The Weight of Immortality

The wind howled through the ruins of a world that no longer recognized itself. The sky, once a brilliant tapestry of colors, now lay draped in muted grays and fractured blues. The weight of countless deaths pressed against Alfred Lost's chest, like chains woven from memories too painful to recall, yet too vital to forget.

He sat upon the edge of a broken monument, staring down at the abyss where a city had once thrived. His fingers traced the cracks in the stone absentmindedly, feeling the cold seep into his skin. The warmth that had once defined him, the vibrant life that had set him apart from the rest, was fading. Slowly, piece by piece, death was claiming him—not by force, but by inevitability.

"Why do you linger?"

The voice was a whisper, yet it echoed through the hollow ruins as if the walls themselves carried its sorrow. He turned his head slightly, already knowing who stood behind him.

She was a vision of stark contrast—raven hair flowing like ink against the paleness of her skin, lips dark as the void that swallowed the stars. Her presence was cold yet strangely comforting, like the last breath before surrender. Death herself, standing there, watching him as she always did. As she always would.

Alfred clenched his fists. "You know why."

"Do I?" she murmured, stepping forward, the ground whispering secrets beneath her touch.

He exhaled slowly. "Because I'm still alive. Because every day, I wake up, even when I shouldn't. Because this curse—this eternity—it binds me to a world that is no longer mine."

A pause. Then, softly, "It is not eternity that binds you. It is your grief."

He laughed, bitterly. "Grief? That's what you call it? Watching them die, one by one? Feeling their hands slip from mine, powerless to stop it? And yet, no matter how much I bleed, no matter how much I break, you never take me."

Death was silent for a long moment. Then, "You do not belong to me yet."

The words stung more than they should have. He had thought, after everything, that she had kept him alive out of cruelty, or out of some divine punishment. But this? This was worse.

"Then tell me," he whispered, voice raw. "When will I?"

She hesitated, and for the first time, he saw something unfamiliar in her gaze. Regret.

"When there is nothing left of you but the ache."

The words lingered between them, fragile and unspoken truths draped in sorrow. Alfred swallowed hard. He had lost so much already. He had fought against the gods themselves, clawed his way through the fabric of fate just to defy the inevitable. And yet, the one thing he could not change was the weight within him—the unbearable loss that time refused to heal.

His fingers trembled as he reached toward her, the barest ghost of a touch. He didn't know what he expected—comfort, perhaps, or maybe just proof that she was real. That she was more than the specter haunting his every breath. But as always, she stepped back, just enough that the space between them felt infinite.

"Rest, Alfred," she murmured. "You have a long road ahead."

And with that, she was gone.

He sat there for what felt like hours, staring at the empty space she had left behind. The weight of immortality settled deeper into his bones, and for the first time, he wondered if, when the end finally came, he would be ready to let go.

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The world felt quieter after the last battle, but Alfred knew it was the kind of silence that came before a storm. His body ached from the wounds he had suffered, but it was the dull ache in his heart that hurt the most. One by one, the people he had loved had vanished, taken by the merciless hands of fate, leaving him behind—a living ghost, trapped between hope and despair.

The nights had grown longer. The cold bit through his skin no matter how many fires he lit. It was as if the world itself had begun to reject him. Death, ever-present, loomed in the corner of his vision, an unspoken presence, neither guiding him nor offering him release. She stood with that haunting beauty, her midnight hair falling over a pale face that never changed, never softened. And yet, Alfred saw the weight she carried—the burden of existence without end.

"Why?" he asked her one night, his voice rough from exhaustion. "Why do you watch me suffer? Why not take me, like you've taken the others?"

Death's dark eyes regarded him, unreadable as always. "You are not meant to die yet."

The answer burned inside him. "Then what am I meant for? To watch everything I love fall apart? To be left with nothing but ghosts and memories?"

She took a step closer, and for a moment, he thought she might touch him. But she didn't. "You are meant to change the world."

Alfred let out a hollow laugh. "And when I'm done? Will you finally take me then?"

A pause. Then, softly, "Yes."

The answer settled into his bones, bringing neither comfort nor dread. Just a cold certainty. If Death herself had promised it, then it was true.

Days passed into weeks. Alfred walked through the ruins of what was once a grand city, now reduced to rubble and ash. The gods had played their games here, and humanity had suffered for it. He clenched his fists. He could feel the shifting balance, the cracks forming in the divine order. The gods feared him now. And they had every reason to.

He had found a way to hurt them.

The knowledge had come at a terrible price. It was not just their bodies he could destroy—it was their very essence, their souls. The same way Death reaped humans, he had learned how to sever a god from existence itself. It was dangerous, it was unnatural, and it was a sin against the order of the world.

But Alfred no longer cared about such things. He had lost too much to stop now.

Death watched as he worked, her expression unreadable. "You walk a dangerous path."

"Then stop me."

She didn't.

And so, the hunt began.