A chained man sat at the exact center of the five black suns that drifted slowly across the pale sky. Their dark light bathed him in shifting shades of crimson and shadow. Beneath him stretched the vast, endless sea of blood, his domain, his throne and his cage. From that very sea he had shaped a massive crimson throne, its surface gleaming like liquid glass.
One hand supported his head in a posture of weary indifference, the elbow lazily propped against the throne's armrest. In the other hand, he held a book, a worn, leather-bound volume that looked impossibly old. It appeared to be a novel, or perhaps a story of forgotten times. Though his face was hidden behind a deep obsidian mask, one without a single symbol of a golden sun, the chained man seemed to read with ease.
Then again, he could see Vale perfectly through that same mask, so perhaps reading through it was trivial.
His gaze drifted downward. Before him, on the surface of the blood-red sea, a young boy trained with silent focus.
Vale.
Seventeen years old, pale as bone, his black hair now long enough to brush his lower back. He had died millions of times by the chained man's hand already and yet his will refused to break. Hope clung to him like a stubborn flame in an endless storm. His persistence was beyond human, it was something else entirely.
At that moment, Vale balanced on one arm, performing one-handed handstand push-ups. His body tilted slightly to maintain balance, muscles trembling but controlled. The surface beneath him rippled faintly with every movement, but he did not falter.
Beside him, two creatures watched idly, companions forged of strange origins. A small crimson centipede, its body coiled elegantly, and a sleek black lizard whose eyes gleamed like molten silver. They had become silent witnesses to his endless cycle of death, rebirth, and growth.
Vale's body had grown stronger, harder, leaner, sharper. He was no longer a boy who only fought; he trained, studied, adapted. His strength and flexibility had increased with each repetition, every death a harsh lesson written into his very being.
A soft, almost amused chuckle echoed from behind the chained man's mask. He lifted his head slightly and looked upward, not at the black suns, but beyond them, to something that lay above even this distorted sky. Then his gaze fell back upon the boy.
In the distance, something stirred, a colossal winged bird soaring above the far horizon of the bloody sea. It had eight massive wings that beat the air with a sound like thunder. But it was not alone. A gigantic white tiger prowled across the crimson waves below, muscles coiled with impossible strength.
Without warning, the tiger leapt. The impact shattered the air. It caught the bird mid-flight, black fangs sinking deep into its chest. The bird screamed, a high, shattering cry that faded as its body began to glow. In moments, its form dissolved into radiant light, which the tiger absorbed entirely. When the glow faded, the tiger stood taller, its aura blazing white-hot.
That was the White Cat's true form, no longer the small, curious creature Vale often saw, but a beast of divine ferocity. Just like the centipede and lizard, the tiger's current form was merely a shadow of its true nature.
As the last echoes of the battle faded across the horizon, Vale reached the end of his training. His voice broke the silence in a rhythmic murmur:
"...Nine hundred ninety-seven... nine hundred ninety-eight... nine hundred ninety-nine..."
Sweat streamed down his face, glistening under the suns' dull light. His breath came in steady, ragged bursts. Finally, he lowered himself to the surface and let out a long exhale.
"One thousand."
He collapsed backward, lying flat on the warm, rippling surface. His body trembled with exhaustion, but his expression was calm, satisfied.
Beside him lay a neat pile of books, stacked carefully in a small tower. He had read each one meticulously: tomes on Atum theory, philosophy, linguistics, and even the occasional novel for amusement.
"Seems like my hair's getting long, huh?" Vale muttered, running a hand through the dark strands that now framed his face.
He turned toward the chained man, who was still seated upon his throne. Their gazes met, one hidden, one piercing.
"What?" Vale asked with a faint smirk. "You like my long hair, old man?"
The chained man let out a long, weary sigh before answering, his voice deep and distorted beneath the mask.
"No. I don't."
Vale chuckled softly.
It had taken him centuries, lifetimes even to decipher the man's strange speech. In truth, the chained man hadn't been speaking a foreign language at all. His words had been scrambled, each letter rearranged at random, as if reality itself refused to translate them properly. Through relentless study and observation, Vale had finally begun to understand fragments of his speech, short words, simple phrases.
And when words failed, he read the man's body language. It was progress, slow, painful progress but progress nonetheless.
The chained man closed his book, setting it aside upon the throne's armrest. Then, slowly, he stood. The throne dissolved the moment he left it, its liquid form merging back into the bloody sea.
