- Theresis' POV
I saw the streak of light before I heard it.
Not an arrow. Not a bolt of energy. Not even the scorching flare of Originium combustion. Just—light. Clean. Searing. Light. A sudden force that cracked through the air like a flash of thunder.
The Sarkaz warrior went down mid-sprint, chest punched open by an impact too fast to track. No fire. No Arts. Just... death.
I turned my gaze to the source.
The outsider.
Wrapped in white tattered suit of armour that clings to their body. Unsteady, thin arms holding a long gun—not a crossbow, not a staff, not even a Laterano-made Originium guns.
Something in me tensed.
I knew what a gun was. Everyone did. Even the ignorant fools in Kazdel's cesspits knew of Laterano's obsessions. Their laws. Their rituals. Their so-called holy rights to all firearms across Terra. Especially those long guns—the guardian class, reserved for Executors and Saints.
I had faced them before. When a team of Executors came to Kazdel over a dead Sankta's lost weapon. They tore through a Sarkaz village with methodical grace. Their bullets weren't just metal—they were doctrine made manifest.
Arts, wrapped in lead, etched in Originium. You could feel it. Every shot was a sermon of death.
I'd lost good men that day. Men who had fought monsters and kings for centuries, brought low by foreign dogma turned into ammunition.
But this?
This figure fired again.
Another streak of blue. Another Sarkaz felled. No prayers. No warnings. No Arts.
And I felt... nothing.
No resonance. No Originium echo. Not from them, not from the weapon.
The Nachzehrer King shimmered like the litteral embodiment of death in my senses. The Banshee Queen pulsed in low, keening waves. Even my sister in her ever radiant power, glowed through the black crown hovering over her head, Civilight Eterna.
I could feel all of them.
But not this outsider.
It was like staring into a mirror that gave no reflection. Like seeing a weapon fire with no fire inside. It made my skin crawl.
That gun—it wasn't Lateran. It couldn't be. It functioned without Originium.
And that disturbed me more than I care to admit.
Who was this Outsider? Where did they come from?
Why did the world around them feel so quiet—even as they killed?
Their posture wasn't one of skill or poise. They held the gun like someone barely aware of what it was. Yet the results were precise. Clean. Terrifying.
No arts. No chants. Just a pull of the trigger.
They weren't a Sankta. They weren't an Arts user.
And I had no idea what they were.
But I could no longer look away.
+++++++
- Nezzsalem, the Nachzerer King's POV.
The moment that blue light tore across the field, I felt something old stir in whatever remains in the marrow of my old bones.
I have seen many things in my years—centuries? Millennias? I've stopped counting. Wars that painted mountains red. Kings born from ash and undone by dust. Kazdel has risen, fallen, bled, and fed on itself again and again, and still I remain. Watching. Guiding. Enduring.
But that shot... that shot pulled from a very old memory.
The outsider's figure—small, trembling, wrapped in white—stood like a ghost in the smoke. That long gun in their hands, spitting blue death without fire, without Arts, without soul. It defied everything we understood, and everything Terra feared.
And I remembered.
Not a moment. Not a battle. But a tale.
A boyhood legend. One my own grandmother once told me, when I was still young enough to believe that wisdom came with firelight and stories of the elders.
She spoke of the Fédaykïns, a warrior people of the first Kazdel, founded by the blessed Hunter himself. Fierce and cunning in the golden age before their splintering.
Before the long bitterness.
Before they became what they are now—fanatics and jackals, dividing their own bones between cult and coins.
But in those days, they whispered of a being.
Not one born of Terra, nor born to it. A stranger cloaked in foreign winds.
One who would come wielding the thunder of the sky, carrying the voice and the sword of death in their hands.
No staff. No rod. No catalyst. Just the will to destroy and a weapon that required none of our old rites.
A Voice of the stars, they called them.
The Harbinger.
The Breaker of Fate.
The End and the Beginning.
The One that will lead the Teekaz to a Green Paradise.
Prophecies. Fairytales. Superstitions of a people whose sands had long been washed away by Elder races' steel and Ancient's contempt.
I never believed in it. Not truly.
Even now, I refuse to admit it. The Fédaykïns, no... "Free Men" have fallen far from the proud warriors they once were.
One sect now prays to their myths as gods, frothing at the mouth in southern temples. The rest—well, they scrape by raiding Ursus border caravans and selling children for whatever they need to survive.
But as I watch this outsider...
As I hear the absence of Originium, feel the impossible stillness in the air where there should be resonance...
As I see the fear and reverence building in the eyes of even Theresis himself...
I cannot help but remember that story.
I see the pieces slowly being laid bare before me. Scattered. Waiting to be assembled.
And it terrifies me.
Because if this is who the Free Men—and Buldrokkas' once foresaw, if this is the beginning of that old legend's fulfillment...
Then Terra is not prepared for what Nightmare comes next.
And neither am I.
+++++++
- Laqeramaline, the Banshee Queen's POV
I heard it before I sensed it. And that alone was wrong.
There was no shift in air pressure. No trace of Originium Arts. Not even a whisper of malice in the ambient flow. Just a sharp, searing streak of blue light tearing past us—and then a wet, final thud behind.
