Altered Fate

Wes coughed, deep and wet, the sound rattling in his chest like stones grinding together. Each breath came harder than the last.

His lungs felt thick, heavy—like they were filling with something he couldn't cough out.

He was close.

His fingers twitched as he lifted his left hand, sluggish, shaking, barely responsive.

He turned his palm up.

The seal was still there.

Even through the filth, the blood, it had not faded.

A half-formed mark, intricate, personal, burned into his very being—not just flesh, but soul. A bond that could not be severed, only broken.

Her kind didn't wear rings, didn't believe in something so easily lost, so easily taken off.

They chose something permanent.

Something that would last beyond death itself.

Two halves of a whole, branded into their skin, into their souls, one on the left, one on the right, only complete when together.

It could not be removed. Could not fade.

It would only break when one of them died.

When it turned to ashen grey, fracturing apart like shattered glass.

How long until she saw it?

Until the cracks spread across her palm, the mark turning lifeless, empty, telling her everything without a single word?

Would she curse him for leaving her behind?

Or would she simply stare at it, fingers tracing the broken magic, silent?

He could see her now—shoulders stiff, jaw clenched, her silence heavier than grief.

And her eyes.

That fierce, untamed violet.

The same shade they had burned when she fought him.

The same shade they had softened to only for him.

Would they darken with sorrow? Or would they stay cold, frozen in something deeper than pain?

Would she cry?

Would she even allow herself to?

He sighed, slow and broken.

Gods, she had been so strong.

Even in the beginning, when their blades met, when they had nearly killed each other, neither willing to yield.

The memory made his lips twitch, the ghost of a smirk lost in the blood staining his teeth.

She had been beautiful even then—fierce, relentless, her body moving like a storm given form, like she had been born to carve her will into the world with steel.

She never faltered. Never wavered. Never let herself need anyone.

Until him.

And now, he was leaving her behind.

Alone.

Another breath, another shudder.

Wes felt helpless.

His body was failing him, but the thought of her still standing, still fighting, still breathing—

It made the end feel a little less heavy.

He could sleep.

Just for a moment.

Let the pain fade, let his eyes close, just for a little while.

But—

No.

His whole life had been a defiance against the inevitable, an act of rebellion against the end.

He hadn't surrendered before.

He wouldn't start now.

Then—

Laughter.

Not just a sound.

A presence.

It rolled through the cave, deep and effortless, resonating in the stone itself.

Not forced. Not manic.

But full—rich and knowing—like a man enjoying a joke that only he could understand.

It didn't stop. It came in bursts, fading, then returning again, as if he found something genuinely amusing about the sight before him.

Wes tried to move. Tried to lift himself up.

Nothing.

His legs wouldn't respond.

His stomach twisted at the realization.

The laughter didn't stop.

Not mocking. Not cruel.

But undeniably entertained.

And then—

He stepped into view.

The laughter belonged to a towering man.

He stood well over nine feet tall, his long-limbed frame appearing almost too lean for his size, yet the way his body moved—controlled, fluid, powerful—left no doubt that he was anything but fragile. Beneath his armor, his form was packed with dense, compact muscle, the kind built from a life of battle, honed for endurance and lethal precision rather than brute strength.

His dull white hair fell in long, unruly waves to his shoulders, thick yet untouched by filth, as if his wildness was by design, not neglect. His beard was just as long and untamed, streaked with faint hints of silver, yet somehow it framed his sharp, angular face rather than swallowed it.

His cheekbones were high, his jaw strong, squared, a warrior's face shaped by time and experience, with deep-set eyes that gleamed beneath slightly furrowed brows. His skin bore the telltale signs of age, weathered but not weak, lightly creased at the corners of his piercing gaze.

And he was grinning.

A wide, almost wild grin, lips curling too easily over straight but slightly sharpened teeth, his eyes bright with something unreadable—amusement, curiosity, or perhaps something more dangerous. His nose was straight but slightly crooked, as if it had been broken before and never set quite right. Scars ran faintly along his arms, disappearing beneath the sleeves of black leather armor.

The armor itself was functional, battle-worn, built purely for movement and durability. No sigils, no embellishments. Straps and buckles held it tight to his broad shoulders and long torso, its surface marked with scratches and indentations, signs of countless fights where steel had failed to break him.

Everything about him spoke of endurance. A man who had seen decades of war but had never allowed time to slow him down.

And beside him—

A stark contrast.

She was small, barely four feet tall, standing at his side like a shadow cast by the mountain of his form.

