The sky was red.
Not the red of sunset—no, this was deeper, heavier. A crimson veil stretched across the heavens, and at its center, the blood moon rose like a wound that refused to heal.
You stood at the edge of the world, where land met the storming sea. All around you, the world had changed. Trees twisted in agony, rivers forgot their path and turned against their own course, and animals crept in eerie silence, as if mourning the unraveling of the natural order.
Above it all, the Bakunawa rose.
A serpent of stars, coiling through the firmament like a forgotten god. Its shimmering scales pulsed with moonlight, but its eyes—those eyes—were fathomless. Ancient. Full of grief. Full of rage.
And at its heart stood him.
The boy who once picked up your books when the wind scattered them. The boy who listened when no one else would. The boy who smiled like summer and trusted you with all his heart.
The boy you left behind.
Now the serpent's vessel.
He stepped forward, cloaked in light that did not belong to this world. His silhouette was framed by the crimson moon, a shadow crowned in sorrow. When he spoke, his voice trembled—not with fear, but with fury barely contained by pain.
> "You promised we'd protect the world..."
His gaze met yours. Even from across the broken sky, you felt it—sharp as glass, heavy as memory.
> "But I see now... it isn't worth saving."
And for the first time in years, you saw him—not the vessel, not the enemy, but the child behind the storm. The boy who waited by the shrine. The boy who clutched your letter long after it stopped making sense to hope. The boy who stood in the ruins of a promise you never meant to break.
And you had come back.
Too late.
But not empty-handed.
Foxfire roared through your veins. The spirit within you—the ancient will, the guardian flame—burned bright. It surged not from vengeance, but from love. Not a whisper now, but a howl of destiny remembered.
You stepped forward, the wind stirring around you like breath returning to the dead.
> "I'll save you... even if it costs me my life."
He flinched.
Not in rage.
But in fear.
For a moment, his eyes widened—not the dragon's eyes, but his. The boy's. And in that second, he remembered.
The prophecy. The myth. The curse.
The fox must burn itself away, must end, so that the dragon may feast on the moon.
> "No..." he whispered, almost too low to hear. "Not you. You can't..."
His voice cracked.
You saw it now—the war behind his eyes. The dragon pushing forward, and the boy pulling back. The fear that if you died to save him, the prophecy would complete itself. That your sacrifice would hand the world to ruin, not salvation.
> "You don't understand…" he said, staggered. "If you do this... you'll be the one who opens the gate. You'll be the key."
But you stepped forward again, steady.
> "Then I'll be the key that shuts it, too."
And as the moon darkened fully into eclipse, the world held its breath.
Everything stilled.
Because in that breathless pause between light and shadow, between who you were and who you'd become, fate waited for your next move.
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