End of Memory

Aether's footsteps echoed against mirrors. The story—Valen's story—felt truncated, a book missing its final chapter.

"This weakens my story skill," he mused inwardly, watching the spectral guide with a mixture of fascination and suspicion. "It was guiding me to a mere entrance; I wonder by how much, and would it really make a difference—" The thought dissolved as he caught himself slipping into another spiral of contemplation. "I have to stop that."

Finally finding his voice, he addressed the whisper directly, each word measured and deliberate: "Whisper, the memory isn't complete."

The whisper's response came with an almost playful lilt: "Do you think a life ever finishes cleanly? Memories end when the feeler stops feeling. Not when the facts stop."

"I mean, you know, everyone knows..." Aether began, his words trailing off like smoke. "A story has—"

"Has to end," the whisper completed, its ethereal smile spreading wider, more unsettling than before.

"His story did end, a rather slow and cumbersome one, at that," the whisper continued, its voice carrying the weight of pure knowledge.

Aether remained steadfast: "I don't think I need any subject view on the topic; give me plain factual proof, as in the memory."

"What makes you say the mirrors here aren't just subjective?" The whisper's question hung in the air like morning mist. "They are just memories of people. People make mistakes, people misinterpret, people have trauma."

"I don't think I'll want to go into that area now," Aether responded, his voice tinged with caution. "People are curious. And you are known to lure people into their demise."

The whisper's next question came soft as silk: "What would you like to see, guest?"

"Lead—show me the ending of the original ancestor, how his story ends," Aether replied, a slight smile playing at the corners of his mouth.

"Here," the whisper guided, lifting them both toward a particular mirror that seemed to pulse with its own inner light.

"You'll need a memory," Aether offered, instinctively reaching for an exchange, though uncertainty held him back.

The whisper's response sent a chill down his spine: "Oh no, you've given enough as is. How'd you think you viewed so many memories while only giving one?"

Before Aether could process this revelation, his fingers brushed against the mirror's surface. Its face rippled like water, ancient bamboo leaves seeming to float just beneath its surface. His protest died in his throat—"What do you—"—as the mirror pulled him in, hungry for his presence.

The new dimension that greeted him was different from the vast emptiness he'd experienced before. Here, a perfect square of bamboo forest, exactly four trees by four trees, created a natural chamber just large enough for him to sit. The green stalks reached toward an unseen sky, their leaves whispering secrets in an unfelt breeze.

As Aether settled into this confined space, the air began to thicken, reality bending as the memory took shape before him, ready to reveal its long-held truths.

The bamboo forest radiated a serene beauty, the golden sunlight filtering through the towering stalks, dancing on the forest floor.

Yet, amidst this tranquility stood Valen, his armor battered and stained with blood. His voice trembled as he spoke, not with fear, but with the weight of something inevitable.

"I'm coming apart," Valen whispered, watching the blood trail vanish into the air. "As if both my soul and core can no longer hold me." His hand clutched his side, blood seeping through his fingers, dripping onto the grass below. His breaths were shallow, uneven.

The forest's perfect order was unsettling, as if grief demanded symmetry to make sense of the pain.

"Everything seems... different," he continued, his voice softer, yet more resolute. "I'm dying."

He raised his hand to the sky, blood staining his arm, crimson against the bamboo green. He laughed, a bitter, hollow sound that resonated like the first crack in a crumbling wall.

"I guess it's time for the enlightenment journey," Valen chuckled, his voice soaked in resignation and defiance.

Nearby, Rigor sat slumped on the ground, his blood pooling beneath him. The vibrant life of the forest felt distant, muted, as if it recoiled from the scene unfolding. Rigor's body was riddled with gaping wounds, his life slipping away faster than Aether could comprehend.

"No... no, no, no!" Aether's voice cracked as he tried to touch Rigor, only for his hand to pass through, like grasping at mist. His breaths grew erratic, each gasp filled with desperation.

Valen walked past Aether, his steps slow, deliberate, leaving streaks of blood on the grass. He looked down at his brother, his expression unreadable, yet heavy with something far beyond sorrow.

"It was quite a lonely show," Valen murmured, the words as fragile as glass. "I do not think of us as different beings, brother. We were... one."

Rigor's eyes fluttered open, hazy and weak. Blood seeped from the ragged wound where an entire side of his torso had been torn away. Each word he spoke came with a fresh splatter of blood.

"Brother, I do wonder..." He coughed violently, choking on his own blood before continuing, "what would others think of this?"

Valen paused, his body rigid. "Think of what?"

"Our life," Rigor replied, his voice fading into a whisper. "I do think it's a very fascinating narrative." A faint smile tugged at his bloodied lips.

"I..." Rigor's words were slow, deliberate, as if he were choosing each one carefully from a dwindling supply. "I think I can live for another thirty minutes. The energy that constitutes me is—"

"Leaving," Valen interrupted, his tone dry.

Rigor chuckled weakly, a sound that should not have come from someone so close to death. "Very funny," he muttered.

With a grunt of effort, Rigor pushed himself to his feet, his sword digging into the earth for balance. He touched his entire side; it shimmered for a moment before erupting into flames, sealing the gaping wound with a crackling hiss.

"Let's kill that thing," he said flatly, his voice devoid of fear or hesitation.

Valen's lips curled into a grin, blood staining his teeth. "Couldn't have said it better myself."

Aether froze, disbelief etched across his face. "They're... laughing?" he whispered, his voice barely audible.

