Long ago, in a time beyond space
In a place where darkness stretched endlessly, and farther still.
In the void, stars were absent. Only streams of color—swirls of green and purple like distant nebulas—floated aimlessly through the abyss. There, suspended in nothingness, a single landmass drifted. Orbiting it were four moons and a dying sun, its light a constant, eternal gaze. Time had no dominion here. The day never ended. The land itself seemed to reject the very notion of hours or seasons.
And then—light.
A brilliant flash exploded across the sky.
THROVVMMMM—CRACK!
The sound followed a heartbeat later, rolling over the land like thunder erupting from the bones of creation.
Below the clash, beneath the shade of a massive canopy-like tree, a man lounged against its thick roots, arms behind his head, legs crossed. His eyes followed the chaos above lazily.
"They're really going at it," he said, smirking. "I really should've bet on this one. Let's go, Damayo."
Another burst of light cracked the sky.
THROVVMMMM—CRACK!
Above, the larger of the two combatants spiraled downward like a meteor, trailing golden arcs of power. The other dove after them, ready to strike.
The man beneath the tree leaned up slightly, squinting. "Damn. Hope actually got a good hit in."
Damayo, now hurtling toward the ground, righted himself midair. His boots caught the sky as if it were solid, launching him forward in a blur. He met the charging figure—Hope—head-on.
With a twist, he slipped around her strike and delivered an uppercut straight into her stomach.
BOOM!
The force of the impact rippled outward like a sonic wave.
Before she could recover, Damayo surged upward. Another blow connected.
WHAM!
Hope was sent flying higher. Her body flipped in the air, arms spreading wide to steady herself.
The sky trembled with each hit.
Hope steadied herself in the air, her feet gliding gently against the weightless sky. Her eyes narrowed. Then, she raised both hands above her head.
From the empty space just above her palms, a black orb began to form. Small at first—barely the size of an apple.
Then it grew.
In the blink of an eye, the orb expanded—tenfold, twentyfold—until it was five times larger than her own body. The sphere pulsed with gravity, dragging in strands of light, distorting the space around it like a collapsing star.
Without hesitation, she hurled her hands forward.
The orb shot through the air with impossible force, a screeching blur of mass and dark energy.
Damayo didn't flinch.
He cocked his fist back, fire wrapping around his arm like a coiled serpent. Then—he struck.
KRAKOOOM!
Fist and orb collided in midair.
For a single, suspended second, time seemed to hold its breath.
The shockwave from the collision rippled outward, folding the air. Dust spiraled below. Clouds split above. Damayo's body trembled against the sheer force, pushed back ever so slightly, muscles locked in defiance.
Then—he twisted.
With a sudden pivot of his wrist, Damayo redirected the orb.
It veered off-course and careened into the earth far below.
BOOOOOM!
The impact detonated. The ground didn't explode—it liquefied. The very soil bubbled and warped, transforming into molten red as magma burst forth in a fiery geyser.
But Damayo was already gone.
Before Hope could even process what had happened, he was in front of her.
She barely had time to widen her eyes.
He interlocked his hands and swung upward with brutal precision.
CRACK!
His strike connected with her jaw. Her body jerked violently upward.
He followed immediately, refusing to let her recover—one final blow, arcing from above like the swing of a falling star.
WHHHMMM!
The air itself recoiled from the force. A deep ripple spread through the sky as if it were water.
Below, the man beneath the tree flinched at the sound.
"…Oh," he muttered, eyes narrowing. "That was brutal. He condensed the whole impact into her body."
A chill ran up his spine. He let out a long, uncomfortable sigh.
"I should probably go. Not trying to have my organs liquified."
He pushed himself to his feet, brushing off his coat, and began walking toward the dense forest behind him.
"Fighting for the title of godhood…" he muttered under his breath. "We already have the power. So why would I want a useless title like that?"
He paused beneath the canopy, lifting his head toward the sky.
Above him stretched the void, painted in deep purples and vibrant greens, like cosmic bruises smeared across the heavens. The colors slithered around the void, slow and ever-shifting, framing the endless black like oil on water.
He exhaled sharply.
"It's boring here," he muttered, gaze narrowing. "All anyone wants to do is fight to prove how strong they are."
His voice rose, loud and sharp like a whipcrack in the silence.
"And now with these damned 'Ater Games'—forcing us to battle like toys in a pit. If you didn't want so many of us, then why bring us here in the first place?!"
The void didn't answer.
