Beneath the five black suns, a rain of black dust fell from the sky, an unholy drizzle that drifted like burnt ash from a collapsing world. Each grain sank instantly into the crimson sea, vanishing beneath the surface without a trace. The ripples that followed shimmered faintly, shaped by distant impacts and the shockwaves of battle.
And at the center of those five suns, suspended above the bleeding horizon, two figures fought.
The first was young.
Vale's black hair, once neatly tied into a bun, had long unraveled, loose strands whipping across his face as he moved. His armor, an onyx shell plated with dark metal, bore cracks from previous deaths yet still clung to him like the remains of a fallen star. Fabrics fluttered around his legs, catching the violent winds generated by their strikes. Still, Vale's expression did not falter. His breathing stayed measured. His eyes, sharp and steady, never left his opponent.
He was focused, more focused than he had ever been in life or death.
Facing him was the one Vale had fought for centuries.
The one he had died to millions of times.
The chained man.
His face was hidden behind an obsidian mask marked with a single golden sun in its center. Long hair, dark as the void, floated weightlessly behind him. His broken armor covered only half his upper body and legs, leaving broad expanses of pale, scarred flesh exposed. Yet even with those vulnerabilities, his movements were flawless, relentless. Every strike he threw carried a precision that made hesitation a death sentence.
Their blades were carved from the same impossible bone.
Vale wielded a short sword, light, quick, built for precision.
The chained man wielded a long, heavy greatsword, built for dominance.
And still, incredibly, the man was faster.
Without warning, the chained man thrust forward, driving the greatsword toward Vale's ribs. Vale knew this attack. He had died to it countless times.
But this time,
Vale's metallic arm snapped forward and caught the blade.
The bone weapon ground against his metal palm. Sparks spat from the contact. For an instant, one glorious, defiant instant, Vale felt the thrill of victory bloom in his chest.
He had stopped it.
He had stopped him.
But the chained man simply let go.
Vale blinked,
and the man's fist was already in motion.
A brutal punch slammed into Vale's face, snapping his head to the side and launching him across the surface of the crimson sea. He skipped across the liquid like a stone, skidding and rolling until his momentum died. He managed to drag himself onto his knees, spitting blood from cracked lips.
The chained man was already walking toward him.
Unarmed.
Calm.
Unhurried.
He intended to fight barehanded now.
Vale's heart hammered. He didn't know whether to laugh or scream. In all the centuries of their battles, the chained man had never abandoned his weapon. Not once. This was unfamiliar territory, and the unfamiliar was always lethal with him.
But Vale also knew hesitation meant death.
A lesson carved into his soul through millions of deaths.
He pushed off the ground and rushed forward, covering the distance in an instant. Vale slashed at the man's abdomen,
But the chained man's glove snapped shut around the incoming blade. His grip locked it in place with terrifying ease. Before Vale could retreat, the man's other fist slammed into his gut.
Vale's breath exploded from his lungs as pain tore through his organs. His vision flared white. Blood filled his mouth. He dropped his weapon and stumbled backward, clutching at his abdomen.
The chained man flicked Vale's discarded sword aside like trash.
Then he lifted both hands into a Fighting stance.
A strained, breathless laugh escaped Vale.
"Hand-to-hand, huh?" he said, wiping his mouth, smearing blood across his cheek.
"How hard can it be…?"
He raised his fists.
They moved at the same time.
The chained man's punch shot toward Vale's head. Vale dodged, barely, and a victorious grin tugged at the corner of his lips. He had learned, finally learned.
But then the world lurched.
He didn't see the kick until it was already buried in his side.
The chained man's leg rose like a hammer, pinning Vale's arm against his ribs. The impact crushed air and blood out of him in a single violent burst. His body threatened to fly sideways.
But Vale refused.
He hissed through clenched teeth and lunged forward, grabbing the chained man's shoulder with a desperate, iron grip. And with everything he had left, every scrap of strength, every ounce of stubbornness, Vale pulled himself in close and threw a punch at the man's masked face.
It connected, Hard.