Their laughter dissolved too fast—like a joke told at a funeral. It echoed, yes. But it never reached their eyes.

The bamboo forest did not rustle. It recoiled. Then, as if ashamed to witness what came next, it vanished—dissolving into a swirling void of smoke and shadow. The golden sunlight blinked out like a dying eye.

From that abyss came a guttural roar. A claw, jagged and slick with tar-like ichor, exploded from the void—aimed directly at Rigor's head. The city trembled.

"Ashbringer," Valen muttered. In one smooth arc, his blade cleaved through the grotesque limb. Fire raced along the steel, lighting up the dark like a beacon of defiance. The claw twitched on the ground—severed but still alive, spasming like a dying nerve.

"They really don't want to face us," Rigor said, rotating his cracked shoulder with a dry chuckle. "Throwing body parts now? That's new."

The shadows thickened, writhing and coalescing into grotesque forms. Fifteen Corrupted demons stepped forward, their bodies nightmarish amalgamations of flesh and shadow. One's face was a gaping maw of tendrils, leaking viscous black ichor. Another dragged blistered limbs that sloughed flesh with every movement. A third had no face at all—just a shivering pillar of exposed bone and muscle where its head should have been.

Valen and Rigor stood back to back. Their weapons gleamed like truth in a field of lies. Then—silence shattered. The demons surged forward, blurring into motion. Valen and Rigor vanished just as quickly—streaks of fire and metal tearing through the void. What followed was chaos: the hiss of melting ichor, the scream of steel biting through bone, the echo of voices drowned in war. Then—abruptly—quiet. The void paused. Like a page between chapters. Laughter echoed faintly. It wasn't mockery. It was memory.

The silence fractured. The battlefield ignited with fury. The demons came again, limbs cracking, movements wrong—like corrupted frames in a reel of time.

Valen blurred into view mid-air, Ashbringer flaring crimson, casting molten halos against the deformed creatures. A demon lunged, maw wide. Valen twisted sideways in a dancer's spin, bringing his heel down hard—shattering its jaw. The thing crumpled, tumbling into the dirt like a discarded mask.

"It's a veil user," Rigor observed flatly, appearing beside another. His hand closed around the tendrils in its chest—wet and pulsating. "Gross." A swipe. Rigor ducked, sweeping the demon's legs out from under it. Ashbringer flew like a thrown verdict, piercing the skull mid-spin. Ichor sprayed.

"Regenerative traits," Rigor muttered, rising. "Keep the pressure constant."

"Put a compensation on it—my life, your life."

Valen hesitated for a moment, catching his brother's gaze. "I mean, we're already—" His words were cut off as another demon leaped at him. Valen twisted mid-air, his aura igniting. His knee struck the demon's abdomen with ferocity, and a follow-up elbow from Rigor to its spine sent the creature flying. Their synergy blurred the lines between two men and one memory.

Valen's aura erupted, incinerating the false night. The void peeled back, revealing an endless grassland soaked in twilight. The demons screeched as their cloaks of darkness fell. All fifteen surged at Valen and Rigor in unison, moving faster than Light could comprehend.

Valen smirked, rolling his shoulders. "I wonder what mom would say in a situation like this."

"Probably something dumb," Rigor growled, ducking a claw and lighting tendrils aflame mid-grab. "Like: 'Keep your center steady.'"

Valen smirked. "So something like—this?"

"Phoenix Blade Dance."

He became a cyclone of flame, his movements a blend of Krav Maga's precision strikes and the relentless aggression of Kickboxing. Ashbringer glowed red-hot, slicing through a demon's mangled arm in a fluid combination of slashes and spinning strikes. Each hit left trails of fire that burned through the creature's flesh, reducing its limbs to ash.

Rigor flowed like molten iron. His movements echoed Tai Chi—slow, certain, lethal. His hands sliced the air; fire followed. A claw slashed for his throat. He ducked, pivoting into a spin. His heel cracked a demon's jaw, tendrils flailing. He caught them, turned them to fire, and hurled them like whips.

"Spirit Blaze."

His fire changed color—deeper, denser. The demon combusted, reduced to ash mid-scream.

Valen tore through three more, his aura now a pyre. Every movement left afterimages of flame, ghosts of motion. One claw clipped his armor. He didn't flinch. One demon managed to strike, its claws grazing Valen's armor. His reflexes sharpened; the earlier kills only fueled his power. He retaliated with a vicious uppercut, followed by a downward slash that split the demon clean in two.

Rigor grinned, flames dancing along his shoulders. Another demon coiled around him—a noose of tendrils. He whispered something, and they turned to ash in his grasp.

"Guess Dad would say... 'Finish what you start,'" Valen panted. He drove his blade into the earth. Flames roared outward. The demons screamed as their flesh turned to cinder.

Silence returned. They stood in a scorched circle, weapons lowered. Valen balanced Ashbringer on his shoulder, sweat steaming off his brow.

"Well... like that," he said, exhaling with a grin.

Rigor looked around at the blackened field. "Let's name this place."

Valen raised an eyebrow. "Name it?"

Rigor nodded. "Yeah... Call it the Core of Ghent," looking over the landscape, filled with craters beyond sight.

Valen chuckled, then lay down on the grass, letting the heat of the battlefield seep into his bones.

"Core of Ghent? Then why did it feel like a tombstone?" Aether spoke aloud.

"Oh yeah," Valen whispered. "We really did move far away.