The ruined city of Solara stood as a testament to devastation. Broken spires clawed at the sky, half-destroyed buildings loomed like gravestones, and the stench of charred stone filled the air. Among the ruins, a lone figure moved with calculated precision—Vaelin Duskbane.
He wove through the wreckage, his black cloak billowing behind him, boots crunching softly against scattered debris. The city had once been a proud bastion of divine power, but now, it was nothing more than a graveyard. And at its heart, a particular building still stood, half-destroyed yet defiant against the destruction.
Vaelin halted before the structure, his eyes gleaming beneath his hood. His lips curled into a faint smirk.
"Ah, what a sight." His voice was quiet, almost amused. "I never imagined Abyssal energy could be this destructive."
The air was thick with remnants of chaotic power, a whisper of something ancient and wrathful. He inhaled deeply, savoring the taint.
"I have to thank you, Kurohane," he murmured, stepping toward the entrance. "You've made this so much easier for me. If not for you, entering Solara would have been such a hassle."
The building's interior was eerily untouched. Scrolls and books lined the bookshelves, pristine despite the surrounding destruction. It was unnatural.
Vaelin's gaze narrowed. "How is this possible?"
He extended a hand toward a tome, fingers brushing the surface—only to meet resistance. An invisible force field crackled against his touch, barring access.
"That explains it." His voice was laced with realization. "Now, how to open this barrier?"
His keen eyes swept the floor. A keyhole, nearly buried beneath dust, caught his attention. Kneeling, he blew away the dust and traced its edges with his fingers.
"A key…" he muttered.
Rising, he searched the room with practiced efficiency. Minutes passed. His frustration was well-hidden, but a sharp glint in his eyes betrayed his impatience. Then, amid the rubble, something caught his attention—a form trapped beneath collapsed stone.
Vaelin approached, his steps unhurried, deliberate. With measured ease, he began removing the debris, revealing a battered figure beneath—a god, judging by his attire. Blood streaked the divine being's face, his breaths shallow. A golden key, glinting even in the dim light, hung loosely from a chain around his neck.
The god's eyes fluttered open. He let out a weak breath.
"Thank you… human," he rasped. "Is he gone?"
Vaelin crouched beside him, lowering his hood. Blue eyes, piercing and unfeeling, met the god's gaze.
"Yes," he said smoothly. "His gone."
Relief flickered in the god's eyes—until Vaelin spoke again.
"But the Shadowhand is here."
The god's breath hitched. His expression twisted into terror as realization sat in.
"No… impossible," he whispered. "You— You can't be alive! How could you have survived all these years? You should be—"
His words cut off in a wet gurgle.
A thin, almost elegant slash had opened his throat. Blood spilled, pooling onto the cracked stone floor. His body shuddered once, then fell still.
Vaelin's expression remained unreadable as he put away his dagger. He reached down, unfastened the golden key from the god's neck, and rose. Turning on his heel, he strode toward the keyhole, inserted the key, and twisted.
A pulse of energy rippled outward. The force field collapsed.
His movements remained smooth, but there was now a slight urgency in his actions as he scanned the scrolls. He sifted through them rapidly, his brows furrowing. Whatever he sought was of immense importance.
Then—
A presence.
Ancient. Suffocating. Dark.
Vaelin's jaw tightened. His fingers clenched around the scroll in his grasp before dropping it. He ground his teeth in frustration, then moved.
Swift. Silent. Shadowed.
He slipped outside, stepping into the ruined streets. The air had changed. A thick, oppressive darkness spread through the city, consuming the already bleak remains.
From the void, a figure emerged.
Clad in obsidian armor, its form lithe and precise, like a blade forged for war. Crimson eyes gleamed beneath its helm, piercing through the gloom.
Vaelin did not flinch.
"Vaelin." The figure's voice was calm, eerily so. "Explain what happened here."
Vaelin lowered his head in feigned respect. "Demon Prince Kharon," he greeted, his tone carefully measured. "A surprise to see you here."
Kharon did not move, his gaze sweeping the destruction.
"This… was a mere skirmish among the residents," Vaelin continued smoothly.
Kharon's crimson eyes narrowed. "Are you sure?"
He turned, taking in the desolate remains of Solara. A sigh escaped him, laced with something akin to disappointment.
"How far we have fallen," he muttered. "The gods behave like demons. The spirits, meant to guide mortals, now aid in their slaughter. The gods, once protectors of the mortals, turn their lands into battlefields. And the Demon Realm… is no better."
Vaelin allowed a small nod. "A tragic sight, indeed."
He crouched, picking up a handful of soil. Darkened, tainted.
"The land itself suffers." He let the dirt slip through his fingers. "Just like the other four kingdoms."
Kharon's gaze remained unreadable, but his voice was steady. "This is a sign, Vaelin. We must move faster with our plans." He gestured to the ruins. "If we do not act, all realms will suffer the same fate."
A beat of silence. Then—
"You are to cease your research on the Nexus Abyss."
Vaelin's gaze snapped to the prince.
Kharon's voice hardened. "So far, you have retrieved nothing of value. The continued slaughter of people in order to enter it… disgusts me."
Vaelin's expression remained neutral.
"Of course, Prince Kharon," he said, his voice carrying no hint of defiance. "I had already been considering the same course of action."
Kharon regarded him for a moment longer.
"Stay put. Await my instructions."
Then, like a shadow dissolving into the night, the prince vanished.
The moment he was gone, Vaelin's calm mask cracked.
His eyes darkened. His fists clenched. Fury simmered beneath his skin.
He exhaled sharply, suppressing the rage, then turned.
Retracing his steps, he re-entered the building, moving toward the bookshelf. He grasped a nearby log—its tip still alight with flame.
Without hesitation, he pressed it to the scrolls.
Fire consumed the knowledge within moments. Pages curled, ink blackened, words lost to the hungry embers.
"No one," Vaelin murmured, watching the flames rise, "should know who I truly am."
His gaze flickered, a chilling glint in his golden eyes.
"Especially not Prince Kharon. I need him for my grand design."
The fire crackled, devouring the last remnants of history.