Blades met in a symphony of destruction, each clash sending ripples through reality itself. Byzor's daggers of pure abyss twisted and coiled, each strike meant to tear through existence. Duskmaw's golden swords burned with divine radiance, their very presence an affront to the darkness that surrounded them. Their battle had surpassed the mortal realm—it was a war of convictions, of history, of even existence.
Byzor snarled as he slashed forward, his daggers warping space with each cut. "You think your suffering is unique?! You think you're the only one who's lost everything?!"
clash. Sparks of divine fire and cursed darkness erupted between them, cascading across the battlefield like falling stars.
"I don't think it's unique, vampire." Duskmaw's voice carried over the chaos, unwavering. He drove his knee into Byzor's gut, forcing the air from his lungs before flipping backward with seamless grace. He landed in a low stance, his swords burning like twin suns. "I KNOW IT ISN'T."
Byzor stumbled for only a moment before wiping the blood from his lips. Then, he laughed—a cruel, bitter sound that echoed through the warped domain.
"Then you know why I refuse to stop! Why I CAN'T stop!"
His form blurred, vanishing into the abyssal mist. A heartbeat later, he reappeared—everywhere.
Dark afterimages of Byzor flickered through the battlefield, attacking from every angle, his daggers carving through the golden flames like they were nothing but mist.
"I have fought for centuries! Hunted across time! My entire race reduced to 'monsters' lurking in the dark, spat upon by the world! But my kingdom—my home—was different! I gave shelter to all who came. Humans, dragons, vampires, even the damned werewolves—I ruled with peace, for SIX HUNDRED YEARS!"
Duskmaw spun, parrying a strike, but Byzor was already gone. The vampire materialized beside him, daggers flashing as he struck with lethal precision.
Duskmaw barely managed to deflect, his swords crossing in a burst of radiant light. The impact sent them both skidding back, golden fire clashing with abyssal smoke.
Byzor stood tall, his chest rising and falling with deep, seething breaths. His crimson eyes burned—not with rage, but with something deeper. Something raw.
"Then the Sun Order came. The damned priests of the Sun."
His voice wavered, but not in weakness—in fury. In grief.
"I SHOWED MERCY! I SHOWED LOVE! Even to my sworn enemies! And how did they repay me?! THEY BURNED MY KINGDOM TO ASH! THEY SLAUGHTERED MY PEOPLE LIKE BEASTS! THEY TOOK EVERYTHING! AND FOR WHAT?!"
Dark flames erupted from his body, swirling like a living storm. His daggers warped, twisting into monstrous claws of abyssal steel. "I BECAME CURSED BECAUSE I WANTED PEACE!"
Byzor roared and rushed in.
Duskmaw barely raised his blade in time. The impact shattered the air itself.
The entire temple trembled.
Golden engravings flickered violently, struggling against the sheer force of the clash. The very foundations of the divine structure groaned, fractures spiderwebbing through the walls as divine and abyssal energy warred for dominance.
Duskmaw gritted his teeth, pushing back against Byzor's overwhelming force. "You think I don't know loss?! You think I don't know what it means to be cursed?!" His glowing white eyes burned brighter, the golden flames at his back surging to new heights. "You lost a kingdom? I lost my FAMILY! MY LIFE ISN'T EVEN NATURAL. I WANTED PEACE BUT WAS NEVER ABLE TO HAVE IT BECAUSE OF THE WAY I WAS BORN? IS THAT SUPPOSE TO BE RIGHT?"
Byzor growled, pressing harder, his claws grinding against Duskmaw's swords. "Then why do you still fight me?! Why do you stand against someone who just wanted peace?!"
Duskmaw's expression twisted into something unreadable. "Because you already lost sight of it... taking the route of an evil god. How can you call that wanting peace?"
With a sudden burst of divine might, Duskmaw threw Byzor back.
The golden flames of the temple surged with new intensity, bathing the battlefield in radiance.
And for the first time, Byzor hesitated.
Byzor stood frozen, his breath ragged, his body trembling—not from exhaustion, not from fear, but from something deeper.
Realization.
A flood of memories surged through his mind, tearing through the haze of rage that had clouded him for so long.
The battlefield blurred as the past forced itself upon him.
A voice—warm, familiar—cut through the storm.
"Byzor! Never accept an evil path… never choose a road that leads to needless suffering. That's just not the right way to do anything."
His best friend stood beside him, a smile on his face, the two of them standing atop the highest tower in Marvis, looking down at their people.
And then—just like that—the figure vanished.
Another memory.
"Son… if I were to die… what would you do?"
Byzor saw himself as a child, sitting beside his father in their grand hall, the torches flickering in the dim light.
His younger self clenched his fists. "I… I would kill them."
His father sighed, shaking his head. "No, son. If I fall in battle, it means I fought with honor. Do not answer death with more death. That will never have a good outcome. Lead the people of Marvis into a future of peace—no wars, no bloodshed. That is your true path. I believe in you."
The warmth of his father's hand rested on his shoulder.
And then, just as before—the memory faded.