But there was nothing fragile about her.

Her frame was slender but not frail, her body elegantly shaped, toned in a way that suggested natural agility rather than brute force. She moved with a weightless grace, like she could disappear with a step, like her presence in any given moment was something intentional rather than inevitable.

Her skin was warm tan, rich and smooth, sun-kissed yet pristine, untouched by blemish or scar, as if time or hardship had yet to mark her. Her hair—a deep, rich purple—flowed in loose waves down to her waist, thick but feather-light, strands framing her delicate yet sharply defined features.

Her face was heart-shaped, with high cheekbones, a slightly upturned nose, and full lips, naturally rosy against her golden-toned complexion. Her ears, slightly pointed, peeked through her waves of violet hair, their shape delicate, adding to the faintly exotic impression of her features.

And then—

Her eyes.

Gold.

Not yellow, not amber—true, gleaming gold, like molten metal, like coins polished to an unnatural shine.

Her pupils were round, but there was something in the way they caught the light, something almost luminous, reflective, like they could see far beyond what was in front of her.

Her arms were small but lean, toned with subtle definition, her fingers long, delicate, yet there was a confidence in how they rested at her sides, how they curled slightly, ready for movement at a moment's notice.

Her attire was simple but elegant, made from soft, light materials that clung to her slender frame, fitted for speed and agility rather than protection. There were no unnecessary frills, no useless decorations—everything was designed for movement, efficiency, and precision.

Even the way she stood was telling—relaxed, but not idle, poised as if she were always aware of her surroundings, as if she expected the world to move around her rather than the other way around.

Halflings were notoriously difficult to age.

But she seemed young, appearing to be in her early twenties at most—though something in the way she carried herself, the subtle sharpness in her gaze, suggested that her years may have stretched far longer than her appearance implied.

Wes' breath shallowed.

They looked… different.

Not just strangers.

Not just outsiders.

Something else.

Something he couldn't quite place.

How long had they been standing there?

How long had they been watching?

The man grinned, his voice still carrying that strange, conflicting pitch—high yet deep, as if two tones were speaking at once.

"I bet you have questions," he said casually. "Unfortunately, we're not allowed to answer them. Not that I think you can talk—"

His grin widened as he tilted his head, noticing Wes' struggle, his throat too full of blackened blood to force out a single word.

The halfling sighed, then snapped her fingers.

A flash of pink mana shot from her fingertips, striking Wes' throat like a warm shock to his system.

The moment it hit, the clogged blood burned away, evaporating into mist.

His airways cleared.

He sucked in a breath—painful, raw, but free.

A ranged healing ability?

Who the fuck were these people?

Before he could ask, the man cut him off.

"I'm sure you have questions, but we're short on dying—" he paused, then chuckled. "You're about to kick the bucket, as you Earthlings like to say!"

He laughed again, shaking his head as if this was all some grand cosmic joke.

The halfling sighed once more, clearly used to him by now.

The man leaned on his walking stick, tilting his head toward Wes, his grin never fading.

"The man who killed you stole your future," he said, almost cheerfully, as if he were explaining the plot of some absurd story. "You see, you were supposed to have a Void Crystal. Yup! Your own special, shiny, world-breaking Void Crystal. But—" he clapped his hands together dramatically—"The Void-Eyed Man came along, poked you in the chest, and—poof! Future gone! Timeline rewritten! No more fancy magic rock for you!"

He twirled his finger in a spiral, his voice exaggerated, like a storyteller entertaining a crowd of children.

"I'm sure you figured it out by now, but you weren't born a Null. Nope! You had potential. Big, fat, reality-warping potential. And when our void-eyed friend visited you as a kid? Well… let's just say he didn't like that very much. So, he reached into your little, squishy human self and—SNAP!—rewrote the script!"

The halfling exhaled heavily, shaking her head as if she had heard this explanation a thousand times before.

Then, she turned to Wes, her golden eyes meeting his tired, confused gaze, and spoke flatly, without embellishment.

"What he means is… The man who killed you changed your fate. You were supposed to bond with a Void Crystal. You weren't a Null—he made you one. When he visited you as a child, he altered your future."

She sighed again, glancing at the taller man with thinly veiled exasperation.

"I really wish you'd stop explaining things like that."

Wes couldn't even think straight.

Altered his future?

Wait… what?

His thoughts felt like they were sloshing through tar, his body barely holding itself together, but the man continued unbothered, grinning as if this were the most entertaining conversation he'd had in years.

