Blood smeared the cold obsidian stones of Verdan Hollow.
Arima Valcrest lay broken—bones shattered, breath coming in short, sharp gasps. One eye swollen shut, body twitching from the overload of pain. The world blurred, twisted in heat and death.
Above him stood a Veinbearer clad in flame-veined armor, his smirk glowing brighter than the fire coiling around his fists.
"A nameless rat like you thought you could stand on this stage?" the warrior sneered. "You're not a threat. You're barely a body."
Arima coughed—blood and defiance leaking from the corners of his mouth. "I… wasn't finished."
"You were never even written into the story."
The warrior raised his hand, fire igniting with the roar of the Furyvein—the Dominion of Wrath. The end loomed like a judgment.
Then—Silence.
Not quiet.Not stillness.Total, consuming silence.
The fire in the warrior's hand vanished. The pressure disappeared. The world… dimmed.
From deep inside Arima's failing soul, something ancient and endless awoke.
"Do you wish to vanish… or to become the end that is never denied?"
His heart stopped—but his soul flared.
"Then wear the veil. Become the silence between stories."
Arima's eyes opened—pure white, ringed in black, like twin eclipses.
The air turned hollow. The shadows deepened.
A scythe of glass and grief formed in his hand, forged from the shattered threads of time and soul.
The Veinbearer staggered, instincts screaming.
"You—what are you?!"
Arima stood, silent and slow, his shadow stretching farther than it should. His presence bled pressure. Gravity forgot itself.
He didn't roar. He didn't threaten.
He simply spoke:
"You won't be remembered. But I'll be the one they never forget."
To Be Continued…