The figure stood bathed in a flickering goldish light, her very presence defying reality itself. It was as if the moonlight had taken form, sculpting a being so breathtaking that even the gods would pause in reverence. Her ethereal beauty was beyond mere mortal comprehension—a vision woven from the dreams of poets and the silent yearnings of the stars.
Her skin shimmered like polished pearl, a radiance both soft and untouchable, casting a halo around her delicate form. Her flowing hair, a cascade of liquid gold, rippled as though caught in an unseen current, shifting between light and shadow with an otherworldly grace. Eyes, deeper than the endless cosmos, shimmered with a thousand secrets, her gaze both sorrowful and resolute.
Her robes, spun from gossamer threads of dawn and dusk, clung to her slender frame as if the very air refused to let go, flowing like a whisper of forgotten divinity. Every motion she made—every breath, every slight tilt of her head—seemed choreographed by the universe itself, an embodiment of elegance so perfect that the very world felt unworthy to behold her.
Darian stood frozen, captivated, his own breath stolen by the sheer impossibility of her existence.
Then, in a voice as soft as the wind caressing autumn leaves, she muttered, "I am left with no other choice… I must hide it here."
Her words were laced with quiet desperation, a whisper meant for no ears but her own. Yet, even as she spoke, her hands moved with purpose, carefully securing an object wrapped in cloth, its shape and nature obscured. What was it? A relic? A weapon? A curse? Darian could not tell—but whatever it was, it held significance beyond his understanding.
Once her task was complete, she slowly straightened, glancing around, her luminous gaze scanning the darkness as if ensuring no other eyes witnessed her actions. The tension in her form eased only slightly before she took a steady breath.
Raising her hand, she held a blue stone between her fingers. Its surface pulsed with an eerie glow, veins of deep azure light flickering erratically. Then, in a voice so low that it barely reached Darian's ears, she uttered a chant—ancient, melodic, filled with an inexplicable power.
The stone cracked.
A burst of light erupted, enveloping her in a cascade of shimmering fragments, like a thousand fireflies scattering into the wind. Within the blink of an eye, she was gone.
Darian remained rooted to the spot, his mind racing to grasp what had just transpired. He had faced beasts, endured hardships, and battled fate itself, yet never had he witnessed something so utterly surreal.
Who was she?
What had she hidden?
Darian waited in silence, his gaze scanning the darkened forest. The golden glow from the mysterious woman had long faded, leaving only the soft flicker of his distant campfire behind him. He wanted to be certain—absolutely certain—that no one else was watching before he moved.
His heart pounded with anticipation as he stepped toward the spot where she had stood.
He hesitated for a moment, debating whether he should interfere. Whatever she had hidden, she had done so with clear intent. But his curiosity burned too fiercely—especially after witnessing her.
Darian crouched near the spot where the woman had stood, his sharp gaze flicking between the trees, ensuring no one lurked in the shadows. The forest was silent—eerily so.
"Alright… let's see what was so important."
His fingers hesitated over the dirt before he started digging. The soft earth crumbled easily beneath his hands, and soon enough, his fingers struck something solid. Brushing the last layer of dirt aside, he uncovered a box.
"What the—" His breath caught.
It wasn't just any box. It was ancient, yet pristine, as if time itself had refused to touch it. Dark, polished wood gleamed under the moonlight, silver engravings curling across its surface like vines of forgotten magic. At the center lay a peculiar emblem, unlike anything he had ever seen.
Something about it felt… unnatural.
His fingers curled around the lid, and he gave it a tug. It didn't budge.
"Tch. Figures it wouldn't be that easy."
Frowning, he adjusted his grip and pulled harder, gritting his teeth. Nothing.
Annoyance flickered across his face. He unsheathed his sword and wedged the blade into the small gap, attempting to pry it open. He twisted, pressed, even tried using leverage—but the damn thing wouldn't move.
"Oh, come on!" he growled, his frustration mounting.
Taking a step back, he tightened his grip on his sword. If finesse won't work, let's see if brute force will.
With a sharp exhale, he raised his sword overhead and brought it down with full power.
CLANG!