The impact cracked through Vale's bones.
The chained man didn't move.
Not even a flinch.
Not even a breath.
Vale stared up at him. A bitter, almost amused sadness tugged at the corners of his bloodied lips.
"Too bad…" he whispered.
His strength evaporated. His legs buckled.
Blood spilled freely from his mouth as the world tilted.
He collapsed onto the crimson sea, the warmth of death creeping through his limbs once more.
Dying yet again,
by the hand of the man who had killed him more times than he could ever count.
On the surface of the crimson sea, Vale's body drifted weightlessly. The liquid itself, thick, warm, and metallic, began to seep into his wounds, flowing into his veins like living ink. Then, with a faint shudder, his pale white eyes, empty and colorless, snapped open once more.
Hovering over him, arms crossed, stood the chained man.
He watched Vale in silence, the obsidian mask unreadable. Only when Vale's gaze met his did the man's stance shift. His arms relaxed, and he extended a large hand toward the boy.
"Need a hand?" he asked.
Vale was already reaching up. "Thanks."
The chained man pulled him to his feet with effortless strength. A heartbeat later, Vale felt weight in his hands, his blade. It had simply appeared, as if the chained man had conjured it from the very air.
Vale examined the weapon for a moment before lifting his gaze.
"Hey," he called.
The chained man tilted his head slightly, giving him his attention.
"Can I transform my blade like you did earlier?" Vale asked, voice steady. He had no intention of making small talk. This was training, and he didn't want to break the rhythm.
The chained man stared for a moment, as if surprised by the question's simplicity. "Yeah? I never said you couldn't."
Vale's face shifted into an odd mixture of relief and curiosity. His mouth opened, then closed as he collected himself.
"Then… how do I do it?" he asked.
This time, the answer came quickly, almost as if the chained man had been waiting for him to ask.
"Well, I can't give you a neat, step-by-step method," he began.
"But," Vale leaned in slightly, listening.
"All you really have to do is visualize the weapon you want, and focus on changing your blade into that form."
It sounded simple, Too simple. Vale realized then that he'd been so obsessed with defeating the chained man with a sword that every other type of weapon had been pushed out of his mind entirely.
His thoughts buzzed with sudden excitement.
"So… do you have a book of weapons I can borrow?" Vale asked, shifting his posture, trying, and failing, to hide his eagerness.
The chained man didn't seem bothered. In truth, the two of them had spoken casually for years, despite killing each other repeatedly every session. Without a word, he reached into a rift of swirling darkness and retrieved a thick tome.
He handed it to Vale.
"This book should have every possible weapon recorded in it. Though" his voice dipped in warning "transforming your blade won't be easy. Visual imagination is difficult for people who weren't born with the gift."
Vale was already flipping through the heavy pages, eyes wide. "Thanks. Really."
He read in silence for a while before glancing up.
"I know this was our first match in days," he said, scratching his cheek awkwardly, "but… would you mind if I practiced this for a bit?"
The chained man chuckled softly. With a wave of his hand, a throne of crimson crystal materialized behind him. He lowered himself into it and gave Vale a lazy gesture of permission.
Vale grinned and headed off, practically glowing with excitement.
He crossed the dome and reached the enormous pile of books stacked at its edge. Ember, curled atop the highest book, perked up immediately. The little creature's eyes shimmered with warmth as Vale returned from his match.
Vale sat down on the surface of the bloody sea, cross-legged, the great tome open before him. He found a page depicting a spear, long, elegant, and deadly, and focused on the image. Slowly, he closed his eyes and lifted his blade.
But something felt wrong.
He could picture the spear… but not clearly. The details blurred, shifted, slipped from his mental grasp. And without a perfect image, the weapon would never transform.
Still, he tried.
But nothing happened.
Vale exhaled, opening his eyes again, disappointed but not discouraged.
Ember leaped from the book stack and landed gracefully on Vale's shoulder. The boy lifted a hand, gently stroking the little reptile's head with a tired smile.
"This…" he murmured, looking down at his stubborn blade,
"…might take a while."