Asvard's fingers unconsciously grazed over the faint scars on his neck.
He wasn't afraid, he just didn't like the feeling in his chest. The weight of it. That quiet implication Prwyer always dangled just out of reach.
He looked back toward the fire. "So what happens if they wake?"
Prwyer didn't respond at first. He leaned forward, scooped a handful of ash from the fire's edge, and let it spill through his fingers.
"They choose" he said simply.
"Choose what?"
'Who dies. Who doesn't. Who's worthy of Hell's future." He looked up at Asvard with tired eyes. "And who isn't."
A silence fell between them.
"I thought Hell didn't care about worth."
"It doesn't. But the Throne of Blades does."
Prwyer leaned back and pulled out an old strip of cloth. He began cleaning his weapon absently, eyes half-lidded in thought.
"You ever wonder why Ashar didn't kill you?"
Asvard stiffened.
Prwyer noticed.
"He's not weak. He could've snapped your spine. Crushed your lungs. Sliced your soul in half. But he didn't."
"Why?" Asvard asked, voice low.
Prwyer's hand paused. "That man's seen more blood than any demon his rank. They call him the Fang of the Legion, but he was once just a boy too. Grew up with nothing. Not even a name. His parents threw him into the Maw when he was five."
Asvard's breath caught.
"They told him to die quietly. Said they didn't want him. Said he was a burden."
There was no anger in Prwyer's voice, just the weight of cold memory.
"But he didn't die. He survived. Alone. Starved. Hunted. But he survived. And eventually... he made friends. Just four of them. He treated them like his own blood. Protected them. Trained with them. Bled for them."
Prwyer paused.
"They're warriors now. Strong. Capable. But Ashar... still sees them as those kids. He swore he'd never let harm come to another one."
He turned to Asvard.
"And maybe, just maybe... he saw something in you that reminded him of those days. Not a face. Not a name. Just a feeling."
Asvard felt something unfamiliar stir in his chest. A flicker of heat that wasn't rage. Not pride. Something else.
"He never said any of that" Asvard muttered.
"He wouldn't." Prwyer chuckled softly. "Ashar smiles like a king but bleeds like a commoner. Arrogant, sure. But he's the only one who looked at you and didn't see a threat."
"Then what did he see?"
Prwyer tapped Asvard's forehead with the blunt end of his blade. "A kid who needed someone to believe in him."
They moved to the cliff edge near dawn.
The cracked horizon bled shades of crimson and black. Hell's sky never gave light, only colorless contrast. But this moment felt... less harsh.
Asvard stood on the ledge, eyes scanning the jagged world below. His grip tightened around the hilt strapped across his back. Mirage Reversal still coursed through his veins, a constant hum of tension beneath the skin.
"Let's go again" he said without looking back.
Prwyer exhaled. "You're addicted."
"I'm hungry."
"For what?"
"More."
The old demon grinned. "That's how the fall begins."
Asvard drew the blade. "Then catch me."
They clashed again.
Steel screamed through the empty plains. Mirage Reversal split reality for a heartbeat as Asvard's blade vanished from one point and reappeared at another. Prwyer blocked it with the flat of his weapon, spinning to strike with a backhand that Asvard narrowly ducked.
"You're moving like a fighter now" Prwyer muttered.
"I'm not a fighter."
"Oh?" He raised a brow.
"I'm a survivor."
Prwyer's smirk widened. "Same thing in this place."
Nightfall
They sat at a broken shrine built into a cliffside. The statue at its center was headless, the name long erased by time. Offerings were scattered, old bones, melted candles, and a cracked sword stabbed into the floor.
Asvard sat cross-legged, tuning his breathing. Mirage Reversal was stronger at night. The veil between space and perception blurred more easily.
Prwyer watched him quietly.
"You've come far. But don't let it go to your head."
"I won't."
"You will."
Asvard chuckled. "I'll prove you wrong."
Prwyer stood, stretching his arms. "You're too much like him."
Asvard looked up.
"Him?"
Prwyer didn't answer. He stared into the distance where shadow danced along the ridges.
"Things are shifting" he murmured. "The air's changing. Ashar's kept the four asleep for years... but lately, even he's grown tense."
"Because of me?"
"Because something woke up when you touched that shard."
Asvard frowned. "What do you think it is?"
Prwyer looked him dead in the eye.
"I think it's fate trying to cheat death."
The wind carried a low hum through the broken ridges.
Asvard stood at the border of a ruined battlefield, the training ground's edge dissolving into twisted remnants of blades and bones. The remnants of the Hollow Wastes. Prwyer stepped beside him, his boots crunching softly over wounded soil.