Byzor stumbled, grabbing his head as if he could physically rip the thoughts away. His breath came in heavy, uneven gasps.
"Why… am I remembering all of this now?!"
His vision refocused, and there stood Duskmaw—unmoving, watching. Not striking. Not pressing the attack.
Byzor staggered back a step, his mind still reeling as another memory surged forth, unbidden yet undeniable.
He stood within the ruins of a burning village, the screams of the dying echoing into the night. Blood painted the stone streets, bodies of both his soldiers and his enemies littering the ground in twisted, lifeless heaps. At his feet, a young boy clutched the corpse of his mother, sobbing, his tiny hands smeared with crimson.
"You were supposed to protect us," the boy whispered, his voice trembling. "You were supposed to be different."
Byzor had looked down at his own hands—drenched in the blood of the very people he had once sworn to protect.
The memory burned away like paper in a fire, leaving him gasping.
Another followed—relentless.
He was older now, sitting in a dimly lit chamber of his castle, the rain hammering against the windows. Across from him sat a woman—her presence once comforting, now distant.
"Do you even see what you've become?" she asked, her voice barely above a whisper.
Byzor scoffed, leaning back in his chair, swirling the dark wine in his goblet. "A survivor. A ruler. A king."
She shook her head. "A man who has let vengeance consume him. The Byzor I once loved would never have let this happen. You had a dream once—a dream of peace."
She reached across the table, placing a gentle hand over his.
"It's not too late to stop this."
Another memory flashed before Byzor's eyes. He was standing in the heart of a dense, mist-covered forest, the air thick with an unsettling chill. A figure emerged from the shadows—an entity cloaked in swirling smoke, its form indistinct but its presence undeniable. Its voice, like a soft whisper in the wind, beckoned him.
"Byzor," it crooned, the words wrapping around him like an invisible thread, pulling him closer. "You seek peace... but true peace cannot be found through the pain of your people. What if I could offer you a way to never know loss again? A way to live forever... to protect all that you love. Immortality, at a price."
The temptation was unbearable. His heart raced as the voice twisted around his thoughts, a promise of endless power and endless life. His fingers, trembling with desire, reached for the parchment the entity held out—a contract, written in a language older than time. The ink seemed to shift and change, as if alive, but his hand moved of its own accord, signing away his soul without fully understanding the cost.
From that moment on, everything changed. The allure of peace, once his driving force, became a distant memory, drowned beneath the weight of power. The deal he had made with Evos, the God of Despair, had granted him immortality, but at a terrible cost. Over the centuries, his mind had begun to twist and fray, every thought distorted by the god's influence, until peace seemed like a distant, unreachable dream. What he thought was the pursuit of peace was, in fact, a path leading to destruction. And now, with the weight of countless bloodstains on his hands, he was haunted by the truth of his choices.
The memory shattered, and Byzor returned to the present, his grip on his daggers tightening before they slipped from his hands, clattering to the floor.
"I… I am the king of Marvis," he whispered, his voice trembling with a mixture of sorrow and despair. "A king cursed with immortality, bound to live alone, never to find peace. I was supposed to be the king who brought unity, who sought peace for all. But my hands... my hands have been stained with blood for thousands of years." His breath hitched, his chest tightening with the weight of the words.
He closed his eyes, a tear slipping down his cheek as the memories of all he had lost, all he had failed, overwhelmed him. "I don't deserve the title of king. I've failed everyone I loved, thinking I was doing what was right... but I was wrong. So wrong." His arms fell to his sides, open, accepting of the inevitable end. "I don't deserve to live. I have no right to continue."
Duskmaw closed his eyes in silent understanding before moving swiftly, his blade poised to end the torment that Byzor had created for himself. The air around him shimmered with golden light as he brought the blade forward with a decisive strike.
But before the blade could reach its mark, the skies above Velmara tore open with a deafening crack, a rift splitting the heavens wide. From the darkened void above, a massive hand descended, its fingers like the claws of a forgotten god, reaching down with terrifying precision.
The hand closed around Byzor, engulfing him in a suffocating darkness. The light from Duskmaw's blade was swallowed whole as the presence of Evos surged into Byzor's body, filling him with dark energy. The rift vanished as quickly as it had opened, leaving only a twisted, corrupted version of Byzor standing where the king had once been.
His eyes snapped open, now completely devoid of light, replaced by an endless, swirling abyss of black. The blood around his iris pulsed, forming an eerie, living circle of crimson. He took a deep breath, and when he spoke, it was no longer the voice of the man who had once been king.
"This bastard," the voice growled, distorted and filled with malice. "I'll have to do this myself… for this damn fool."
A spear of blood materialized in Byzor's hand, the weapon pulsing with the same dark energy that now consumed him. He turned to face Duskmaw, the aura of destruction surrounding him. His transformation was complete. There was no turning back now.
"You want to stop me... whatever you are?" Byzor's voice—no, Evos' voice—sneered, a cruel mockery of the man he had once been. "Then come, try. But know this... I am the harbinger of your end."
Duskmaw gripped his blade tightly, stepping forward, determined to stop the darkness before it consumed everything.