The black room is suddenly engulfed by a bright light.
A white dwarf blinds the eyes of the Bayonet. He feels as if the memory of another has blurred past him.
Slowly sinking into an eternal light that blocks out all the darkness, he struggles, tensing vigorously. His teeth dig into his lips, seeping blood. Has he forgotten his name? He hears so many, and one that echoes—
Mercury . . . or was it Mashia? . . .
No.That's not me.Whose life am I living?
I am Malik.Malik, I tell you!
Malik.
Malik.
Malik!
Suddenly, a crushing pressure of light erupts in his heart, like a spreading cyclone of agony twirling around his frail self.
As if God were in the shape of a bear, hugging him tightly until his ribs shattered, it was a deadly kindness placed upon an optimistic soul.
"Meridian."
The man in white robes stays still, watching.
Malik falls to the floor. He himself now the sole light source in the dark room of mirrors. A rush of agony crawls up his spine like steel rods clawing out of his flesh, waiting to emerge.
He cannot even scream. His eyes lose color, despite how gray they are.
When I repeated that word, it triggered something . . . a memory that wasn't mine. Although, it was heavily detailed, as if I were in the man's eyes.
Meridian.
But I've seen those memories before, just never so drawn out, and so . . . painful.
Then he gasps, his skin paler than before.
The pain crawls forward with every thought. It corrodes his mind, taking advantage of every muscle, until all he can manage is a gaping mouth from sheer agony.
Nothing is happening to me, yet this crushing pain forbids me from getting up!
Who was that masked man? Why am I here? Why? Why! Why!
Malik struggles to move, until he feels his entire body sinking. He begins submerging into a black abyss that grabs him tightly, like quicksand made of hands.
A baptism of darkness pulling him toward solitude.
Malik struggles, then—
. . .
Silence.
The abyss is cold. Shivering, goosebumps rise on the weapon.
The Bayonet has been washed of rust and dust. Sinking slowly, it breathes calmly without sound, embracing the flow of the hands pulling it down.
It feels every layer, every lie being unpacked to uncover the sharp truth beneath. Was it ever sheathed by its own will, or by the choice of another? Was the trajectory of its life determined by itself?
It has covered the tip of its blade with a smiling cloth. The black abyss washes the cloth away, and the tip shines brighter than ever.
A glint brighter than its smile. A handle wrapped in bandages. A blade caked in old blood, now slowly being washed away.
Its gray eyes open. The spiral in one eye twirls in enthusiasm. Each scar grows purple, and its skin turns nearly white.
With a cracked smile, it embraces the moment. It understands what it's done, as memories flood back in shameless anonymity, like a compilation mocking its very morality, shoving it right in its face.
It keeps sinking like a heavy boulder, driving downward into the eternal abyss until—
Crack!
. . .
A torrent cracks through the bottom of the black abyss and pulls it down into a red sky.
Clouds with a dozen eyes rain bright red blood. The trees, darker than charcoal, rustle in the wind like corpses.
Mountains with sculpted homes stand taller than the clouds, their summits barely visible to the naked eye.
Falling, falling so gracefully, he shakes his head, looks at his palms, and wonders to himself.
He remembers hands that weren't his. They're covered in blood, and the hands that moved after years of slumber.
The abyss had never swallowed him; it had only recognized him.
Was I . . . in my own body?
But I enjoy being Malik . . . why would I be someone else?
Malik still feels a trance, as if the clouds are rocking his body like a caring mother as he falls like a leaf toward the ground.
Looking down, his gaze widens. He tenses his legs, falling feet-first, hoping to grab something.
No.
No.
I don't want to be here, but I yearn for this feeling.
I want to touch the ground, though I want to see my crew.
The trees are a withered decay of a conserved land, like dull skyscrapers with large nests on top.
His feet nearly graze the branches, so Malik opens his arms, braces, and—
The branches rustle heavily, as if moving out of the way for him.