Vale watched, curious, as the man extended a hand into the air. Reality itself tore open like fabric, revealing a sliver of darkness beyond. From that rift, the man pulled a pair of large, black scissors. The metal shimmered faintly, swallowing light rather than reflecting it.
He gestured once, and from the crimson sea rose a chair, elegant, smooth, sculpted from blood itself.
"Sit," he said simply, his voice echoing through the stillness.
Vale blinked, momentarily unsure if he had heard correctly.
"Wait... are you gonna cut my hair?" he asked, glancing between the scissors and his own long, messy locks.
The chained man nodded once.
Vale hesitated for a moment, then gave a small shrug. "Well, fine. It'd just get in the way during battle anyway."
He pushed himself up from the ground and walked across the rippling sea until he stood before the chained man. The air between them shimmered with unspoken weight, centuries of death, training, and strange companionship condensed into silence.
Then, with a faint grin, Vale sat down on the crimson chair.
Soon, Vale felt his hair being lifted gently by the chained man's gloved hand. The strands slid between the cold metal fingers with a faint whispering sound. It was strange, after endless battles and countless deaths, this quiet moment of stillness almost felt foreign.
While the scissors moved with soft, precise snips behind him, Vale let his gaze drift toward something far more important than his hair.
Beside the familiar pile of books, resting upon the rippling surface of the crimson sea, sat a small pale egg. It pulsed faintly with a soft inner glow, like moonlight breathing within glass. Over the past thousand deaths, its surface had begun to crack, tiny fractures running along its shell like veins of silver.
The creature inside was stirring. It was close now, closer than ever to hatching. Vale guessed it would take perhaps another hundred deaths… maybe fewer. The thought filled him with a quiet anticipation, something fragile and rare in this realm of blood and darkness.
As he watched, a few strands of his hair fell past his face, dark against his pale skin, landing softly on the crimson sea before being swallowed by it. The chained man worked quickly, but not carelessly. Each motion of the scissors was deliberate, almost artistic. He wasn't just cutting Vale's hair short; he was shaping it, tidying it, almost… caring for it.
Vale exhaled softly, closing his eyes for a brief moment. "Hey," he murmured, voice low but steady. "Do you think I'm close to beating you?"
The only response at first was the faint snipping of the scissors, and the cool brush of the man's metal gauntlet against his neck as he trimmed the last uneven strands. The air was thick with quiet, one born not of hostility, but of mutual understanding.
Then, the chained man spoke. His voice was deep, hollow, and absolute.
"No."
Just that single word, simple, certain, and heavy enough to crush hope.
Vale's lips curved into a faint, humorless smile. He had expected that answer. "Yeah," he muttered, "figured as much."
He had long suspected that the chained man never truly fought with all of his skill. Even now, after years, centuries, of dying and returning, Vale could still feel it. That immense, effortless power held in restraint. A force so vast it could erase him a thousand times over without trying.
"Well," he said with a sigh, "that sucks."
The scissors went still for a moment, as if the man had paused to think, or perhaps to listen. Then they resumed, silent and precise.
Neither of them spoke after that. The only sound was the rhythmic snip of blades and the soft rustle of falling hair. Eventually, the chained man stepped back. He reached forward once more, gathering what remained of Vale's long hair and tying it neatly behind his head. It formed a loose, practical bun, leaving only a few thin strands to fall freely over his face, brushing lightly against his pale cheeks and half-shielding his white eyes.
Vale rose from the crimson chair, brushing invisible dust from his armor. "I'd ask for a mirror to see how it looks," he said dryly, "but it's not like I'd have a reflection anyway."
He ran his fingers through the freshly cut hair and nodded approvingly. "Still, thanks," he added, offering the chained man a faint, genuine smile.
The man said nothing, but the tilt of his head suggested quiet acknowledgment.
Vale's smile lingered, until a sharp, distinct sound broke the silence.
Crack.
He froze. Slowly, he turned toward the noise. It had come from the direction of the book pile. More precisely, from the pale egg resting beside it.
The surface of the egg had split slightly, a thin line of light seeping from within. The cracks spread like veins, glowing brighter with every pulse.
Vale's breath caught in his throat. His eyes widened, gleaming faintly under the dark suns.
"It's… hatching already," he whispered, his voice trembling with disbelief and something that almost sounded like awe.
The chained man stood motionless behind him, silent as ever, but Vale could feel it. The faint shift in the air, the weight of unseen attention.
Something new was about to be born in the crimson sea.