The Dance of Those Who Will Never See

"There are things we desire more than anything... and the world, without our consent, decided to deny them to us." — Memoirs of Oblivion

⸻

The blood on his lips was warm.

Perhaps the only thing that still was.

The rest of his body was nothing but a ruinous landscape. A geography of spasms, invisible fractures, and cold woven deep into his marrow.

The cold no longer bit — it gnawed. Slowly. Like a promise of forgetting.

Rays stood. Blind. Trembling with pain.

Before him, the Shadow Devourers returned. Again. More numerous. More precise. As if they were learning. As if they understood that his suffering was not a weakness, but a song.

And they wanted to decipher the lyrics.

The wind moaned through the ruins. A laugh passed by — or perhaps a memory of one.

He tightened his grip on the katana. His skin cracked. His hands bled. Every heartbeat was a slap. Every breath, a reversed blade.

And yet... he moved forward.

⸻

The Echo Against the Void

One step.

Then another.

Rays closed his eyes. A useless reflex, but a comforting one. Like a lie. Like a final power: the power to deny the obvious.

"Echolocation."

The word, cast into the shadow of his mind, painted a world.

A world without light — but not without outlines.

The snow crunched. Breaths quickened. The rustle of air tore the silence — and every sound became a golden thread woven across the black canvas of his perception.

A vibrating painting. Unstable. But real.

Three to the left. One tall. Two small ones behind. Their rhythm shifted. A choreography rewritten in urgency.

He froze.

Held his breath.

Then — he leapt.

The ground exploded behind him. A claw ripped through the air. Too slow. Anticipated.

Midair, he twisted his body. His blade sliced the wind.

Ching!

An arm severed. Black blood splattered the snow. Hot. Aggressive. Unreal.

A roar tore the air. Too close.

He crouched. One leg stretched. A lightning-fast spin.

Shlak.

The head rolled. But the body, decapitated, kept moving on its knees.

As if their hatred survived their reason.

⸻

Clandestine Choreography

Rays no longer fought.

He danced.

His steps betrayed exhaustion, but every pivot, every dodge, every strike was a note in a song written in urgency.

Blind, but lucid.

"Heightened senses."

His nostrils smelled blood before it flowed. His ears caught tendon tensions, bone clicks, hacked intentions. His fingers felt the air vibrate along the blade — like a warning before the storm.

The world had refused him light.

So he became instinct.

He would be the beast that sees without eyes. The survivor who hears space's lies.

He didn't see. He sensed.

And he struck.

⸻

The Invisible Trap

But they were too many.

And he... was becoming too slow.

So he thought like a predator.

He drove his blade into the ground. Then his palms. They met frost, mud, and fragments of an ancient world.

He shaped the earth like an offering.

Tiny spikes burst forth. Finger-sized. Sharp as prayers.

He scattered them in the snow. Dozens. Hundreds. Invisible to any eye.

But they... had no echo.

They wouldn't know. Wouldn't understand.

"Silence belongs to me now."

He pretended to stumble.

Two monsters charged.

Crack.

Screams. Spasms.

The traps had torn through their legs, their jaws, their arrogance.

They didn't understand their pain.

So Rays freed them.

Two strikes. Two heads. Two graves in the snow.

⸻

The Voice That Won't Let Go

His legs shook. His lungs burned.

But in the dark, a voice whispered:

"Keep going. If they swallow you, there'll be nothing left. Not even your name."

Rays had never been a hero.

He was born in filth. Rejected by gods. Cut from the world.

And yet, he endured.

Not for glory.

For Rex. For the trace.

For proof that he had existed.

⸻

The Ancient Duel

A roar.

But this time, it wasn't a growl.

It was a war chant.

The leader had arrived.

White. Massive. Translucent like a frozen ghost. Its claws twice Rays' size.

And its silence... carried something sacred.

Rays growled. And raised his katana.

The storm paused.

The cold held its breath.

The other creatures retreated.

The world folded in.

A duel. Pure. Brutal. Primal.

Blindness against monster.

Flesh against hatred.

⸻

The first strike nearly gutted him. He rolled. A claw gouged the earth.

He countered.

The blade hit. But didn't pierce. Too dense. Too ancient.

A shriek split the air.

Forbidden frequency.

His nose bled. His eardrums cried.

But he smiled.

He had heard it.

And he knew.

⸻

The Final Illusion

He planted one last trap. Just before him.

Then collapsed. Feigning exhaustion. Becoming prey.

The monster charged.

Crack.

Impaled knees. Choked scream.

Rays sprang up. Blade in hand.

A spin. A syllable of farewell.

Shhhhhlak.

The head flew.

And silence… at last… returned.

⸻

After the Dark

Rays fell to his knees.

He vomited blood. Tasted iron, frost, earth.

And he laughed.

A broken laugh. Hollow. Alive.

He was still here.

Blind. Exhausted. Cursed.

But not dead.

Not yet.

⸻

"I never wanted light. Just a place where no one spits on me."

⸻

And in the wind, he heard Rex barking.

Faintly.

He stood up.

And moved on.