"And then," he went on, his voice still carrying that strange mix of high and deep tones, "you had to go and be the exception. No Void Crystal, nothing but essence and will alone, and you still kicked ass all over this planet!"

He threw up his hands in exaggerated mock celebration, then leaned heavily on his walking stick, shaking his head with mock disappointment.

"They broke the rules, you know! They cheated, rewrote your fate, stacked the deck—and you still managed to crawl your way up! Ha! I mean, really, can you imagine how frustrating that must've been for them?"

He let out another burst of laughter, shaking his head as if deeply amused.

"You weren't supposed to be here, not like this," he continued. "A null with no crystal? A dead-end, a nothing—right?" He wagged a long, calloused finger at Wes, his grin stretching wider.

"But noooo! You just had to survive, didn't you? You had to be a problem."

Another laugh, sharp, unrestrained, pure delight.

"Did I tell you they can see the future?" he asked suddenly, as if this were an afterthought. "Yeah, yeah! Crazy, right? And guess what?"

He smacked his palm against his forehead as if the absurdity of it was just sinking in.

"You? You're the problem. Again."

The halfling sighed, pinching the bridge of her nose as if she had long since given up on stopping him.

Then, turning her golden gaze to Wes, she spoke—flat, efficient, cutting away the nonsense.

"What he means is… They—Legion—broke the rules to change your fate. You were supposed to have a Void Crystal, but they took that from you. Yet, even without it, you became powerful. That is why they came after you again."

She shot the taller man a look of exhausted patience.

"And I really wish you'd stop explaining things like that."

Wes could feel it now.

The last remnants of strength bleeding out, body failing, the weight of death pressing in.

So many thoughts.

Legion. The rules. The future.

So many questions.

But only time for one.

A breath, ragged and thin.

"Is the Void-Eyed Man still alive?"

The words barely escaped, rough, forced through the tightness in the throat.

"The one who changed my future… and if so, how strong do I need to be to kill him?"

A blink.

Then—

Laughter.

Sharp, full-bodied, genuine delight.

"I like you!" The voice carried nothing but amusement. "Never bitched, never cried—not as a child, not now. Just grit your teeth and kept going, even when the whole damn world was stacked against you. You really are my kind of guy—"

Thud.

A small fist slammed into the towering figure's ribs, not hard enough to hurt, but firm enough to shut him up.

The laughter hitched, followed by a mock wince, hand rubbing the spot as if just remembering pain exists.

A chuckle, the grin never faltering.

"Alright, alright," a pause, a mock thoughtful tilt of the head.

Then, with a glint in the eye, the answer came.

"The simple answer? Yes. Still alive."

A beat.

Then, as if savoring the moment, fingers rolled the void-black seed, movements fluid, dexterous, the object seeming to distort space itself—

Not just an object, but a piece of something far greater.

"And to kill him?" The grin stretched wider.

"You'll need to ascend to SSS rank."

A flick of the wrist, the seed spinning in an impossible arc, twisting in ways the world shouldn't allow.

Then, with unholy enthusiasm, a voice rang out—

"So… what do you say? Can I stick this in you?!"

A pause, a beat of silence.

Then, leaning in, lowering the voice like a conspiratorial whisper,

"I promise it'll only hurt a little. Maybe. Probably a lot. But, hey, no refunds!"

The seed danced between nimble fingers, the void within it alive, shifting.

The halfling groaned, rubbing temples as if trying to physically massage the nonsense out of existence.

"What he means is," the voice came flat, bone-dry with exhaustion, "this will give you another chance at life. A new body. But with this life's memories intact."

A pointed glare shot upward.

"And I really, really wish you'd stop explaining things like that."

Wes struggled, the ember of his life flickering.

So many questions, so many things that didn't make sense.

But none of it mattered.

That fucker was alive.

And if it required ascending SSS to kill him?

Then he would ascend.

A weak breath rattled in his chest. Vision blurred, the edges fading into darkness, yet—something stirred deep inside.

A single spark.

Faint. Small.

But unyielding.

"Do it," Wes rasped.

Laughter rang out.

"Ha! That's the spirit!"

With a sharp yank, the sword embedded in Wes' chest was ripped free, a fresh, dramatic gush of blood spurting onto the cave floor.

The man blinked down at it, head tilting, grinning like someone just discovering a fun fact.

"Oh, that's a lot of black."

A pause.

Then, brightly—

"Huh. I thought humans bled red?"

His tone was genuinely curious, as if this wasn't a horrifying, corruption-induced wound, but instead some mild biological inconvenience he had never encountered before.