He stared for a long moment, teeth clenched, shoulders trembling in silent frustration.
Then he sighed, letting the tension drain from his chest. His eyes dropped to the ground, half-lidded and dark with thought.
"Why don't you do it yourself, then?" he asked the silence. "Get your hands dirty."
He stopped mid-step.
An idea hit him like a lightning bolt.
"That's it…"
A smile curled slowly across his lips, spreading wider with each passing second.
"I'm a genius."
His eyes flashed, whites glowing faintly as the thought spiraled into obsession.
"I'll make him fight me. Maybe the others will finally see his vulnerability… and I can take them out too."
He clenched his fists, and the grin widened.
"No more fighting. No more gods."
He broke into a sprint, feet thudding against the earth—faster and faster—until his legs became a blur and he launched himself into the air.
He soared above the tree line in a single breath, wind rushing past his ears as the world dropped away beneath him.
His eyes locked on the dying sun that floated above the land like a slow-burning ember.
"I'll take the forbidden flame…" he whispered.
His voice hardened.
"…and burn Daseptin."
12th Day of Summer, Year 13,451, Nightfall.
The ashes fell like snow.
They drifted gently from above, weightless and unfeeling, blanketing the cobbled street in silence. Soft flakes settled into the cracks, perched atop lampposts, clung to shattered windows and cold iron railings.
"What the hell did you two do!" Buudo barked, whirling on Titus and Leo.
Above them, Avon floated high in the air, his cloak of fire dimmed into a whisper of light. His gaze was fixed downward, solemn. He watched as the final ash fell.
"Damn it, kid," he murmured. "I can't do this without you."
Then stillness.
No breeze. No sound.
Until Avon's voice cut through the quiet again, firmer now, a command woven into the air itself.
"I need you to be stronger."
His body pulsed with faint heat, flame curling at his edges—but casting no light upon the world. A fire that didn't burn.
"No more dying."
His eyes glowed as he raised one hand.
"Now… take breath once again."
The ashes began to shimmer.
At first, only a few—golden flecks rising into the air like reversed snowfall. Then more. Hundreds. Thousands.
The embers moved as if caught in a silent wind, though the towering buildings carved the street into stillness. Yet they danced—slowly at first, then faster. The ashes pulsed.
Once.
Twice.
A deep red glow surged from within the gold, catching the eyes of the brothers below. Titus, Leo, Buudo—all turned, transfixed by the spiraling flares.
The windless air broke.
The embers burst into motion, swirling higher, a vortex of glowing light twisting into the sky. They erupted in red brilliance, piercing the clouds—parting them with force, revealing the moon above.
Pale silver light spilled down onto the street.
Then the column of light receded, folding inward like a breath being drawn.
And at its center—knelt Doran.
His body was whole.
No wounds. No ash. No blood.
As if death had never touched him.
Avon floated down in front of him, his presence casting no shadow.
"What is your name?" the flame asked.
Doran slowly raised his head, eyes locking with Avon's. He stood—still, grounded, and very much himself.
"Still me," he answered. "You don't get to take over just yet."
Avon landed gently on Doran's shoulder, his expression unreadable. "Look at them, kid. If you can't handle them… how will you survive when it matters most?"
Doran stood, stretching his arms with a slow exhale. "Quit with the lecture and just help."
Avon scoffed, flames curling at the edges of his form. "Then quit acting like your life has no value!"
From a distance, Leo tilted his head. "This guy is freaky," he muttered. "Talks to himself and turns to ash."
Titus chuckled, a low rasp like metal scraping stone. "Yeah, maybe we should take him a little serious."
Buudo's grip on his sjambok tightened. "Shut it. He already sliced you in two. He won't go down easy."
Avon's tone darkened. "You've died more than you should've—because you know you can come back. The links aren't stable anymore. Die again… and they snap. I can feel it."
Doran glanced sideways at him, still perched on his shoulder. "Don't act like you really care. We have a soul bind, and if it breaks… we both die. I can't do anything else without that hanging over me."
Avon fluttered off his shoulder in frustration, flaring up in midair.
"You're a real asshole, you know that?!"
And then, with no more words, he burst into flame—surging toward Doran's back like a comet.
The impact was soundless.
Doran's golden eyes began to glow, deepening into a molten red. Heat shimmered off his skin, and steam hissed from the cobblestones beneath his feet.
Then—
FOOMPH!
From his back, twin wings of flame erupted. Featherless. Wild. Burning.
