as rare as a spark in a frozen void. Now, at the edge of your people's lost dreams, surrender the Twilight Rebirth Sigil. Perhaps, in a rare act of mercy, you may break free from your mortal coil. Remember—submission is the fate of all beneath the heavens."
He laughed—a deep, defiant sound, as though he had stared into the abyss and found no fear. A creature hissed, "Demon! Have you no shame? We offer mercy, and you mock us? Your end is written—there is no bargain with madness."
Yet the man—scarred, youthful, and hardened by endless battles—smiled with a mysterious strength that challenged the encroaching darkness. Once a beacon of hope, his smile now defied the inevitable.
The creatures closed in, their steps tightening like a noose, waiting for his strength to falter. But he did not retreat; surrender was not an option.
The battlefield roiled with chaos. Smoke curled in the air, heavy with the metallic tang of blood and burning ozone. Flickering shadows danced as Kamanuzzaman stood amidst the turmoil—heart pounding, breath steady, his mind razor-sharp.
His opponent was unlike any he had faced. Cloaked in fabric as dark as the void, the man moved like a specter, untouched by the surrounding havoc. On his gloved hand, the sigil pulsed faintly—an ancient pattern I had sought my entire life: the Twilight Rebirth Sigil.
"You're wasting your time," the shadowed man murmured, his voice echoing like a dirge in a forgotten graveyard. "You do not have the strength to understand its power."
I did not flinch. I had heard such words before—from scholars, enemies, and even my own inner doubts. Yet, standing on the precipice of the unknown, hesitation was a luxury I could not afford.
Tilting his head, he asked, "Tell me, do you even know what you're fighting for? Or are you just another desperate soul trying to outrun time?"
A sharp gust tore across the battlefield, sending embers swirling. Gritting my teeth, I lunged forward, blade flashing—too swift for an ordinary human.
But my opponent was no ordinary foe. With a single step, he evaded my strike effortlessly, his presence filling every corner of my vision.
"I have seen men like you," he continued, his tone eerily calm as he dodged another blow. "All believed they could change fate, that they could master time. None truly understood its cost."
My jaw clenched. "And you? Do you understand?"
A slow, amused chuckle escaped him. "Do you know the tale of the one who once ruled time itself? The one who wielded the sigil before its power was understood by anyone?"
For a heartbeat—an eternity in battle—I hesitated. In that instant, he closed the gap, his hand brushing against my wrist. The world blurred; memories not entirely my own surged—a kingdom rising, then crumbling before its first dawn; a civilization erased and rewritten; a solitary being bending reality with a mere thought.
"He was untouchable," his voice echoed, "a ruler beyond contest. But power like that demands a price. Time is unforgiving—it devours, erases until even names are lost."
I broke free from the trance, gasping, my head pounding as I refocused. The sigil on my hand pulsed in rhythm with my heartbeat. "Then why do we fight over it? If he was erased, why do you still wield its power?"
He smiled—a gesture devoid of warmth. "Because time never truly destroys. It only waits."
At that moment, the battlefield roared back to life. The ground cracked beneath us, the air vibrating with raw energy as I tightened my grip on my blade. The fight was far from over.
Then, with a voice as sharp as a knife, the phantom demon declared, "You call me Demon—a trickster of the heavens. But have you looked upon your own broken souls? Eleven of my comrades lie dead by your hand, each more feeble than the last. And yet, you label me a monster. Does the truth of your own hypocrisy not shake you?"
A mocking murmur arose from the gathered creatures. "Spare us your sanctimony. Our plans are finished; your defiance is weak before destiny. The sigil will be ours."
I laughed—a sound mingled with sorrow and bitter defiance. "So all my efforts have been for nothing—lost in emptiness. Yet you ignore one truth. Crimson Warrior, you once praised my cunning mind. Now tell me, why would a man who holds the Twilight Rebirth Sigil fear death?"
For a fleeting moment, the leader's eyes burned with scorn. "Enough of your foolish talk. The sigil is a relic of empty hope. Even if it worked, do you really believe a human can harness its power—to shatter time's limits, to step into realms beyond our own? Such dreams are the errors of the desperate."
Slowly, the phantom demon sank to his knees, my body marked by pain and defeat, yet my smile remained—a defiant echo in the dark. "If I join you," I whispered, "will I be free?"
A heavy silence followed until an old, unyielding voice answered, "Freedom is an illusion. We are all bound—enslaved by fate, by men, by the forces that shape our lives. Power merely gives the appearance of choice. Join us, and you may grasp that illusion. You are wasted among the ordinary humans."
"Humans…" he breathed, the word laced with both pity and contempt. "You mistake fragility for weakness. It is not those who never break who survive—it is those who shatter and then rebuild. You call us insignificant, but we, humans, are the rulers of tomorrow."
In that charged moment, the leader's gaze fixed on my trembling hands. Under the pale light of an abandoned moon, a relic shimmered—a symbol of endless sacrifice and hidden power.
"The sigil!" the leader cried, his command faltering. "To think you possessed it… Do you have any idea how long we have labored, how much blood has been shed, for a mere glimpse of its power? And yet, you—"
"—have it now," I whispered, raising the mysterious relic for all to see.
Chaos erupted. "He plans to use it! He's lost his mind! If he fails, the sigil—and its power—will vanish forever! Stop him!"
In an instant, as if reality itself rebelled, the assembly froze. The air trembled with an ancient force; time shattered like fragile glass. The very fabric of existence bent at its edges—as if ink were bleeding into water. The celestial beings stood silent, horrified, as their world began to crumble.
Then, with a smile that defied all odds, the demon spoke his final, bold words:
If this is the end, let me be the one who writes it.
Tonight time itself will bleed .
"This is the beginning of the end.
The universe held its breath.
Then everything went dark.
. . .
Somewhere, long before or long after that moment...
A boy woke up.
In a crumbling apartment.
Beneath a stained ceiling.
In a body that remembered pain it had not yet lived.
And a name on his lips—one he could not forget, yet never fully recall.
Kamanuzzaman.