As he drives downward, he crashes through layer after layer of black branches that collide with one another like spider webs.
His shirt tears off on a branch, revealing his scars—a conglomeration of many injuries across his upper body—and a large sigil-like symbol in the middle of his chest, carved as a thick scar.
Crashing through branches and dead leaves, Malik braces for the black grass below, shuffling in the soft winds of withering skies.
The spirals in his eye brighten. He tenses his feet, spreading his arms like the wings of an eagle.
He smiles brightly, and—
Boom!
The ground ripples like a knife cutting into healthy skin.
His legs collide with the hard grass. The leaves blow in the wind and whirl around his body.
So . . . this is land. Finally . . . although it may not be as I hoped.
Malik cackles, looking up at the sky.
My legs took no impact . . .
I'm assuming this does not function like the real world. Was I unharmed out of my own will, or was something else the decider?
He looks around. Every angle of the forest looks the same, with glints of red sky at the edges.
Gliding his eyes, he notices something lodged in the ground.
It has a bandaged handle and stands out, reflecting upon each blade of grass.
Malik senses a presence within the barely visible handle, as if someone were beneath it, waiting for him to take hold.
His body moves on instinct toward it. Whatever it may be, he knows something long forgotten calls to him.
His hand hovers over it; the handle feels like it has its own gravitational pull.
Finally, he grabs it.
A rush of adrenaline convulses through him. His body aches as a flood of his own memories returns.
He'd held something like this before—smaller, rustier, wet with the blood of others.
He falls to his knees and yells.
"Aaahh!"
A flood so vast that his brain melts and reforms into a prior state.
His heart beats like a ticking clock. His body twitches vigorously.
He tries to weep, but a smile breaks first.
Instantly, his smile widens, and he bites his lip until it bleeds.
He stands on both legs and immediately pulls the handle from the ground.
It is a rusty, unpolished blade that has never seen light in decades—now, it may finally taste liberation once more.
The blade hugs his hand tight, for the Bayonet conquers all nameless edges.
His hand shakes in pure ecstasy. A feeling he'd forgotten for so long has returned.
"Ooh . . . how I've missed this."
The blade is dull and near the length of his forearm. Its more like a machete than a sword.
He walks. His eyes glisten, and the spiral within his eye dances in his shaven iris.
With his other hand, he swipes his hair back and cackles.
His enthusiasm overwhelms the very forest itself; the leaves rustle in response.
He marches forward, his radiance casting a yield to all leaves that dare glance at him.
Onward, to the red skies, I frolic.
. . .
After what feels like hours, he strolls without tire, enjoying the pleasant melodies of land.
He swings the rusty blade through the air, swaying like a wind chime as he hangs it from his fingers.
He steps, and halts immediately.
Crunch.
He smiles. He holds the blade and—
Slices the air in a circle.
"Your step was a bit late," Malik sneers.
. . .
Silence.
Malik waits for a movement. "It's okay to be scared," he mocks.
He turns around and keeps walking, eyes closed, arms wide open, his back to the forest.
If I die here, do I never wake up, or do I go back to the real world? . . .
Then he stops and mutters, "A brute of Kharzan has no need to sneak on one."
Suddenly, a heavy presence emerges from behind the black trees.
A large beast with blacked-out eyes, a low haircut, and rough skin reveals itself. It laughs lightly, balling its meaty fists.
The beast walks slowly, radiating brutality. Yet Malik stares at it like an old friend.
Then, it speaks.
"Oh, Malik, you grew a spine since the last time I saw you. Glad to see it's grown."
"Dragan . . ." Malik utters.
"You killed me, Malik. You made me look like a big idiot, ya know?"
Malik stays silent, then starts laughing.
"I'm sorry, I'm sorry. Crazy to think you're still the big old bitch I used to know. Ha! You're still so scared you had to sneak up on me."
. . .
The beast remains silent.
It howls with laughter, then takes a sharp step forward.