They spread wide behind him, casting long, flickering shadows against the buildings around them.
Doran turned to face the three brothers.
Titus. Leo. Buudo.
All three watched him in tense silence, their weapons raised, their postures guarded.
Doran's eyes swept the battlefield.
Where are they? he thought, scanning the shadows and glinting metal in the haze of ash and steam.
One of his swords lay behind the brothers. The other—just in front of them.
Too obvious. If I rushed in for it, they'd carve me open before I even get close…
His gaze dropped to the glowing runes engraved into his gauntlets, faintly pulsing with latent energy.
…I could make this a challenge.
"Ignite."
The runes flared bright orange.
"Flame Purge."
A sudden blast of force expelled behind him, sending him rocketing forward. A comet of red embers tore across the street, trailing ash in its wake.
Leo stepped in to intercept, scythe slicing in a wide arc.
Doran dropped low, tucked his right fist to his side—and snapped upward with a vicious uppercut straight into Leo's gut.
FWOOM!
A burst of fire exploded from the point of impact. Leo's body lurched from the blow, but before he could stumble back, Doran surged in.
A second strike—an elbow to the gut—doubled the impact. Flames rippled outward in a fiery bloom, scattering sparks across the cobblestones.
Out of the corner of his eye, Doran saw the glint of metal.
Titus.
His sickle came whistling in from the left.
Doran pivoted, dropping his hips just in time for the blade to whistle past his head, barely grazing his hair.
In one motion, he reached out, snatched the chain as it passed, and yanked it taut. His body spun—pivoting on his heel—and he flung the chain overhead like a hammer throw.
Titus was still mid-sprint when he was ripped off his feet.
BOOM!
His body slammed into the cobbled street hard enough to send cracks spidering outward like ripples in water. Stone exploded beneath him. Debris flew.
Doran turned just in time to see Buudo charging straight at him.
"Not fast enough," Doran muttered.
With a beat of his wings, he launched into the sky, scattering a cloud of dust below. The chain still wrapped around his wrist snapped tight.
Buudo pursued instantly, whip already mid-swing.
"You thought that would work on me?!" he shouted. "I see every muscle twitch! I know what you're doing before you do!"
Doran gave no response. He merely smirked, lifting the chain overhead and snapping it loose from Titus's limp grip as the brother below groaned, buried in rubble.
The chain shot toward Buudo like a harpoon.
Buudo twisted his body and raised the sjambok—CRACK!—he intercepted it in midair, but the impact stalled him, halted his upward rush cold.
Doran saw his chance.
He folded his wings in tight and dove.
Leo was already on the move, scythe cutting upward like a rising guillotine.
But Doran twisted into a tight spiral, slipping through the narrow space between the blade and Leo's reach.
The wind howled as Doran tore past him, fire trailing in a corkscrew of crimson light.
He zipped behind Leo with a blur, and his fingers curled toward the ground.
There.
His sword.
He swept it up in a single motion, blade singing as it left the stone.
SHHHRINGG.
Doran rose to his full height, embers flaring along the edge of his sword.
Titus groaned as he pushed himself up from the cracked street, his entire front dripping like hot wax. His body hadn't fully reformed—his arms trembled, and large portions of his frame still sagged, liquified and sluggish.
Leo glanced over with a sneer. "Pathetic. He didn't even cut you."
Thick globs of Titus's form dripped from his torso and arms, splattering on the pavement. Nothing pulled itself back together. No regeneration.
Leo's smirk faded.
"…So that's how it is."
Before he could say more, a clang rang out.
Buudo and Doran collided again—blade and whip clashing with explosive force.
BOOM!
The shockwave rippled outward, forcing Leo to halt his charge mid-stride. He skidded back, boots scraping along the street.
Doran and Buudo locked together in a brutal test of strength, muscles straining, neither giving an inch.
Then Leo's eyes flashed.
"Sorry, Buudo," he said, flipping his scythe backward into a reverse grip. "But looks like the kill is mine."
In one seamless motion, he stabbed the scythe into the ground, pole vaulting himself forward.
Mid-air, he spun, bringing the scythe around in a graceful arc—slashing down toward Doran's back with full force, limbs stretched to maximize his reach.
Buudo cursed. "Damn it, Leo!"
He broke the clash first, springing back.
Doran had seconds.
He activated his wings in a burst of flame—fwoosh!—dodging the downward strike by mere inches.
