A crimson dusk bled across the sky, casting a burnt-orange hue over the battlefield.The scent of scorched earth clung to the air, mingled with blood and iron. Bodies of fallen soldiers—both friend and foe—littered the broken terrain, their armor cracked, their faces frozen in final, twisted expressions. In the distance, the cries of dying men still echoed, desperate and fading.
At the heart of the carnage, a boy knelt alone.
Zed's body trembled, coated in blood that wasn't all his. Gashes marked his limbs; his breath came in ragged bursts. He clutched his sword, its blade faintly humming with blue Rhu, the glow pulsing in time with his heartbeat—erratic and weakening.
All army closed in all around him. Their armor gleamed with power, their numbers stretching into the horizon. They formed a ring of inevitability.
A raider emerged from within there rank.
He wore golden armor, pristine and radiant against the ruined world. His lips curled in contempt as he reined in his steed before the broken boy. The mockery in his voice cut sharper than any blade.
"Zed," he sneered. "There's nowhere left to run. Surrender now, or watch your sister bur—"
His words died as a thin, blue line of light flicked through the air. A moment later, his head fell from his shoulders, severed cleanly. It hit the ground with a dull thud and rolled to a stop inches away from Zed's knees ,his eyes still wide in disbelief.
Zed didn't move. His sword was raised, glowing with the same blue Rhu that had cleaved through the commander. His gaze remained downcast, blood dripping from his sword that had just took a life.
Silence choked the battlefield for a breath.
Then chaos resumed.
With a roar, the army surged forward. Knights enhanced by Rhu charged, their swords radiating Rhu. Behind them, mages lifted their hands, channeling elemental magic—fire, ice, lightning—each spell a streak of death aimed at the boy who refused to fall.
Later, when the screams had faded ,something tore through space.
A flicker of white light twisted reality for an instant, a boy stepped onto the blood-soaked battlefield.
His boots sank slightly into the mud—dark with coagulated blood. White hair rustled in the breeze, untouched by dust, and his crimson eyes scanned the devastation that in front of him. His expression was unreadable, caught somewhere between awe and dread.
Everywhere he looked, there were corpses. Thousands. Burned, frozen, torn apart by steel and sorcery. The Rhu still lingered in the air, faint and restless, as if the battle itself had left behind a memory that refused to die.
He stepped forward, slowly, cautiously, until he turned.
His breath caught.
A twisted throne rose from the center of the battlefield, made not of wood or stone but of the piled bodies of the fallen Knights, mages, all stacked like offerings in a macabre sculpture. Blood ran down the mound in lazy rivulets, staining the earth beneath.
At its peak sat Zed.
He was still silent. Draped in the shadows of dusk, coiled serpent tattoo glowing on his right arm. His eyes, half-lidded, were distant as if he no longer saw the world around him. Like a ghost who had claimed a throne built from vengeance and grief.
For a long moment, the white-haired boy could only stare. Zed didn't look up at first. He had already felt him arrive.
His voice was barely a whisper.
"So, zander..." he asked, gaze still fixed on the sea of the dead, "did we lose?"
The white-haired boy, zander ,lowered his eyes.
"…Yes, Zed."
His voice cracked.
"Alex is captured. And the others… they're all gone."
The wind howled through the ruined landscape, curling around the tower of bodies like mourning wraiths.
Zed finally looked up slowly, as if the sky itself was too heavy for him to face.
A single tear traced down a path from his eyes to blood-smeared cheek.
He blinked against it.
Then stood.
Without a word, he drop down from the mound, feet sinking into the blood soaked mud .
He raised his right arm, eyes dark with resolve. His voice cut through the silence like a blade.
"Heed my command, Vasuki…"
The serpent tattoo on his right arm stirred ,its ink rippling, coils tightening like they were alive.
"…I summon you."
In an instant, the tattoo unraveled.
Blue light surged from his skin, twisting and solidifying in the air. The serpent's form morphed into a blade, sleek and glowing.
Zed gripped the hilt, the weapon pulsing with awareness in his palm. Its edge shimmered with raw Rhu energy, humming a sorrowful tune as if mourning what was about to unfold.
Then he turned the sword's tip aimed directly at his chest.
Zander's eyes widened. His breath caught.
"No…" he whispered, staggering forward.
Zed stood still, unmoved.
Zander fell to his knees. "Zed...no. Please, not again…"
Tears streamed down his face as the weight of the moment crushed him. His fingers curled into the dirt. His lips trembled. His voice broke.
then zed drove the sword into his chest.
The blade sank deep, piercing his heart.
Zed gasped a sound of pain and relief, as blood bubbled from his mouth. His knees buckled. The light in his eyes flickered.
He staggered ,Fell forward.
But he never hit the ground.