The beast, with magma-like skin, charges forward like a bull, foaming at the mouth.
"I'll have you by your knees!" Dragan yells.
"Sounds familiar . . ." Malik says. "What a shame. I don't fight children."
Malik's smile intensifies. His scar glows slightly, a shade of bright gray outlining the sigil. It pulses—not in pain, not in light—but with recurrence.
He feels a heartbeat he had not yet earned.
Dragan surges forward, gusts of wind pushing aside all leaves. His meaty paws sharpen like claws.
In a split second, Malik propels himself off a black tree.
With a swift motion, he slices the beast's arm with the rusty knife, lacerating it until it leaks heavy blood, coating the black grass in crimson.
"You aimed for my throat last time," Dragan utters.
Malik smiles. "You remembered."
"How could I not? I thought you'd forgotten," Dragan laughs.
"Could never forget a face like yours," Malik says flatly.
Dragan laughs, then grips his bloody wound tightly.
He cackles. "And you'll never forget it."
He squeezes until it turns purple, then lets go. The wound miraculously disappears in an instant.
"My humiliation, emasculation, and defamation forced me to grow in this red solace of black crowds," Dragan says firmly. "It made me learn so much, yet I wonder if I've learned more than you. If I've grown more than you."
". . ."
Malik stayed silent, hugging the rusty machete tight to his chest.
"Oh, are you surprised I healed like that?" Dragan laughed.
". . ."
"Don't be rash. Did you forget I was a brute? It's part of my heritage, my blood, my destiny. Tell me, what else did you forget? Did you forget your old crew that got massacred? The fact that you tossed their memories aside like nothing?"
"Or . . . was it that shit-for-brains captain Vo—"
SWOOSH!
A rusty blur plunged, grazing Dragan's cheekbone.
The blur struck into the black tree, revealing its shape to be the large machete.
Dragan wiped the graze from his cheek, laughed, then pointed at the lodged weapon.
"How rash," the brute muttered.
Immediately, he slammed both fists into the ground, creating a ripple through the earth.
Mounds of dirt flew into the air from sheer pressure, and the sound pierced any eardrums nearby.
Malik moved aside from the path of the debris and shuffled beside Dragan's large frame.
Nearing the tree, he inched closer to the machete, but—
WHOOSH!
Dragan yanked Malik up by the wrist like a ragdoll.
"You don't look so girlish anymore, but you've never changed," Dragan mocked.
". . . You're right, Dragan," Malik whispered. "I have."
A piercing rush of excitement coursed through Malik's chest; he felt he'd finally found a use for the bayonet.
He raised his other arm swiftly as a distraction, spread two fingers, then—
Squish!
He gouged the beast's eyes deep inside its skull.
The beast howled and let go of him.
Malik staggered back, grabbed the rusty knife again.
The beast rose, bloodshot black eyes wide, steam pouring from its mouth.
Abruptly, it lunged forward, crashing into a large tree, tearing it from its roots.
"A shame," Malik said behind it.
"All that strength, yet you lack the mind to see you've learned nothing."
The beast turned and roared, a primal cry like a lion, until—
Slice!
Dragan's throat spewed a fountain of blood, his control fading fast.
Swaying side to side, he saw only a faint image of Malik as he tried to swing but missed every time.
"Ma–Malik! I–I'll ki–kill you . . ."
The beast fell slowly, crashing louder than the whispers of the forest, brushing leaves aside as it collapsed.
Thud!
Malik stood over him. "I know you can heal, but what if I mangle you before you get the chance?"
The beast grabbed Malik's leg in a desperate attempt, yelping like a dying animal despite its size.
"You're all talk," it uttered.
Swiftly, the bayonet swung the machete through the beast's face, parting it in half vertically.
The bayonet cackled. "Two lives, yet you accomplished nothing." It kicked the beast's corpse.
Malik shook his head and remembered to keep his composure.
He and the Bayonet fought back and forth for control.
