His voice did not merely sound, it rang as a verdict rather than noise, an eternal pressure layered across existence itself.
It forced concession not through force but inevitability, as though reality had already decided the outcome and was merely informing me.
"No," I answered softly, my resolve steady even as the weight pressed down.
My promise will not be fulfilled.
Horia looked at me and smiled, though it was not a human expression.
The smile was vast enough that greatness itself seemed reduced to a shadow cast behind it, something lesser struggling to keep pace.
I saw it in the flawless reflection of his teeth, in the quiet abundance lining his breath.
In the devastation coiled patiently within his throat, restrained not by mercy but by certainty.
"Then struggle," he said, almost kindly, his voice smooth and assured.
"Will you struggle? No. You must submit. You must submit to the eternal."
In this world, all beings are granted something, not merely gifts but inscriptions, truths carved into the core of what we are long before we understand ourselves.
We define them, and in turn they define us, shaping the boundaries of our fear and the reach of our hope.
Nothing exists because of what it is alone, for everything exists because of what it can become.
Potential is the true substance of reality, the unseen weight beneath all form.
Regalia is the manifestation of that truth, an absolute attribute, a self defining law that stands beyond all others, not imposed but realized.
And if such a thing exists, then it must have an ultimate expression, one that applies everywhere and nowhere at once.
The greatest.
"King of Prosperity: Dalhans," I said, lifting my voice to the sky.
This was synchronization, an assimilation into the highest state one could both reach and never fully contain.
A union that demanded everything while promising nothing in return.
A memory surfaced.
A homeless man wandered through an endless desert, ribs sharp beneath skin, vision trembling with hunger so deep it blurred the horizon.
The man was me.
I walked without aim and without promise, starving not only for food but for meaning, until I came upon a lake.
I did not run. I kept walking.
When I reached the water, I knelt and cupped my hands.
It was radiant and divine, the most beautiful thing I had ever seen, a miracle so complete it felt unreal.
Then I noticed a camel beside me, drinking without fear, water streaming down its face, alive in a way I was not, unburdened by doubt or desperation.
I smiled and lifted my hands, letting it drink from them instead.
When I looked back, the lake was gone, and I laughed, giving everything away in that laughter.
Horia saw this.
For the first time, his perfection faltered as his lips trembled and he spoke, and I heard it not merely as sound but as recognition.
"Inheritance," he whispered, and within that single word there was reverence.
What could a man do in the face of an unstoppable force, and what might a man do when confronted with death itself.
Man is weak, man is unholy, and man is me, so instead of refusing or rejecting, I gave.
I gave all things, everything I could ever amount to.
This war was nearing its end, I could feel it, heavy and inevitable, and I refused to allow it to conclude in absolute annihilation.
I gave him everything, my power and my weakness, my heart and my hate, my pain and my healing.
I gave my time and my space, my mind and my body, my soul and my spirit. I gave him my life and my death.
In the end it became the ultimate convergence, the culmination of every duel and every resolve.
The unity of all things I could muster into a single act.
The attack passed bypassing time and space, ignored nature, and disregarded law and logic alike.
It was not destruction but a gift beyond gifts, the greatest thing I could ever surrender.
He stood there unmoving, and then something changed. He took a step back, then another, and his body shivered.
He looked up at me and laughed as he dropped his hood.
"You, Sansir Promise," he said, his voice ringing with something dangerously close to delight.
"At this very moment, you are the first in history to ever make me bleed."
His skin was pale like snow, his beauty unsettling and difficult to name.
His long black hair framing a face so perfect it blurred the line between masculine and feminine.
He was divine, and in that divinity I felt a small and bitter jealousy, the kind only something emptied of everything could feel.
I saw it then, crimson slipping from his nose. He lifted his hand, wiped it away, and smiled.
"Yes," he continued calmly.
"That was all. I am quite satisfied. Drawing blood from me is no small feat. Be proud."
His voice continued to ring as my body, mind, and soul reacted together. I began to decay and to die, yet there was no death.
I struggled to live, yet there was no life.
I understood then that I was neither dead nor alive, drained of all things by my own offering.
Much could be restored and much could be healed, but life and death were different, concepts beyond the world itself.
I had given my sight, my thoughts, and my hearing, and though they returned repaired and intact, I could no longer truly grasp them.
I had made a grave miscalculation.
"I see," Horia said quietly.
"So you still do not have enough power. How unfortunate. Your state here must be final."
When our eyes met, I saw pity first, and then disappointment, and only after that did my knees finally strike the ground.
This state of non duality felt wrong in a way words struggled to contain.
My heart beat, and yet it did not.
Existence and absence overlapped within me, a contradiction the world itself seemed eager to correct.
Reality pressed inward, forcing the paradox to resolve, forcing me to choose between states I could no longer hold.
If I had been stronger, perhaps I could have resisted.
Perhaps I could have anchored myself and persisted.
But that possibility felt distant and hollow.
I knew, with a calm that frightened me, that it was already hopeless.
Horia pulled his hood back and sighed, as though disappointed rather than satisfied.
"Good job," he said. "I shall remember your name."
Then he was gone.
I could do nothing but remain where I was, abandoned to an ending I had never truly expected to escape.
The sensation of being erased was strange.
It was not pain, nor fear, but something closer to comfort, a dull warmth that settled in once resistance faded.
Complacency made it gentle.
I let myself go. I drifted into the consuming void that now defined this world.
And yet, I did not vanish.
My body shuddered at the sensation of touch. I coughed, harsh and wet, and my vision refocused just enough for me to see him.
A soldier stood before me.
His helmet was crushed inward, blood smeared thick across the visor.
I did not know his name, and I never would.
He struggled, fingers shaking as he forced the helmet open.
What remained of his face was shattered and vaporized, flesh reduced to ruin.
Only his lips remained intact, burned black like ash.
"I do," he rasped. "Have much. But… I give you this."
His words came broken and uneven, his mouth barely able to move, each syllable dragged free by effort alone.
He did almost nothing to save me. He had almost nothing to give. And yet he continued anyway.
"You would die saving someone like me?" I asked.
He coughed, blood spilling onto my chest, warm and heavy in a way I did not want to acknowledge.
"Yes," he said, clearly.
After that, his tongue fell free, and his body began to fail.
Even then, he continued giving.
Power flowed into me, thin and unrefined, carrying with it fragments of energy I had once gifted him myself.
I realized, too late, that what I had given others had never truly returned to me. To reclaim a gift was nearly impossible.
That loss had weakened me against Horia. The difference should have been meaningless.
Yet here, it was enough.
I drew a breath.
And I kept breathing as the nameless man, alone and unremembered, finally lost his life.