The impact sent a violent shockwave up his arms, nearly numbing them. But the box? Unscathed.
Instead, a sharp pain flared in his hand. Darian hissed, glancing down to see blood dripping from a fresh wound across his palm. He let out a shaky breath, glaring at the box.
"Just what the hell is this thing made of?"
Despite his irritation, something about it still called to him. Ignoring the sting in his hand, he reached out again, his fingers absentmindedly tracing the engraving at its center.
The moment his blood touched the emblem—
Everything changed.
A deep, reverberating hum filled the air. The engravings flared to life, golden veins of light racing across the surface like awakening magic.
"What the—" Darian stumbled back, his heart hammering.
Then—the ground beneath him ignited.
A mana circle materialized in a blinding flash, its intricate violet and silver runes spiraling outward, encircling him in a perfect, glowing ring. The energy surged around him, thick and oppressive, pressing down on his chest like an unseen force.
The air howled as a gust of wind roared through the clearing, yet within the circle, everything remained deathly still. The pressure intensified, as if the very world was watching—waiting.
Panic clawed at his throat. He tried to move, but his body felt locked in place.
"What the hell is going on?!" he barked, his voice barely audible over the rising hum.
The symbols around him spun faster, the light intensifying. His own mana surged against his will, pulled into the ritual like a thread woven into a larger tapestry. A sudden, foreign presence coiled around his very essence, binding him in something beyond his comprehension.
His pulse thundered. His breath came in ragged gasps.
"No, no, no—this isn't normal! This isn't—"
Then—
A final pulse of energy collapsed inward.
Darian barely had time to brace before everything—**the light, the wind, the pressure—**rushed into him. His vision blurred, his senses overloaded, and for a split second—
He felt something answer.
Then, as suddenly as it began—the circle vanished.
Silence.
The air was still. The wind had died.
The only thing that remained… was the soft glow of the box in his hands.
Darian stood there, his breath shaky, his fingers trembling against the smooth surface.
Whatever had just happened… it was no accident.
A bond had been formed.
And there was no turning back.
Darian's breath was uneven as he stood there, the weight of the moment pressing down on him. His heart still pounded from the overwhelming surge of power that had just coursed through him. His fingers trembled as they rested on the box's lid, hesitation flickering in his gaze.
Slowly—cautiously—he pressed against it.
This time, unlike before, the box opened without resistance.
"This thing wouldn't even open before… and now it just lets me?" he muttered under his breath.
A part of him hesitated. He had no idea what lay inside, no clue what he had just bound himself to. But the pull—the undeniable pull—was too strong to ignore.
Swallowing hard, he pressed his fingers against the lid and lifted it.
And inside—
"A sword…?" Darian whispered, his voice barely audible.
But no, calling it simply a sword felt wrong.
It was a masterpiece. A weapon that seemed almost otherworldly, as if it had been forged from the very fabric of twilight itself.
The blade was long and elegant, its metal shifting between deep midnight blue and shimmering silver, as though trapped in an eternal struggle between night and day. Its edges glowed faintly—not with light, but with something in between, like the final rays of the sun before darkness took hold.
"What… is this?" Darian reached out cautiously, his fingers brushing against the hilt.
The guard was shaped like a crescent moon, forged from a dark, obsidian-like metal streaked with veins of silver. At its center, a violet gemstone pulsed softly, like the last dying ember of a fallen star.
The hilt was wrapped in strange black leather, cool to the touch yet firm, molding to his grip as if it had been made for him and him alone. And at the pommel, a small silver fang-shaped ornament dangled slightly, a final, subtle mark of its silent, predatory elegance.
As his fingers fully wrapped around the hilt—
A chill surged up his arm, like the breath of the evening wind just before true nightfall. His heart lurched, and for the briefest moment—he swore he heard a whisper, faint and distant, like a voice calling from beyond the horizon.
"This sword…" Darian exhaled sharply, his grip tightening. "This isn't just any weapon."
A shiver ran down his spine. He could feel it—power.
"Twilightfang…" he murmured, the name slipping from his lips as if it had always been there, waiting to be spoken.
The moment he said it, the sword pulsed in response.
And Darian knew—he was no longer the same.