Zander caught him, arms wrapped tight around zeds body, pressing his forehead to Zed's shoulder, as if by holding him, he could stop time itself.
Blood pooled beneath them. The Sword -Vasuki- dissolved back into blue mist, fading from Zed's hand like breath in the cold.
Zander wept openly now.
And in his arms, Zed smiled one last time.
The 1,000,001 regression had begun.
__________________________________________________________________________
BEEP. BEEP. BEEP.
The blaring alarm shattered the silence like glass.
Lukas shot up in bed, chest heaving, sweat clinging to his skin. Tears streaked down his cheeks. His breath came in short, ragged bursts as he blinked at the ceiling, confused and heart racing.
"What… was that?" he whispered.
The remnants of a dream still clung to him the blood, the war and the sorrow… a boy with blue eyes and a sword through his heart.
The name Zed echoed faintly in his mind, already fading like mist in sunlight.
But none of that made sense.
This wasn't a battlefield. It was his bedroom.
A room flooded with natural light spilling in through half-drawn curtains. Posters lined the walls, some of video games, others of classic sci-fi movies. A custom built gaming rig glowed faintly in the corner. Stacks of books lined a bookshelf so massive, it could house two double-door fridges with room to spare.
Everything about it screamed Modern-day teenager.
From downstairs, a voice broke through the lingering haze of the dream.
"Lukas! You'll be late for your trip! Get out of bed and get moving, breakfast is ready!"
Lukas blinked. Reality finally clicked into place.
He glanced at the clock.
8:32 AM.
His eyes widened. "Oh shit! I'm gonna be late!"
In a mad scramble, he tossed the blanket aside and sprinted into the bathroom. Water splashed. Cabinets slammed. A few minutes later, he stumbled out, half dressed and soaked.
He tugged his pants up with one hand, the other fumbling to pull his shirt over his head. His face was still wet. His black hair stuck out in every direction, like a bird's nest in a storm.
Breathing hard, he paused in front of the mirror.
His reflection stared back: a 14-year-old boy, slightly above average in height, lean but not frail. No muscles to boast about, but not unfit either. His skin still held the glow of youth, and his golden eyes—though tired—were sharp, inquisitive, and quietly intense.
He combed his messy hair back with his fingers and quickly buttoned his shirt. The dream still tugged at his mind, leaving behind a strange weight on his chest.
But there was no time to dwell on it.
He bolted out of the room, down the stairs, and into the kitchen.
There, standing by the stove in a crisp navy suit, was Uncle John , a 27 years old sharp as a blade man, and he was already halfway through a slice of toast while flipping through case files on his tablet.
"Morning, Uncle John," Lukas said, voice still groggy.
"Morning," John replied without looking up, flipping through notes on his tablet. "late as always , eat fast"
Lukas slid into the chair in front of the dining table. A plate of toast, scrambled eggs, and orange juice was already waiting. He took a bite, his attention drifting to the wall-mounted TV, which was playing the morning news on low volume.
The headline at the bottom of the screen immediately caught his eye:
"Mysterious Ruin Door Emerges Overnight in Nandi Hills."
The volume rose slightly as a reporter appeared onscreen, standing near a crowd of onlookers and excavation workers.
"This ancient door surfaced just last night," she said, gesturing behind her. "Authorities have confirmed it wasn't here a day ago. Its structure appears otherworldly—composed of an unknown metal, with strange markings that don't match any known language."
"We're joined by Dr. Varma, a lead archaeologist on the site," the reporter continued, turning to an older man in a beige coat and thick glasses. " So doctor, what can you tell us about this door?"
"The inscriptions are unlike anything we've encountered," Dr. Varma said gravely. "We've run them through every database, nothing matches. If I had to guess, I'd say it's not from this world at all."
"Any progress on opening it?"
"Not yet. We're working with extreme caution. Whatever lies behind it… it's been sealed of for over a millennium."
The screen cut to a close-up of the door—half-buried in earth and surrounded by scaffolding. The symbols etched across its surface shimmered faintly, pulsing in a rhythm that seemed… alive.
Lukas stared, fork frozen mid-air. Something about those markings stirred something deep inside him.
I've seen this before. But where…?
John glanced up from his tablet. "Hey, isn't that where your trip was scheduled? Nandi Hills?"
Lukas slowly nodded, eyes still fixed on the screen. "Yeah... that's the place."
A long beat of silence passed before Lukas blinked and stood up, slinging his bag over his shoulder.
"I gotta go," he said quickly. "See you later!"
John raised an eyebrow. "Be safe, bye"
Lukas gave a half-smile and ran out the door.
But the image lingered in his mind the door, the symbols, the strange sense of déjà vu that wrapped around his thoughts like a fog.
And somewhere, deep within him…
Something had begun to stir.