I moved, instinctively, stepping protectively in front of my friend—my hand tightening around the bone-crafted stave I'd wielded for centuries, etched with old songs of sorrow and ruin.
Then came the scream. Not of pain. Not of rage. But that foreign voice again—raw, guttural, sharp with panic.
An unknown language, echoing through the clearing like it didn't belong in this world. It made my crown ring.
Theresa gasped, faltered. I held her steady in my arms.
I turned my head to the dead warrior. A hole through his chest, neat as a surgeon's incision, steam rising from the ragged armor like he'd been cleansed by something that didn't belong to our battlefield.
To our world.
And standing there, behind shattered brush and dust, was that pale figure.
Still couldn't tell what it was. Slender. Small. Cloaked in white like a mournful specter.
Not Sarkaz for I can't see any horns nor tail on them.
Nor Sankta neither, for I see none of their luminescent halo and wings.
Not anything I knew.
Their gun didn't pulse with Arts. It didn't chant anything. It didn't breathe any form of Arts nor Sarkaz magic.
It killed.
I see them clearly now. Thin arms, trembling like leaves in wind, yet still clutching that tool of death. Their posture was collapsing in on itself, like the act of firing it had drained the spirit right out of them.
Then I felt it.
Fear.
Shame.
Desperation.
Radiating off them like poison in the wind. I recognized it.
I've made thousands feel it in my time.
But now? Now I felt it from them, and I flinched.
I looked to Theresis. He was frozen, eyes narrowed in thought, studying the weapon like it was a piece of forbidden artifact.
Nezzsalem was still as a grave marker.
Theresa trembled slightly, her gaze distant—still in the outsider's mind, no doubt.
And me?
I lowered my stave a little. Not in surrender. But out of a terrible, sinking dread.
Something's wrong with this world.
Something came in from the outside.
And for the first time in generations… I feared we weren't the monsters Terra feared and loathed anymore.
++++++++
- Maria's POV
I pulled the trigger.
The shot rang out—loud, final. A line of blue light cut through the air like a final judgment.
And then… I felt the silence.
He fell.
He fell.
Everything inside me froze. The world narrowed down to that warrior's body slumping into the sand, smoke curling from the hole I'd just burned through him. His axe, or whatever he carried, dropped with a thud, followed by the soft, final sound of flesh against dust.
I didn't move. I didn't breathe.
He was alive.
He was alive just seconds ago.
Now he's not.
Because of me.
My helmet's HUD flickered. New readouts appeared. Target marked. Vital signs null. Shot confirmed.
Just a message, and blinking dot, indicating he was gone.
[Well Done.]
I had just killed a man.
And then another movement—another shape charging at me. The lasgun moved on its own. My arms just… reacted.
Another shot. Another beam.
Another life, snuffed out like a candle.
The HUD blinked again.
[Well Done.]
I stood there, locked in place. My fingers felt stiff around the weapon. My arms shook. Everything inside me screamed that this was wrong. This wasn't supposed to happen.
This was just a dream.
A nightmare.
This wasn't real.
People don't just die like this.
People don't scream like that.
I'm not a killer.
But the red-marked targets kept moving.
And I kept pulling the trigger.
Each shot made me feel like I was breaking further.
Then—
Sand. A sudden sting of coarse, hot sand against my visor. I gasped, reeling back instinctively, blinking as the tiny granules scattered across my helmet's lenses. I pulled the trigger, but the shot went wide. The beam scorched into the sand, and it hissed—the ground turned to glass before my eyes.
What—?
A voice behind me. Slurred. Panicked.
"Luk aut!"
I twisted around on instinct. My arms moved, legs stumbling as I turned—
And then I saw him.
A man.
Tall, broad, furious—charging toward me.
His cloak flared behind him like wings of black smoke. In his hand, a black and red sword gleamed in the firelight. Pink eyes locked onto me, furious, focused, murder written in every line of his face.
And then—
"Theresis, wait!"
Another voice. A woman. Distant.
But the sword was already falling.
Down, down, down.
Right toward me.
My arms moved without thinking—The lasgun came up to meet his strike.
CLANG.
The sword hit like a thunderclap against the weapon's body. Metal screamed against metal—and before I could brace, he twisted his wrist, pivoting the blade with brutal precision. The lasgun tore from my grip. I gasped.
What—?!
The weapon spun out of my hands, flipping through the air before landing somewhere behind me with a muted thud in the sand.
I didn't even have time to reach for it.
The kick came next.
WHAM.
Right in the chest.
My world jolted—sound and air torn from my lungs, vision flickering white.
But—no pain.
I heard it instead: the strange, low-frequency hum, like the world itself flinching. A shimmer of blue sparks danced before my eyes, and I felt the ripple in my suit's energy field.
The shield—Holtzman shield—it held.
But it didn't stop the force. My boots left the sand, and I was thrown backward like a ragdoll, tumbling once before slamming into the ground. Sand and ash puffed around me, clinging to my visor, coating my gloves.
