CHAPTER 2

Two years had passed, but Craymoor still whispered of the night it died.

Charred buildings stood like the bones of giants, some half-swallowed by overgrowth, others crumbling under their own silence. The wind that once carried laughter now howled through empty alleys. Ash still clung to corners, and the air tasted of smoke and memories.

Zenith adjusted the worn cloth over his mouth, stepping over a shattered lantern. His boots left prints in the dust, the same streets he'd once run through with his sister. Ires followed behind him, quieter than usual, a blade slung across her back and a bow in hand.

"You sure about this?" she asked. "We've taken enough risks lately."

Zenith didn't answer immediately. His eyes scanned the rooftops, as if expecting one of the World Eaters to descend again. "There's something here," he finally said. "I felt it in my sleep."

She narrowed her eyes. "Another dream?"

He nodded. "But not like the others."

In the two years since they fled Craymoor, Zenith's dreams had grown darker—visions of shadows whispering his name, of a world beneath their own, broken and ancient. Sometimes he saw his sister's face, calling out for help. Sometimes… something else answered.

They moved through the city ruins in silence, past collapsed statues and scorched homes. Zenith stopped in front of a cracked stone wall near what used to be the central square. His hand brushed it, fingers tingling.

"There's something under here."

Ires frowned. "A tunnel?"

He nodded. "Old Craymoor bunker. My father told me about it once. Used before the Wall was built."

Together they worked to pry the broken stone away, revealing a staircase leading into the earth. Cold air breathed out of it, smelling of damp rock and forgotten time.

"Whatever's down here," Ires muttered, "it better not be hungry."

They descended slowly, torches in hand. The bunker was still intact, though barely. The walls pulsed with a faint energy—a hum in the silence. Then Zenith stopped. His eyes locked on a distant glow.

"I will go check over the old market Square" ires said as she turned and left.

Zenith just nodded and kept staring in th distance.

He didn't know why he was here. Only that something had drawn him — a pull in his chest like gravity. He had ignored it for days. Until now.

He passed crumbled walls etched with ancient writing, crossed shattered bridges barely holding above collapsed streets, and at last came upon it: a spire blackened by fire and time, leaning like a dying tree against the sky. He had never liked this place even when the city was still standing now it just looked more eriee

At its base sat a smooth black crystal, pulsing faintly with unnatural life.

Zenith hesitated… then reached out.

The moment his fingers touched the surface—

everything vanished.

---

He stood in a void.

No ground. No sky. No sound. Only presence.

A voice broke the silence, deep as the abyss and cold as the stars.

> "So… this is the vessel the world offers me?"

Zenith turned wildly, searching for the source. "Who's there?!"

> "You are not worthy."

"Show yourself!"

> "You dare command me?"

The voice rippled through him like thunder. It wasn't human. It wasn't even alive in the way Zenith understood. It was ancient. Vast. And angry.

Zenith's fists clenched. "What are you?"

> "I am the reason your world is dying.

I am the one your gods cast into this mockery of Earth.

I… am Chaos."

A chill gripped Zenith's spine. The name echoed in his mind like a memory not his own.

> "You touched my crystal. Now you are mine."

"I didn't ask for this," Zenith growled.

> "None ever do. And yet, here you stand."

The voice circled him like smoke.

> "Your kind built cities on a lie. You war and starve and scream into a sky that was never yours. This world is not real. It is a prison. And I am its only truth."

Zenith's voice cracked, defiant. "Then I'll break the prison. But I won't be your puppet."

The void trembled. The voice paused. Then—laughter. Cold. Amused.

> "Good. You may yet survive."

---

Zenith gasped awake in the mud outside the spire. His chest heaved. Rain fell in heavy sheets. The black crystal still pulsed in his palm.

He wanted to drop it.

But he didn't.

In the distance, something screamed — long and inhuman — and the sky cracked open. A World Eater had sensed the awakening.

Zenith didn't run.

Not yet.

Because in the back of his mind, the voice whispered again — quiet this time. Almost eager.

> "Run… or let me show you how to make gods bleeed"