The Darkness That Chooses

The crowd roared like a storm within the open arena, the noise shaking the metal beneath the feet of spectators starved for spectacle. At the center of the circular stage—its ground cracked in a thorned pattern forced into bloom by violence—a giant of a man raised his blazing red fist. His aura radiated raw power, a pressure that made the very air tremble.

His opponent was a girl. No more than her early twenties, clad in worn-out combat gear—torn, filthy, without protection. No weapons. No system. No stats. Just her body—forged by hunger, and hatred for a world that abandoned her.

Amid the sea of cheering voices, three figures stood hidden within the veil of illusion. Invisible to human eyes. Undetectable by mana sensors or awakened sight.

Kaelen sat on a cold stone bench, a black hood draping softly over part of his face. Behind him, Velia stood tall, green eyes glowing with observer's magic that captured every movement. Arven leaned against a shadowed pillar, hands in his pockets, his blue eyes cold as a winter moon.

"She's going to lose," Velia whispered, voice flat.

"She knew that from the start," Arven replied emotionlessly. "The opponent's a close-range B-grade Awakener. And her… she's unsystemed. Unregistered. Unbound."

Kaelen didn't take his eyes off the stage. "But she's still standing," he said quietly. It wasn't praise—it was fact. "And that… is enough in a world that breaks anything without a name."

On stage, the girl tried to block yet another lethal blow. Her bare, bloodied fist clashed with overwhelming force. Her body was flung, crashing into the arena wall. Blood sprayed from her lips. Her bones might've snapped. But her knees… still fought to hold.

And she stood.

Even as the world declared her defeated.

Even as her body was wrecked without mercy.

She stood.

The cheers slowly shifted into murmurs. Mockery mingled with awe. And behind it all—within an unseen mist—someone smiled.

Kaelen rose, his cloak flowing with his elegance movement. "Velia."

Velia nodded, summoning a small scroll into her hand. A red seal marked with a circular fracture pulsed faintly—an emblem unknown to the world.

"An invitation from the Household of Ruin," Velia said.

"Give it to her directly," Kaelen ordered. "Not through the system. No intermediaries. Make sure she knows… this isn't a reward. It's a chance to burn the world from the inside out—starting with the filthiest part of it."

"And if she refuses?" Arven asked, still leaning in the shadows.

Kaelen looked down. The girl was still standing. Shaking, broken—but her eyes… were fixed on the sky. Not in prayer. But in defiance.

"She won't refuse," Kaelen replied coldly. "People like her… never say no to a choice, when the world has never given them anything but scars."

Emergency Medical Ward — Two Hours After the Match

The air reeked of alcohol, blood, and rusted metal. Flickering neon lights danced on the ceiling like dying sparks at the edge of extinction.

Siera sat quietly on the metal bed. Her left arm was hastily bandaged. Her temple, stitched. A bruise bloomed dark across her cheek. But her eyes... didn't plead. Didn't seek pity. They simply stared at the floor, hollow.

The door slid open.

Someone stepped in. A woman with dark brown hair, loosely tied back. Worn jacket, denim pants, an ordinary face. No aura. No badge. Nothing to raise suspicion—A perfect disguise for a princess who disguises herself as a commoner.

Velia approached, pulled up a chair, and sat without a word. The silence was almost too calm for a place like this.

"If you're a reporter," Siera muttered without turning, "the answer's no."

"I'm not a reporter," Velia replied—flat but calm. "Not a fan. Not a sympathizer. I didn't bring pity either."

"Good," Siera mumbled. "I'm sick of cheap sympathy."

Velia opened a small bag and pulled out a scroll. Black thread bound it. A red seal marked with a fracture that almost seemed to breathe.

"An invitation," she said simply, placing it on the bedside table.

Siera turned, skeptical. "To where? Hell?"

Velia offered a faint smile. "Maybe. But this time, you get to choose the path yourself."

"Cult?" Siera asked, laced with sarcasm.

"Not a cult. Not an organization. If you accept the invitation, you'll know who we are. If not… then you were never meant to."

"A joke."

Velia stood. "If you burn it, we won't return. But if you accept… you'll learn there's another way—one that doesn't kneel."

She left without looking back. Alone again in the quiet room, Siera stared at the scroll. As if behind the paper and seal… was something like a mirror. And for the first time in a long while—she was curious.

Three Days Later — District Five

The old building looked like a remnant of a world long forgotten. Its walls cracked. Its windows shattered. But inside, the halls were clean. Crystal lanterns glowed gently, bathing the round hall in magical light that clashed with the ruin outside.

Siera pushed open a heavy iron door. Her hand still clutched the opened invitation. Inside it, only one line was written:

"Step into ruin. And rise as something the world cannot understand."

Inside the hall, seventeen others were already present. No badges. No status. Some looked like beggars. Some like laborers. But they all shared one thing—eyes that had lost something... but hadn't died.

Whispers started to spread.

"Is this real?"

"A secret guild?"

"Or are we being played?"

"I got my invite after a failed duel… it was a disaster… but I had to see…"

All the chatter stopped—when a woman entered the room.

Her steps were light. Blond hair tied low. A simple black cloak draped over her frame. But the aura she carried crushed the air like the tide before a storm.

Siera froze.

"That's… Althea…" she whispered.

The crowd stirred.

"No way—Althea?"

"Guildmaster of The Last Survivors?"

"What is she...?"

Althea didn't speak. Didn't look at anyone. She walked past them like a ghost. At the far end of the hall, six figures waited in silence.

None of them known to the public. Unfamiliar faces—but Velia knew them better than anyone.