The halfling let out the deepest sigh, rubbing at her temples like she could physically push the stupidity out of existence.

"You know what corruption is," she muttered, voice flat.

"Do I?" The man grinned, twirling the sword between his fingers before tossing it aside. "Can't say I've ever been stabbed like that! Looks fun, though."

Wes had exactly no strength to react to that particular comment.

"Anyway!" The man clapped his hands together, then pulled out the void-black seed from his satchel, rolling it between his fingers. "Good thing they already poked a hole in you! Saves me the trouble—now I can just stick it right in there!"

Before Wes could even process what the hell that meant, something small and cold pressed against the gaping wound.

Then—

SHOVED INSIDE.

…

One second.

Nothing.

Two seconds.

Still nothing.

Three seconds.

Absolutely nothing.

Wes still felt like he was dying.

His lungs burned, his body ached, every inch of him still screaming in pain, still fading, still just… dying.

Not healing.

Not transforming.

Not doing anything.

The man's eyebrows lifted slightly.

Four seconds.

Eyebrows rose higher.

Then higher.

Then higher—ridiculously arched, like they were trying to escape his forehead altogether.

The halfling's golden eyes narrowed, arms crossed, one delicate foot tapping against the ground.

A breath.

Then—

"Okaaay," the man mused, rocking on his heels. "Usually it does something by now."

A pause.

Then—

"Should we poke him again?"

The halfling sighed, rubbing temples like she had long since run out of patience for this entire situation.

Then—

It hit.

The pain didn't build. It didn't warn him.

It consumed.

His chest ignited, something reaching inside him, not touching flesh but gripping something deeper.

It wasn't burning—it was unraveling.

Wes gasped, but the air was gone.

He wasn't being pulled into the void.

The void was pulling into him.

His vision darkened. His mind stretched, torn from his body, a force far beyond comprehension yanking his soul into nothingness.

The last thing he heard was the man's cheerful voice.

"So, uh… what are we doing with the corpse?"

A beat of silence.

"I call dibs on the loot."

And then—

Wes was gone.

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100 Miles Away – The Wilds

She hadn't run.

She would never have left him.

But he hadn't given her a choice.

For days, they had fought.

Through blood, through fire, through the screams of the dying.

The city had resisted, its walls battered but standing, its people clinging to survival.

But in the end, it hadn't mattered.

The city still fell.

And when it did, when their forces crumbled and the last of their defenses shattered—

He made his choice.

He would be the one to stay.

The one to hold the line.

The one to block the retreat.

At least for those who were still left.

Because the enemy hadn't come for the city.

They had come for him.

And he had known it.

So when the moment came—when she refused to leave his side—

He took the choice from her.

She had turned, calling out to the others, rallying them to push forward, to break past the enemy lines before it was too late—

And then—

Everything went black.

Not from an enemy's strike.

From his.

His essence slammed into the back of her head, swift, deliberate, unavoidable.

Planned. Executed. Absolute.

Her body collapsed instantly, her vision tilting, her thoughts scattering before she even understood what had happened.

The last thing she saw—

Was him, standing alone.

Then—

Nothing.

She awoke miles away, the storm roaring overhead, breath sharp, skull still aching from the force of his strike.

Then she saw it.

Her right palm.

The seal was breaking.

Fractures split across her skin, black veins twisting outward, creeping deeper, unraveling like something rotting from the inside out.

Her breath hitched.

Her heart slammed against her ribs.

No.

Her fingers curled into a tight fist.

No. No. No.

The mark kept cracking, tearing apart piece by piece, the connection unraveling, pulling at something inside her, something she refused to let go.

She had never feared death.

Never feared battle, or war, or the idea of dying with steel in her hands.

But this—

Losing him—

That was something else.

Something worse.

And then—

A spark.

A flicker.

The void of severance reversed.

The cracks sealed themselves, the bond roaring back to life, magic burning brighter, hotter, fiercer than before.

Her breath caught.

Fingers trembled over the mark, pressing against it, as if she needed the proof, as if she had to feel it herself to believe it.

It hadn't broken.

It had flared brighter, hotter—stronger than before.

Her shoulders sagged, a breath shaking between disbelief and relief slipping from her lips.

Then, a laugh.

Soft. Shaky.

Disbelieving.

Tears slipped past her defenses, hot and blinding, but she didn't wipe them away.

She pressed her palm against her chest, holding onto the warmth, onto the truth she had almost lost.

He was alive.

And she had never loved him more.