"This place is called Sorrow's Fold" Prwyer said. "An old war site. Bodies are buried so deep beneath us that even Hell can't remember all their names."
Asvard took a breath. The scent was sharp, iron, ash, something primeval that refused to rot. Like the land itself had been frozen mid-scream.
"Why bring me here?" he asked.
Prwyer drew his curved blade and pointed toward a small ridge.
"You'll feel it soon."
Asvard's skin tickled. A pulse, almost like a heartbeat, vibrated through the air. Mirage Reversal responded instantly. The flow in his limbs twitched, like it sensed danger before his mind caught up.
The wind changed.
Something wrong emerged from the far end of the field. A shadow, not a being, but a rift. A tear in space, barely visible. It shimmered like cracked glass, warping light unnaturally.
"What is that?" Asvard asked, taking a half-step back.
Prwyer's face hardened.
"That... is a scar left behind by the Keeper's last wrath."
Asvard turned. "Ashar?"
Prwyer nodded.
"Someone tried to harm the four" he said. "Didn't even touch them. Just thought about it. Ashar sliced through three mountains and the sky itself."
The tear pulsed, as if echoing that memory.
"He doesn't fight for power. Or honor. He fights because he remembers what it was like to have no one."
Asvard watched it flicker. The edge of the tear brushed against a nearby blade embedded in the ground, cutting it clean in half without touching it.
He swallowed hard.
"How did he do it?"
Prwyer was silent for a moment.
"Void essence" he finally answered. "Same as the armor he wears. It's rare, more curse than gift. Devours light. Eats sound. And worse, it remembers."
"Remembers what?"
"Everything it's ever cut."
Asvard's fingers curled into a fist.
"That's what you're trying to teach me" he said.
Prwyer turned his back and started walking. "No, Asvard. That's what I'm trying to warn you about."
Later that night...
They camped near the Whispering Basin, a crater-like depression surrounded by jagged cliffs. The moon above, if it could be called that, was fractured into four broken crescents. Its pale glow barely lit the edges of the rocks.
Asvard sat, arms wrapped around one knee, while Prwyer sharpened a bone dagger nearby.
"Ever heard of the Edgewalkers?" Prwyer asked suddenly.
Asvard shook his head.
"They were the first to map the outer territories. Nomads. Lunatics. Survivors. Whatever you want to call them. They believed the edge of Hell wasn't real, that there was something beyond it."
"And?"
"They were right. But no one believed them until they vanished one by one."
Asvard raised an eyebrow. "Vanished?"
"Some say the Throne of Blades hunted them for trespassing on forbidden grounds. Others say they saw something they weren't supposed to."
Prwyer leaned back and tossed the dagger into the air, catching it lazily.
"One of the Edgewalkers was Ashar's master."
Asvard turned his head.
"Did Ashar believe them?"
"No. He didn't have the luxury of belief back then. He was just a soldier. But his master left behind a journal. And Ashar never let it out of his sight."
"What did it say?"
Prwyer looked up at the sky.
"That there's a wall past the ninth throne. A living wall made of memory and time."
"What does that even mean?"
Prwyer shrugged.
"Nothing. Until you start dreaming of a place you've never been. A throne you've never sat on. A name you've never said aloud."
Asvard looked away quickly.
Prwyer narrowed his eyes, but said nothing.
Midnight...
Asvard couldn't sleep. The energy inside him was restless, like Mirage Reversal was resonating with something nearby.
He stood and walked to the cliff overlooking the Basin.
That's when he saw him.
Ashar.
Distant. Silent. Standing at the other end of the ridge in full armor, facing away, cloak flapping like shredded smoke.
He hadn't been there earlier.
Asvard blinked.
Gone.
Just wind.
But his pulse didn't slow. Something about the vision felt real. Not a hallucination. A presence.
Ashar had been watching.
Dawn...
Prwyer approached him with a grim expression.
"Pack up. Training's over for now. We're being summoned."
Asvard stood. "By who?"
"Ashar."
Asvard's heart jumped slightly, but he didn't show it.
"He wants to test you" Prwyer added.
"I thought the training was over."
"It is."
"Then why the test?"
Prwyer tightened the strap on his blade.
"Because the swords are waking up."
Asvard froze.
"The four?" he asked.
Prwyer nodded.
"They've started whispering. Dreaming. Asking for blood. And you're the only variable that's changed since the last time they slept."
"Does he think I'm a threat?"
"I don't know."
"But you do."
Prwyer sighed, eyes tired.
"I think Ashar doesn't believe in threats. Only choices."
He looked at Asvard one last time.
"And I think he's made his."
(To be continued...)