Dragan—the beast—was slain.
Malik kept walking, holding his head with one hand as if struck by a bad headache.
Passing through a multitude of black trees, the red sky grew clearer from afar.
I acted too offensively. I should've gotten information out of him—but knowing him, he wouldn't have told me anything useful.
Still, something's strange . . . why did I accept this place as if I've always known it?
. . .
Ambience.
Then a voice.
You always have. You just forgot.
Malik swung the machete into the air, deeply lacerating a nearby tree.
"Who are you?" he asked.
The voice of you.
". . ."
A fragment of your regrets, all in one.
Malik looked around. There was no sound except the quiet breeze.
I bear no resentment toward you. It was never your fault.
. . .
"You are . . . the Bayonet."
Malik giggled, grabbing his recently cut hair.
"I used to have longer hair. What happened?" the Bayonet asked.
". . . We've changed," Malik whispered.
"There's no 'we.' We're still the same. You just threw this part of you away, and it found its way back."
"This voice you hear is the result of that solitude you gave yourself," the Bayonet said.
In fury, Malik sliced the tree into multiple partitions, cutting it down until it crashed into the ground.
"Damn it! Damn it! Another voice! What do you want from me?" Malik howled.
"I want nothing but for you to accept this part of you," the Bayonet spoke.
". . ."
"Without me, there is no you."
Malik gripped the rusty machete tight, hyperventilating.
"Accept me; The Bayonet of consequence. It's up to you."
"I was told to never be like you again!" Malik roared. "I'll never break that pact!"
"If the orders you listened to led to this, what good were they?" the Bayonet asked.
Malik gripped his hair tighter, his eyes wide, gray spirals intensifying in indecision.
His teeth ground together as he screamed.
A flood of emotion submerged him in indescribable agony.
He fell to the ground, hugging the black grass as he tried to get up, but couldn't.
"You've forgotten many things: the realms, the people, and what they're capable of. It's now or never," it whispered.
Malik stayed silent, embracing the ground, pretending he hadn't heard.
Suddenly, a rustle of leaves sent a message.
A warning.
Thump.
Thump.
Two heavy steps echoed through the forest. The trees held their breath as the leaves fled.
A large, headless figure emerged.
The beast was tenacious, vicious, relentless.
"Wake up. Did you forget what a brute can do? They're most dangerous when you think you've beaten them," the Bayonet said.
"You killed him swiftly the first time years ago, only because he gave up. Now make him give up for good."
The scarred beast with half a face—only its lower jaw and teeth visible—spewed rivers of blood from its open throat.
It tried to howl, but it sounded more like a starved, rabid animal with a broken jaw.
It couldn't see or hear, but it could feel him.
Then it charged.
Hovering above Malik, the beast slammed its fist down—
Malik rolled out of the way.
The impact formed a crater in the ground, a testament to a brute's strength.
Malik regained his footing, arms raised with the Bayonet at the ready.
Facing it, he smiled daringly.
He stepped forward, attempting to strike—
The beast caught his arm again.
Malik switched his grip, stabbing the brute's arm deeply with the machete, digging and twisting further.
It didn't budge.
Right. Its nervous system is severed. It feels nothing.
Malik kicked the brute, grabbed the fist holding him, but it wouldn't move.
He snarled, hacking at the beast's arm until blood started to spew. Then the brute grew angry.
It used its other arm to strike Malik in the chest.
Malik blocked narrowly, bruising his hand, but the brute kept punching, then grabbed his head.
It began to march. It was faster than most vehicles, straight toward the red horizon.
Shit.
What can I do?
"You know exactly what to do," the voice offered.
Malik blinked rapidly as the brute narrowly missed black trees while charging forward.
Looking behind him, Malik saw a tree approaching fast. If it hit, he'd be crushed.
The brute didn't care for its life; it only wanted to take his with it.
Nearing the tree, Malik opened his eyes. Spirals bloomed in his pupils, and his body felt light.