My chest burned from the kinetic transfer. Not pain—more like pressure. My mind reeled.
I coughed, body curled inward. That blow… it should've shattered something.
But it hadn't.
I am still alive.
Alive and disarmed.
I turned my head, eyes scanning frantically through the HUD.
The lasgun—where was it—?
There!
Half-buried in the sand, just a few feet away.
He was coming again.
I scrambled, crawling toward the weapon with everything I had left.
Don't think. Don't freeze.
MOVE.
I reached out—fingers brushing cold metal.
Just one more inch—
Thud!
His boot crashed down onto the lasgun, sending it skidding farther out of reach, disappearing into the swirling sand.
No—!
I barely had time to lift my gaze before his next move came.
The blade flashed.
It came down fast—too fast for me to think.
I raised my arm on reflex.
CLANG—CHHK!
The sword struck my forearm—and this time, the shimmer of the Holtzman shield flared like a pulse of light across my entire body.
And for the first time—it stopped him.
The blade didn't dig in.
It didn't cut.
It bounced back.
I saw his face—just for a second. Not rage. Not hatred.
Shock.
He stumbled slightly at the recoil, his stance thrown off. I didn't hesitate.
My fist clenched.
I pivoted, drove it low—
CRACK!
Right into his leg.
I felt the jolt go through my knuckles, my whole arm snapping with the force behind the blow. He grunted—more out of surprise than pain—but he staggered.
Good.
I could breathe again, if only for a second.
But I knew better.
This wasn't over.
Not by a long shot.
He reeled from the hit to his leg, but not for long.
His foot scraped the sand, posture shifting again—experienced, precise, brutal.
But so was I.
Or… something in me was.
I didn't think clearly. I just moved.
My feet pushed off the ground—body low, shoulder driving forward. I threw myself at him with another strike, fists clenched, guided by something between instinct and panic.
He parried the first, then the second. His blade whirled—silver, fast, brutal.
He struck again.
KRSH!
It glanced off my ribs. The shield shimmered in a flare of light, and again, the sword was pushed back—repelled.
Still intact.
Still safe.
He growled under his breath, his expression darkening, frustrated—maybe confused.
Good.
I twisted and came back around, faster this time.
My fist shot forward—slamming into his face.
CRACK!
His head jerked to the side, pink hair whipping from the impact. Blood flicked into the air.
I think I broke his nose.
My hands were shaking.
I wasn't a fighter.
I didn't want this.
But I couldn't stop now.
I struck again—left, right, again. I could hear shouting, screaming—The pink woman? The girl? I didn't know. My heartbeat roared louder than any of them.
He recovered quickly—sword flashing once more.
Then—
SKRRT-CHK!
Pain.
A burn.
I gasped.
The shield failed.
The blade bit through something soft, my flesh.
He'd cut me.
My breath caught as I stumbled back—eyes wide, heart racing.
His face said it all.
He hadn't expected that either.
The blade dripped red.
His eyes locked with mine—uncertain now.
You didn't know how you could pierce the shield, I thought.
The pain was sharp, stinging, but it faded behind the numb pressure of my fear, adrenaline, and the painkiller's effect.
He kept coming.
I saw the silver arc again, relentlessly lashing out furiously. It bounced off again. And again. The Holtzman field rippled in blue, hissed, held strong.
But I can see in his eyes, he was testing.
He didn't stop.
Looking.
Probing.
Measuring.
He struck again, deliberately—then again, but this time. I flinched, because the blade passed through. Just slightly. A burn trailed across my arm. And the pierced shield flared in red.
I gasped.
Blood again.
He found it.
He slowed down.
I stumbled back, clutching my bicep—wincing at the sting of it. The shield hadn't flared the same way this time.
He knew now.
He closed in, eyes narrowing. Another strike—slower. I jerked away, barely in time.
Then another.
And another.
He was breaking through.
I tried to move—parry, dodge, anything—but I was too slow. My legs didn't want to obey.
The drug's effects is coming off...
The blade came again. I tried to block.
Too slow.
And then I heard it.
"THERSIS, DON'T!"
A voice—A woman's—cut through the chaos.
"Don't kill her!"
He stopped.
Just for a breath.
His eyes locked on me—confusion flickering across his face.
Her?
I saw it in his expression. The dawning shock.
He hadn't known.
He didn't know who I was.
Didn't know I was—
The next blow came too fast to stop.
I braced myself—my arms crossed high in front of my head. I saw the sword coming down, arcing like a silver crescent straight toward me.
I'll block it—!
But it never landed.
Instead, I felt the shift in the wind—off.
My eyes widened.
Something slammed into my stomach—hard.
A Feint?!
A fist, armored and brutal, struck me dead around my gut and lower chest.
My shield flickered, catching some of the blow—but not enough.
All the air in my lungs exploded out in a dry, soundless gasp.
My body folded, all strength gone in an instant.
No breath—I can't—breathe—
The world tipped.
Blurred.
I heard a voice, again, frantic, in the distance.
"Theresis!"
The last thing I saw was a flash of the man's suprised face
Shocked.
Conflicted.
Then nothing.
Just... black...