Leo's blade scraped the stone, sending sparks flying as he landed and slid back.
Buudo reacted instantly.
He raised his whip, then slammed it into the ground with a roar.
CRACK!
The street erupted, shards of broken cobblestone launching into the air.
"Let's see you dodge this," he muttered, then lashed his whip again.
Whip-Whip-Whip—!
He struck the shards mid-air, launching each one at high velocity toward Doran's exposed back.
Doran twisted through the air, spiraling around the flying debris. One shard clipped his shoulder—shnk!—but he powered through it, diving straight toward Buudo without pause.
Leo moved in again, cutting upward with deadly intent, his scythe arcing for Doran's head.
Doran stopped on a dime, dropping low—barely avoiding decapitation.
But Leo had been waiting for that.
He flipped the scythe in his hands, spun behind Doran in a blur, and stabbed—the blade slicing into the back of Doran's thigh and hooking deep.
"Got you," Leo hissed.
With a grunt, he flung Doran into the air, then slammed him back down onto the cobblestones.
CRASH!
Doran bounced off the stone, skidding across the street like a ragdoll. His flaming wings sputtered with each painful impact.
He lay there for a moment, one hand gripping the wound in his leg, blood sizzling against his own fire.
Steam rose from the pavement around him.
His other hand pushed him upright, trembling.
And still… he kept his eyes forward. Locked on the two brothers.
Gritting his teeth, Doran exhaled.
"Tch… Do you two ever get tired… or is it just a feeling you never had to begin with?"
Leo spun his scythe once with grace, then slammed it into the cobblestones—clang!—the sound ringing like a war drum.
"Father says 'feeling' is a waste of time," he said flatly. "They're just weaknesses."
Buudo's grip on his sjambok tightened, joints groaning beneath the strain.
"And we were made to eliminate weakness. Those who oppose Father's vision are defective. You humans—you're already bolts and cogs… blind to the machine you built."
Without another word, both brothers launched forward—two halves of a perfectly calibrated assault.
Buudo came in low from the left, his sjambok whistling as it snapped toward Doran's legs. Leo mirrored him from the right, slicing high at chest level with blinding speed.
Doran's wings flared.
WHUMP!
He backflipped into the air, narrowly avoiding Buudo's strike. But Leo wasn't finished.
He held his swing—anticipated the dodge.
With a flick, his scythe curved up mid-air, aiming for Doran's exposed ankle.
Buudo leapt—sjambok raised above his head, coming down hard, trying to catch Doran before he could rise higher.
CLANG!
Doran barely blocked Leo's sweep, his sword deflecting the scythe just enough. He jerked his head to the side—
THWACK!
Buudo's whip crashed against his left shoulder.
Blood sprayed.
Doran snarled in pain, staggering mid-air as heat steamed from the open wound. The crack in his skin hissed against his flames.
Far behind them, Titus dragged his half-formed body toward the kusarigama lying limp on the street. His legs stuttered, metallic bones showing between sloshing globs of melted armor. The chain snaked behind him like a trailing limb.
But in the center of the fight, the pressure only escalated.
Leo followed through instantly, swinging down with precision.
CLANG!
Doran blocked—but Buudo didn't give him a second.
The sjambok cracked against Doran's ribs—
CRAAACK!!
"GAAHH!!"
Doran's voice ripped through the street.
He gritted his teeth, eyes blazing.
In a flash of motion, he caught the shaft of Leo's scythe and spun with it, using the force against both attackers. The spin launched his leg outward—CRACK!—a brutal kick landed squarely on the top of Buudo's head.
Buudo dropped like a meteor, crashing into the stone below.
Doran didn't stop.
He rotated with the momentum and swept his sword in a wide arc—Whoosh!
Leo barely managed to block, the staff of his scythe grinding against the blade as sparks flew.
The hiss of chains sliced through the air.
The kusarigama's sickle spun toward Doran like a flash of silver fangs. He pivoted smoothly, still locked in clash with Leo, the sickle barely grazing his cheek as it whirred past.
A single bead of blood sizzled on his skin.
From behind, Titus yanked the chain—hard.
The sickle snapped back through the air, curving toward Doran's exposed back.
Buudo leapt into the air at that exact moment. His sjambok wrapped tight around a nearby lamppost—Whip-THUNK!—and he flung himself like a slingshot straight at Doran.
Doran's eyes darted between them all—too many angles.
His grip tightened.
With a twist of his blade, he forced Leo's scythe upward into the air—CLANG!
