zawish the unseen

The silence that followed Zawish's words was not peace — it was weight. Heavy. Dense. Arwaah, still on his knees, stared up at the man he had painted as a monster. His chest rose and fell with disbelief, sweat glistening across his bruised skin, blood trailing down his temple. Yet Zawish had let him live.

"I… I don't understand," Arwaah rasped.

"You don't have to," Zawish said, his voice steady, but not cold. "Just get up. And don't get in my way again."

He turned from him, steps slow, shoulders heavy. Not from the fight — but from the sorrow. The sorrow of being hated by those you would die to protect. Zawish vanished into the thick mist that coiled around the edges of the ruined city like the breath of a sleeping god. The sky groaned overhead, dark clouds spinning unnaturally, as if sensing something deeper than war was coming.

High above the city, beyond mortal eyes, a figure watched.

He stood upon nothing, floating in the air as if gravity had forgotten him. His cloak fluttered despite the stillness. A crooked staff pulsed in his hand, carved from ancient blackwood, wrapped in leather peeled from cursed tomes. His eyes — pale white like they had bled all color — narrowed as he stared down at the Earth.

"So this is the one they feared," he murmured, voice silk and sin. "The Unseen."

His name was Vallamir — born of Earth, forged in the pit of humanity's discarded knowledge. No alien power coursed through his veins. No divine birthright. Vallamir had not been chosen. He had taken. Knowledge, magic, pain — he consumed them all.

He raised a hand toward the ruined skyline.

With a whisper in a forgotten tongue, the city changed.

Buildings that had stood tall crumbled into spirals of bone and ash. Roads cracked open like split skin, and strange black vines surged from the earth, slithering across glass and steel. People screamed. Not from pain. From madness. For a moment, the city wept — not metaphorically, but literally. From the eyes of statues and cracks in the concrete, blood poured.

At the heart of it all, a structure emerged — a citadel. Towering. Organic. Pulsing with a heartbeat of magic that had no rhythm, only hunger. It didn't land. It grew, like cancer.

From its jagged balcony, Vallamir stepped forward and spoke — not with voice, but with will.

"People of Earth… bow. Your savior has failed you. But I… I offer understanding. You called him protector. But tell me — who among you sleeps in peace beneath his shadow?"

The world heard him. Not just the city, not just the continent. All of Earth. Every screen flickered to his face. Every device. Every dream. Vallamir's message slithered into the unconscious.

"Zawish hides behind mercy. But mercy is weakness. I will bring control. Order. Permanence."

Far below, Zawish stood on a rooftop, fists clenched at his sides.

He had heard it all.

He wasn't angry. He wasn't even surprised. He was… tired.

Tired of being doubted.

Tired of being feared.

Tired of saving people who refused to understand.

But he couldn't stop.

Not now.

Behind him, a slow, limping sound echoed.

Zawish didn't turn. "You're still alive?"

Arwaah stepped up beside him, holding his ribs, one eye swollen shut.

"You didn't kill me. And I figure I owe you an apology bigger than the moon."

Zawish raised an eyebrow. "I'm listening."

"I thought you were a monster. I was wrong. I think the actual monster's in the sky, growing a demonic skyscraper."

"You think?"

Arwaah gave a dry laugh. "Look… I know I don't deserve your trust. But I can fight. I've got a few tricks left. And I'm pissed."

Zawish smirked. "Good. I'm in the mood to punch a magician."

They didn't shake hands. There was no ceremony, no speech. Just a nod. A shared breath. Then they leapt — two shadows darting through the ruins toward the looming tower of madness.

As they neared the citadel, reality bent.

A car exploded into crows.

A pedestrian crossing light melted into a screaming mouth.

They passed walls that cried, staircases that looped endlessly, and alleyways that ended in open sky. Vallamir's magic was not just dark — it was cruel. Every spell whispered a message:

"You do not belong here."

Zawish didn't flinch. He punched through a wall of ice that bled fire. He vaulted over a pit of hands trying to drag him into memories that weren't his. Arwaah followed, shooting bursts of energy from a stolen gauntlet, face set in stone.

But then the air twisted. And Vallamir appeared.

Not in full.

Just his face — towering above them, massive and translucent, like a god made of glass.

"So," the voice boomed, "the broken traitor and the invisible ghost. What a pathetic alliance."

Zawish grinned. "Your face is even uglier when it's a hundred feet tall."

Vallamir's laughter echoed like thunder cracking mirrors. Then the ground cracked, and three massive shapes rose from it — twisted knights of bone and ink, armed with blades that looked like regret given form.

"Boss fight?" Arwaah asked.

"Mini-boss," Zawish replied.

Then the world exploded in battle.