Chapter 4: A Fractured Realm
The air was different.
The scent of rain, the weight of gravity, the distant murmurs of a world teeming with life—it was all foreign to him. Xalveth had crossed the veil between dimensions, stepping into a realm bound by fragile mortality.
The world of humans.
He stood upon a vast city, its skyline piercing the heavens like jagged fangs. Towers of steel and glass reflected the twilight, flickering with neon lights that hummed softly in the darkness. Yet despite the vibrance of civilization, the undercurrent of emptiness was unmistakable.
Humans scurried through the streets, consumed by their own insignificant struggles, unaware of the anomaly that had entered their realm.
Xalveth walked among them.
His presence did not stir immediate attention—not because he concealed himself, but because humans lacked the ability to truly perceive him. Their minds, shackled by their limited existence, instinctively ignored what they could not comprehend.
But there was one exception.
He felt it before he saw it.
A gaze. Sharp. Calculating. Defiant.
Xalveth turned.
Across the crowded plaza, a man stood still amidst the shifting tides of humanity. Tall, clad in a dark coat that rippled in the night breeze. His eyes—those eyes—locked onto Xalveth, filled with something so rare, so impossibly audacious:
Recognition.
A smirk played on the man's lips as he stepped forward.
"You don't belong here," the man said. His voice carried no fear. Only amusement.
Xalveth tilted his head. Intriguing.
The man's hand moved to his belt. A flicker of energy rippled through the air as he drew forth a blade—not of metal, but of something older. Something that did not belong in the hands of a mere human.
"You're powerful, aren't you?" the man continued. "But I've killed gods before."
Silence stretched between them.
Then—he attacked.
The moment the blade swung, reality itself seemed to bend. The air screamed, the weight of existence shifting unnaturally around them. A force beyond human comprehension was being wielded—a force meant to wound even the divine.
But before the blade could strike—
The man collapsed.
Not from a counterattack. Not from an external force.
His own body simply… refused.
His legs buckled, his breath caught in his throat, his fingers twitched violently as though they had lost all control. His pupils dilated—not in fear, but in raw, primal submission.
His entire existence recoiled from Xalveth's presence.
He did not understand why. His mind screamed at him to fight, to move, to resist. But his body knew the truth before his mind did.
It was never a battle to begin with.
The human was insignificant. Weak.
No weapon, no knowledge, no history of battle could ever prepare him for the reality that stood before him.
Xalveth did not attack. He did not need to.
He simply was.
And that was enough.
The man gasped, his body drenched in sweat. For the first time, he felt small.
Not just physically.
Existentially.
"I…" The man struggled to speak. His hands shook as he forced himself to look up. "What… are you?"
Xalveth said nothing. He had no reason to answer.
With a final glance, he stepped forward, passing the trembling human without another word.
The man remained kneeling, staring at nothing, consumed by the truth he could not unsee.
Xalveth continued walking.
And for the first time since he had awoken—
He wondered.
He had power. More than power—an existence beyond understanding.
But what was its purpose?
What was his purpose?
He did not know.
Yet.