It struck the kusarigama mid-arc.
The sickle veered off course, rocketing upward—and impaled itself directly into Buudo's chest.
THWACK!
A gout of black coolant burst from the impact.
"Damn it, Titus! You hit me!" Buudo bellowed, twisting in midair.
Doran didn't wait.
He slammed his sword into the cobblestones—BOOM!—a wave of fire exploded outward in concentric ripples, sending Leo skidding back down the street.
Flames licked the lampposts. Embers danced in the steam.
Buudo landed in a crouch. He reached up and yanked the sickle from his chest. Viscous black fluid dripped down his armor in slow globs.
He looked down at the wound.
"Sloppy," he muttered.
His body shimmered. The metallic flesh around the puncture liquefied and surged inward, closing the hole with a squelching hiss.
"We would've had him."
Without pause, Buudo turned—and sliced across Titus.
Titus didn't even raise a hand.
He froze in place, his form unsteady, like a man unraveling from the inside out.
Then came the flurry.
Slash after slash, Buudo carved into his brother. Liquid flesh flew in every direction—splattering onto the walls, the ground, the lampposts. Titus couldn't even scream.
Bit by bit, the structure of his body collapsed, reduced to chunks of glistening black matter scattered across the street.
Only then did Buudo stop.
He stood in the center of the carnage, glancing back at Leo.
"You see what failure looks like?" he asked flatly. "That's what happens when you're not built for precision."
Leo's hands tensed around his scythe. His eyes narrowed.
"You didn't have to kill him!" he barked, voice sharp with something that hadn't been there before—emotion.
Buudo scoffed. "Father will rebuild him. But for now… he was holding us back."
He lifted the sjambok once more, its black length coiling with a hum of static.
"We will submit to Father's will."
Leo's jaw tightened. He watched as the last remnants of Titus slipped off Buudo's gauntlet like discarded grease.
His voice came out quieter this time. Colder.
"…You better be right about this."
Buudo didn't answer.
Instead, he cracked his sjambok against the ground—CRACK!
And lunged.
Doran barely raised his blade in time.
Buudo was already on him—faster than before. Sharper. Each motion honed to a precision Doran hadn't seen until now.
Leo followed seamlessly, moving in concert. Buudo drove in low, aiming an uppercut straight to Doran's gut, while Leo swept his scythe sideways, the blade skimming just inches above his brother's head.
Doran grit his teeth and blocked Buudo's strike with his sword, angling his gauntlet up to deflect Leo's slash at the same time.
But they weren't done.
Leo twisted the scythe—smooth, practiced. Its curved edge slid behind Doran's back like a crescent blade drawing a grin.
Then—yank.
Buudo came around with his free hand, the sjambok whistling through the air toward Doran's already-bruised side.
Doran twisted his body—CLANG!—bringing his sword up and knocking the whip aside, while simultaneously catching the shaft of Leo's scythe.
I can't just defend forever… but they're not leaving a single opening.
His eyes flicked past them—toward the building where Ray had crashed.
The wall was cracked from impact, the bricks scorched black.
But there was no sign of Ray. No body. No movement.
He's gone…?
"What the—?" Doran muttered.
That moment—an instant of lost concentration—was all Buudo needed.
He shot forward like a bullet.
But before his blow could land, something slammed into him from the side—BOOM!
A blur of motion. A familiar voice.
"You take the tall one," it said. "Short one's all mine."
Ray
He stood just in front of Doran, half his skull split open—wires dangling, CPU plates exposed, coolant leaking down the side of his face like blood. His posture remained firm. He didn't flinch.
Doran's eyes widened. "You're still going…?"
Ray smirked, crooked and confident. "Why wouldn't I be?"
Doran's voice lowered, steady but grim. "Remember when I said you wouldn't survive six of my hits?"
"Yeah," Ray said, exhaling a breath laced with static. "Why bring that up now?"
"Because," Doran replied, eyes locking onto Buudo, "you won't survive six of his either."
Ray didn't react.
But he understood.
He nodded once, slow and sharp. "He won't even touch me."
And for a moment—the world stilled.
Steam hissed from fractured vents. Gears ticked like distant war drums beneath the city's metallic skin. Somewhere beyond the battlefield, a trolley rattled along the rails, uncaring.
The four of them stood at a crossroads.
Ray.
Buudo.
Doran.
Leo.
Each convinced their next attack would end it.
Each certain they would win.