An Old Enemy Returns

"You see it, don't you?" The Hopekiller's sneer curled his lips as his voice rang out, cold and triumphant. "They run like rats, scurrying to their deaths, all for the pitiful hope that they might save you. It is fitting, then, that I will have the final blow to crush Reem."

The Hopekiller's words sliced through Akash as sharply as any blade. His hand trembled, gripping the fractured hilt of his shattered resin-infused sword. His chest heaved as he tried to steady his breathing, his body screaming for rest. Around him, the battlefield was chaos—men falling, blood soaking the sands, and Reem's army fracturing under the relentless assault of the Bridgemen. The once-mighty forces of Reem were now nothing more than desperate survivors clawing for victory, and it was his failure that had led them here.

He should do it. He should let go. Let Nakba loose. The creature that had haunted his every waking moment, that had whispered malice and temptation into his mind since the moment their bond was forged, could destroy the Bridge and everyone on it. With Nakba unleashed, there would be no Bridge, no Bridgemen, and no Hopekiller. They would all fall to ruin.

It was an answer. A brutal, unthinkable answer. One he hated. But it was an answer nonetheless.

Akash's gaze flicked to Veneres, lying in the distance. The self-assured Paramount of Reem was pinned to the ground, the blade of the Rusting Knight hovering at his throat. Even the man who schemed endlessly for victory, who spoke of grand visions for the future of Reem, was defeated. If Veneres fell, there would be no one left to lead. Akash gritted his teeth. No matter his personal doubts about Veneres, Akash knew the man could lead. Veneres could bring Reem into a new age, even if Akash fell here.

But that was just it. They were losing. Reem had already lost. Even with Veneres's cunning, there would be no rebuilding from this.

Another glance, and the weight of despair nearly brought Akash to his knees. His vision swam as memories of Jassin and Dante filled his mind. Their voices—gruff but steady, laced with the wisdom and guidance they had offered him—echoed in his thoughts. They had died for this. They had fought so that he could carry their dream forward. And now, that dream was crumbling, falling into the same blood-soaked sands that now threatened to consume him.

Akash's lips parted, his voice trembling as he whispered, "I'm sorry, Master… I failed."

"Heh. The fool finally sees the futility," Nakba purred from the shadows of Akash's mind, his voice smooth and poisonous. There was a mocking satisfaction in every word, as though Nakba had been waiting for this very moment.

The malice was there, just beneath the surface, pooling like ink beneath Akash's skin. Nakba's presence pressed against his consciousness, growing heavier by the second.

"It's all gone, isn't it?" Nakba continued, his voice dripping with mock sympathy. "The dream. The hope. All gone. Just like your friends."

Akash closed his eyes, his fists clenched tight. Nakba was right. Mirak. Daenys. Jassin. Dante. All gone. All taken from him by a world that seemed to revel in its cruelty. How could he deny it any longer? It was all wrong. So, so wrong. The hero was supposed to win. His friends were supposed to live. That was how the stories went.

But this wasn't a story.

This world was broken.

Akash dropped to one knee, staring at the fractured hilt of his sword. Its edge was useless now, the once-brilliant resin-infused blade reduced to shards. He heard something—faint, distant, like a whisper carried on the wind.

"S…ay…m-my…n—"

The words hissed through his mind, fractured and warped, as though spoken through layers of water and static. The voice was faint, a rasping murmur that felt older than time itself.

Akash's brow furrowed. The whisper seemed to come from nowhere—and everywhere at once.

"…sh…Say…my na—…"

It was not Nakba's voice. It was something else. Something… ancient.

"What is this?" Akash whispered aloud, his voice barely audible over the sounds of battle.

"Stop fighting it," Nakba urged, his tone shifting to something almost seductive. "You've already lost. They're all dead or dying because of you. Accept it, Akash. Give in. Let me take control. I will give them what they deserve."

"No," Akash hissed, his voice shaking with effort.

Nakba laughed, the sound a low, malevolent rumble that seemed to echo in the very air around them. "No? You're denying me now, of all times? After everything? Oh, Akash, you truly are pathetic. You're clinging to a shattered dream. There's nothing left for you here. Let me show you how to truly win."

"…Shsss…shh…accept…sss-hope…call…m-my…"

The whisper grew louder, still broken and incomplete, yet somehow persistent. Akash's eyes darted back to the blade, his grip tightening around the hilt. The shards of the resin-infused sword shimmered faintly, as though something within them was stirring.

"Enough of this," Nakba growled, his voice taking on an edge of impatience. "You know what you have to do. Let me out. Give me control, and I will end this farce. I will burn the Bridge and scatter their ashes to the winds. I will crush their bones beneath my feet."

Akash's hand trembled as he lifted the hilt of the broken blade. His heart pounded in his chest, the sound deafening in his ears. He could feel Nakba's power coiling beneath his skin, dark and unyielding, waiting to be unleashed.

But the whisper persisted, strange and fragmented, like a distant voice calling across a void:

"…S…sss…a…y…my na…"

Akash opened his mouth, the name hovering on the tip of his tongue. He didn't know what it was—but somehow, he knew it was there. Waiting.

But Nakba surged, cutting through the whisper with all the subtlety of a tidal wave.

"Enough games!" Nakba roared. "You want to die here? You want to watch your precious Reem burn because you're too weak to make a choice?"

The world around Akash seemed to tremble as Nakba's laughter filled the battlefield. It was no longer confined to Akash's mind—it echoed through the very air, a deep, guttural sound that sent chills through all who heard it.

The ink-black malice coiled around Akash's veins surged, spreading across his skin like wildfire. His arms darkened, blotched with the same blackened markings that pulsed with an unnatural energy. The Tridact on his neck flared with a sickly glow, its edges twisting as though alive.

Akash raised the shattered blade in one hand and gripped the Tridact with the other. His fingers trembled as he plucked it from his neck, the intricate chain snapping.

He brought the Tridact to his lips, his eyes closing as he swallowed the artifact whole.

Nakba roared with triumph as the final tether snapped. The blackness surged through Akash, consuming him completely. His head tilted back, and his mouth opened in a silent scream as his body convulsed.

When Akash's eyes opened again, they were not his own.

They glowed with a fiery, molten orange, radiating a heat that seemed to scorch the very air around him. His posture straightened, his movements now fluid and predatory. The battlefield seemed to grow still as the presence of the Ruin manifested fully.

Nakba—now in full control of Akash's body—looked to the Hopekiller, a smile playing on his lips. "Finally," he said, stretching his arms as though testing the limits of his new vessel. "It has been far too long."

The air around him darkened, a thick miasma of malice spreading outward. Soldiers on both sides froze, their weapons lowering as they turned toward the source of the overwhelming presence.

Nakba smiled, his voice now spilling from Akash's lips, deeper and richer than before. "You wanted a monster, elf? Allow me to show you what true despair looks like."

And with that, Nakba stepped forward, the battlefield trembling beneath his feet.