He punched the brute's wrist from underneath, slicing the tendon and freeing himself.
Ducking under, Malik slashed the beast's Achilles tendons, nearly bringing it down.
But it roared louder and forced itself up again.
A tenacious one.
The brute swung wildly, narrowly missing Malik.
Malik darted forward, slicing bits of skin off the beast.
It bled, but didn't slow.
Fighting a brute hand to hand is foolish... what if I—
Malik sidestepped. The brute, blind and deaf, still seemed to sense the way to the red skies.
It couldn't think. It acted on instinct alone.
Malik leapt onto its back, seizing its head and arms, guiding it forward.
Controlling its movements, he directed the beast toward the red horizon.
It resisted, trying to shrug him off, but then—
Stab!
Malik drove the knife into the nape of its neck, severing its nerves, twisting deep, then pulling forward.
The beast surged ahead even faster, obeying the command.
A consequence of defying the Bayonet.
The wind couldn't keep up with the brute's full speed, but Malik had already thought beyond its instincts.
He steered the creature like a beast he'd just tamed.
Before long, the edge appeared—
The red skies.
A cliff.
Beyond it, a vast plain of destruction. Debris scattered across crimson rocks, and the clouds wept blood.
In one motion, Malik yanked the knife free and stabbed behind the beast's knees, using it as leverage to climb onto its back.
Then—
Crash!
The beast's heavy body slammed into the cliff's edge and began sliding down.
Malik rode Dragan's body like a board, using him as a tool.
Friction burned the flesh away, turning the body unrecognizable as they slid.
They moved faster than the wind. Malik gripped his machete tight, reveling in the chaos.
Bits of rock turned to ash from sheer speed and force.
Even the wind parted around the Bayonet, afraid of what his hands could do.
Malik cackled, pounding his chest in triumph.
Spreading his arms wide, his teeth gleamed sharper than his blade.
"Oh, how I've missed this feeling!" he shouted.
Dragan's remains were indecipherable. He died twice—because losing composure was always his fatal flaw.
Malik marched forward, never looking back at the man who tormented him.
The red skies blazed, and the gray clouds cried louder than ever.
Steel rods shaped like blades jutted from the ground. Mounds of rock stood across the dark red plains. The last grass was blackened, and twisted steel structures loomed in the distance.
Geometric shapes clung to cliffs and stones, while trees taller than the clouds stood sparsely across the plain, barely visible like the eye of a storm.
At the center, an enormous dark-gray fog twisted like a beam—stagnant and eternal.
Like a tornado that spun forever. You could tell nothing good came from it, yet no one could look away. Its power demanded attention.
"Something tells me to reach it. Whether primal or intuitive, that phenomenon is to blame for why I'm here."
Suddenly, a long iron rod grazed his cheek. A drop of blood fell as Malik stayed frozen, staring into the storm.
"You notice the things far from you, but never the ones facing you," a familiar voice echoed.
Malik raised his stance, machete guarding his chest.
Multiple iron rods whistled through the air—he dodged each one.
The spirals in his eyes flared as his movements grew sharper, faster.
Figures emerged—familiar ones.
A man with dimples.Ismail?
Thick-framed glasses, short dark hair.Amir?
Long curly hair.Karam?
A brown ponytail.L–Lee?
Full lips.Nora?
How could I ever forget them . . . my old crew. I can't do this.
Their eyes were hollow, yet they could all see through Malik.
They didn't speak.
Then, from behind, a larger figure with sharp brown eyes stepped forward from the rocks.
"Hello, Malik."
"Darius!" Malik shouted.
"You excited to see me, man?" Darius asked kindly.
"I just, I don't know what's going on here. What is all this?"
Darius smirked, jumping down the piles of rock.
The others followed in unison.
Darius scanned Malik's body, every scar, and every spiral in his gray eyes.
"We wouldn't want to miss your rebirth, now would we?"
Rebirth?