Ragan landed on something that felt like stone—but there was no impact. No pain. No jolt through his legs. Just the strange, disorienting moment of realizing he was standing still, even though seconds ago he'd been falling through an endless sky.
He blinked.
The ground beneath his feet looked like glass, or obsidian, or maybe liquid—it shimmered with faint ripples as he moved, even though it felt solid under his boots. Above him stretched a sky filled with shattered stars and silver fire, drifting across an endless black canvas like dying embers scattered across a bonfire's aftermath. There were no clouds, no sun. Just those broken constellations, burning slow.
And swords.
They floated in the air. Hundreds of them. Maybe thousands.
Ragan turned slowly, taking it all in. He wasn't breathing hard anymore. His blood had stopped dripping. His injuries—whatever had been broken or torn—weren't screaming at him like they had minutes ago. He should've felt panic. Or awe. But instead, there was a strange calmness in his chest.
Like something inside him already understood.
Not why he was here.
But that he was supposed to be.
Still, that didn't stop the words from slipping out of his mouth.
"…Where the fuck am I?"
His voice sounded too loud. Too human.
Like it didn't belong here.
The realm didn't echo. It just listened.
And somewhere in the far distance, something answered. Not with sound. Not with thunder or flame or flashing light.
But with a name.
His name.
"Ragan."
It wasn't shouted. It wasn't whispered.
It just was.
He turned. His eyes locked on the figure seated on the throne.
It hadn't been there a second ago. Or maybe it had, and his mind had only just been allowed to see it.
The throne was made of swords. Thousands of them. Layered, bent, fused—some rusted, some broken, some impossibly pristine. They formed a jagged spire of iron and edge, like a sculpture built out of warfare and grief.
And at the top of it, lounging as though it were a soft velvet cushion, was a woman.
She looked like she had been carved from moonlight. Pale skin that almost glowed, long hair the color of polished obsidian, and eyes like deep-space voids with flecks of fire at the edges. She wore something like armor and something like silk, but neither word felt right. It moved with her body like liquid glass, shifting as she did, shaped by her will instead of gravity.
She regarded him with a calm expression. Not disinterest. Not superiority. Just patience. Like she had been sitting there for a very, very long time, waiting for something to happen.
Waiting for him.
"Approach," she said.
And so he did.
Not out of trust. Not out of awe. Mostly because he couldn't think of a good reason not to.
As he walked, his boots barely made a sound against the surface. It felt like glass underfoot, but it didn't reflect him. There was no shadow. No temperature. Just the infinite night sky overhead, its silver fires crawling across the black like spilled mercury, and those impossible swords floating like celestial debris.
He looked around as he moved—slowly, carefully—taking it all in.
Each blade was different. Each one felt like it had a name, a story, a purpose. One had a hollow spine and burned with a faint inner light, another looked like a chisel made of frozen blood, and yet another spun slowly as if bored, covered in moss that shouldn't have been growing in a place like this.
The first time he held a training sword, he felt something—not joy, not excitement. Just… stability. Like it made sense. Like the world, for once, had a shape he could understand.
That same feeling tickled the back of his spine now. Except this time, it wasn't calm.
It was charged.
He finally reached the base of the throne. It towered over him—blades stabbed together like bones to make a skeletal monument, their edges dulled only by time and death. And there she sat, watching him descend into her world like a queen waiting for a fool to realize he'd stumbled into a kingdom built on broken oaths.
"You are… not what I expected," she said, voice smooth, but distant.
Ragan stopped.
"…Cool," he said, blinking. "Nice throne. Real subtle."
Her eyes didn't narrow, didn't flicker. Just stayed locked on him.
He scratched the back of his neck. "So, uh… I'm dead, right? This is hell? Or the inside of a really dramatic video game cutscene?"
Still no smile. No laugh. No correction.
"I touched a sword," he muttered, looking around again. "That's all I did. It was glowing, floating, buzzing with apocalyptic energy. And I thought, hey, let's touch the magical murder blade. Genius."
"You are not dead," she said plainly.
"Oh."
That shut him up for a second.
He looked back up at her. She hadn't moved, hadn't blinked. But her voice had weight. Enough that he knew she wasn't guessing.
"…Okay. Not dead. Got it," he said. "So… what, then? Dream? Coma? Spirit plane?"
"No," she said. "You are standing in my domain. Between your world and mine. This is a place few have seen, and fewer have left."
"Great," he muttered. "Love that. Super comforting."
He cleared his throat.
"…So. Are you, like… God?"
Finally, a change.
Her lips curled, not into a smile, but something between amusement and disappointment.
"I am not a god," she said. "Though mortals have called me that. Worshiped me, feared me, bled for me. They chanted my names in battle, burned their flags in my honor, and painted the skies with their screams. But I am not just a god."
She stood slowly, descending the steps of her throne. Each footstep echoed faintly, though he couldn't tell from where.
"I am an Aspect," she continued. "A rule. A force. I am the will that does not bend. The edge that does not yield. I am the motion that keeps a creature crawling forward even when every bone is shattered. In your tongue… I am the Aspect of Unyielding Will."
Ragan blinked.
"Okay," he said after a moment, "but that sounds a lot like a god to me."
She tilted her head slightly. "Does it matter what I am, Ragan Hart? You stand here. You were chosen. That is what matters."
He laughed under his breath, rubbing his eyes. "Right. Right. I'm the chosen one now. Sure. Why not. I live in a one-bedroom apartment with three broken chairs, no food, and in a ton of debt. But yeah. Let's make me the chosen one. Totally reasonable."
Her eyes narrowed slightly now. Not angry—just watching.
"Why are you speaking this way?"
"This way?" he echoed. "Lady, I got beat half to death by three assholes in a back alley. I've had the worst month of my life. Now I'm talking to some immortal battle queen in the middle of sword-heaven, and you expect me to take it seriously?"
"You should."
"Well, I'm trying," he snapped, voice a little sharper now. "But I've been trying my whole life. And every time I think maybe things'll finally stop kicking me in the teeth, they don't. So no offense if I'm not falling to my knees and kissing your feet right now."
There was a pause.
Then—softly, strangely—she said:
"I know."
He froze.
She stepped down the last of the blade-throne's steps and stood in front of him now. Not looming. Not towering. Just… standing.
Close enough to see the faint glow in her eyes. The weight they carried.
"You were not chosen because you are noble," she said. "Nor strong. Nor pure."
Ragan exhaled slowly.
She continued.
"You were chosen because when the world broke you, you didn't break with it."
He looked away.
"I am fading," she said. "I am forgotten in the new age. My dominion weakens with every passing moment. My realm thins. My essence unravels. Where once entire worlds trembled at my presence, now even my sword lies buried in dirt, unknown, untouched."
She reached out—not toward him, but toward the sky.
One of the floating blades drifted closer, glowing faintly.
"But the Archeblade still answers. It still seeks. And it found you."
He turned back toward her slowly. "So… what, then? You give me this sword, and I do your dirty work?"
"I offer you power. And a burden."
"Right. Classic."
"You will carry my legacy. You will fight as my vessel. My will, reforged in flesh and fury."
She looked into him now, eyes lit like distant galaxies.
"You will be hated. You will be hunted. You will suffer more than you can imagine."
She stepped closer.
"But you will rise."
And for the first time in what felt like a hundred years, he felt something deep in his chest. Not pride. Not fear.
Something else.
Something like… possibility.
Her hand extended.
"Do you accept this burden, Ragan Hart? Will you take up the sword and carry me forward?"
He looked at the hand. Then at the sky. Then at her.
He exhaled.
And with absolutely no hesitation said,
"…Yeah. No thanks."