Arven Deylac. Syrra Veltaine. Lorrick Fenwald. Veyra Ashcrow. Nolien Trask.

Five of The Last Six—pillars who had saved the world more times than anyone knew… and whom no one remembered.

Althea stood before them.

"How many?" she asked, her voice low but gripping.

"Eighteen," Lorrick replied without hesitation. "Three parties. It's enough."

Althea nodded, then asked bluntly:

"Where's Kaelen?"

Silence. Shadows thickened across the hall.

Arven answered at last. "Recruiting someone."

"Someone?" Althea frowned.

"Outside this world," Veyra cut in. "That's what he said."

The air felt colder.

Siera glanced around. No one knew who Kaelen was. But from the way they spoke his name… he was no one—and everything.

Alternate Dimension — The Nameless Realm

The sky here never changed color.

Gray. Lifeless.

No sound. No wind.

Only emptiness, draped like a funeral shroud left too long over a corpse the world had forgotten.

The land was cracked and barren, dried like the skin of a planet stripped of its right to life.

No trees, no ruins, no marks of history.

Just endless wasteland stretching in every direction—

—as if this world had been discarded by the universe and rejected by time.

Kaelen walked alone through the void.

His steps were calm.

His cloak trailed behind him, sweeping the dead dust that could no longer rise—because even the air refused to move in this world.

A system window appeared before him.

Spherical and transparent, framed with a faint white glow that gave off no sound.

AETHERIA [System]:

"Are you sure you don't want to enter as The Empress?

With the character tag inactive, this body can only access one-third of its full power."

Kaelen stopped.

His gaze drifted toward the grey horizon, blank and promise-less.

He raised his hand. The black glove slipped off, revealing pale fingers that shimmered with a deep violet aura—a fragment of power that shouldn't exist in any reality.

He clenched the air… and struck it.

There was no explosion. No roar.

Only a silence that grew deeper.

"If I arrive as The Empress…"

Kaelen's voice was soft, but unshakably firm,

"…the World Will of this realm will reject my presence instantly."

He slid the glove back on and resumed walking.

"I'm not in the mood to deal with another god. Too… irritating."

AETHERIA:

"They'll sense your aura."

"I know."

Kaelen didn't slow. "But I only need one person."

AETHERIA:

"And if that person refuses you?"

A faint smile curved Kaelen's lips.

Not hopeful. Not kind.

But calculated—like a chessmaster who had already seen the endgame from the first move.

"I have time."

At the Edge of the Savage World

The valley was deep, curved like a wound that hadn't healed.

The earth sank into a massive crater, silent and still.

No trees. No wreckage. No signs of life.

Only the wrong kind of peace—like a final breath held too long.

Kaelen stood at its center.

The energy of this place was too quiet. Too balanced for a battlefield.

It felt like a graveyard for something that was never supposed to be buried.

But Kaelen knew.

It was still here.

The remnants of power, suppressed for years… remained in a form so precise, so clean, it emitted no wave.

Like blue fire—quiet, but capable of consuming all if touched.

AETHERIA:

"Detected: internal spatial rift. Artificial realm. Stable structure. Likely formed from a second-generation World Seed."

Kaelen bowed his head slightly, then looked toward the rift as if speaking not to the space itself, but to something hidden within it.

"I know you've been watching me since I arrived."

Silence.

Then, the fabric of reality trembled.

Air split like torn cloth, forming a black circle suspended midair.

From it, a figure emerged—a woman.

She moved slowly, almost silently.

But with every step, the air tightened—

as if the world itself felt unworthy to carry her.

Her hair was long, black like scorched coal, adorned with strange metal ornaments from a world not of this one.

Her outfit wasn't a cloak or armor, but something in between—biological and mechanical at once.

Like roots and living metal woven into layers of protection.

Her eyes were red.

Dimly glowing. Tired, but sharp.

Kaelen didn't step back. He looked her straight in the eye.

She stared in return—then finally spoke.

Her voice was raspy, low, but it shook the dead air around them.

"I smell the scent of a creator in your human body," she said, like naming something she despised most.

Kaelen didn't respond. He simply stood there—still, like a shadow that had passed through too many ends already.

"But I recognize the trace. You came from beyond… and from above."

AETHERIA:

"Identity confirmed. Codename in False God archives: [Eresh]. Alias: The Forgotten Tyrant."

"Why are you here?" Eresh asked, her tone wary, nearly contemptuous.

"If you think you can bargain with me, save it for the gods too stupid to understand ruin."

Kaelen didn't flinch. His voice was cold, sharp as a drawn blade:

"What must I pay… to have you?"

Eresh narrowed her eyes.

The ground around them cracked.

A thin purple mist seeped from the fractures, wrapping the air like poison waiting to be inhaled.

"Enough."

"Don't tell me you're another envoy of the gods—the ones who exiled me."

Kaelen bowed his head—not in submission, but permission.

"I want to rebuild the world," he said softly, "and I don't need knights. I need pillars."

Eresh smiled.

And cracked.

"The world never builds anything without crushing something else beneath it.

And I'm done being the foundation of thrones that only betray me."

Her hand rose.

The world answered.

The ground split.

The sky darkened.

A blood-red aura surged from her body, forming wings that spread like shadows from her back.

"If you want me at your side…"

"…then prove you can bring me to my knees first."

Kaelen inhaled slowly.

Then, he opened his left glove.

A deep violet aura burst forth—not exploding outward, but folding into itself, forming complex sigils that wrapped around his arm.

A runic blade—like a sword born from a world undone—took shape.

"Very well."

Kaelen raised his blade.