**Chapter 77: The Land of the Forsaken**
Draven floated in an endless void, his body weightless, his mind adrift. The darkness around him was absolute, a suffocating blanket that pressed against his senses. His eyes fluttered open, but the sight was no different from when they were closed—pure, unrelenting black. He stared into the abyss, searching for something, anything, but there was nothing. No light, no shape, no horizon. Just emptiness.
*Thud. Thud.* His heartbeat echoed in his ears, the only sound in this silent realm. But then, faintly at first, voices began to seep into the void. They were distant, fragmented, and chaotic. Some screamed for salvation, their cries desperate and raw. Others hissed insults, their words sharp and venomous. "The Failure," one voice spat. "The Abomination," another sneered. "Oathbreaker," a third growled, the accusation heavy with disdain. Draven's hands shot to his head, gripping his temples as the cacophony grew louder, each voice clawing at his mind. "What is this noise?" he muttered, his voice trembling. "What's happening to me?"
Before he could make sense of it, the darkness shifted. It was as if the void itself had been ripped apart, and Draven felt himself falling. The sensation was brief, and he landed with a soft *thud* on a dusty, barren ground. The air was thick with the scent of decay and ash, and the wind howled aggressively, carrying with it swirls of dust and debris. Draven pushed himself up, his eyes scanning the desolate landscape. The wasteland stretched endlessly in every direction, a graveyard of forgotten battles. Swords were embedded in the ground, their blades rusted and broken. Torn banners and shattered armor littered the earth, remnants of a war long lost to time.
In the distance, a massive gate loomed, its iron frame towering over the wasteland. Chains as thick as tree trunks bound it to the ground, their links rusted but unyielding. Draven's eyes narrowed as he approached, his footsteps crunching against the dry earth. The gate seemed to pulse with an eerie energy, and as he drew closer, a voice echoed in his mind, deep and resonant.
"Welcome to the Land of the Forsaken," it intoned, each word heavy with finality. "Where the lost find their purpose… or perish trying."
Draven's breath hitched as memories flooded back—the sword piercing his chest, the cold embrace of death, the darkness that followed. His hand instinctively flew to his chest, but there was no wound, no scar. He was whole, yet he knew he was no longer among the living. A bitter chuckle escaped his lips. "So, I'm dead," he muttered. His gaze hardened as he addressed the voice. "Send me back to where I came from, or I'll burn this forsaken place to the ground."
Silence was his only reply. The wind continued to howl, and the chains on the gate rattled faintly. Draven's eyes darted around, his senses on high alert. A sudden *scuttle* caught his attention, and he spun around, his body tense. But it was just a rat, its beady eyes glinting in the dim light before it scurried away. Draven exhaled, allowing himself a moment of respite.
But that moment was shattered in an instant. From the corner of his eye, he saw a flash of movement—a slim, armored soldier, its blade gleaming as it swung through the air. The strike was impossibly fast, and though the blade appeared to hit the ground, Draven felt the searing pain of its edge slicing through him. He leapt back, his movements a blur, but the soldier was already closing in. Draven's eyes—his All-Creation Eyes—flared to life, their golden hue now tinged with an ominous black. He could see the soldier's movements, predict its strikes, but his body struggled to keep up.
The soldier swung again, its blade cutting through the air with a *whoosh*. Draven dodged, but the force of the strike sent him stumbling. He summoned his Jormungdar Blade, the weapon materializing in his hand with a faint *shing*. The blade hummed with energy as Draven lunged forward, his movements a deadly dance. The soldier parried with ease, its speed and strength far surpassing Draven's. Each clash of their blades sent sparks flying, the metallic *clang* echoing across the wasteland.
Draven's breath grew heavier with every strike, his body weakening under the relentless assault. His All-Creation Eyes allowed him to anticipate the soldier's moves, but landing a hit seemed impossible. The soldier was a whirlwind of precision and power, its blade a blur of silver. Draven's arms trembled as he blocked another strike, the impact reverberating through his bones. He leapt back, creating distance, but the soldier was already upon him, its blade slicing through the air with a *swish*.
As Draven struggled to keep up, his eyes caught sight of something glinting in the distance—a sand timer, its glass surface cracked but still intact. The sand within was nearly depleted, the grains trickling down with an ominous *hiss*. A realization dawned on him. "The timer…" he muttered, his voice barely audible over the clash of blades. "I have to defeat him before it runs out."
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Meanwhile, in the real world, Huey stood with Shiki, his grip firm on the younger boy's arm. Shiki's eyes were wide with confusion and frustration as he struggled against Huey's hold. "Why are you holding onto my little brother?" Shiki demanded, his voice tinged with anger. "What's going on, Huey?"
Huey then said, " you're the Seerer, why don't you see that for yourself haha" and then Huey's expression was unreadable, his gaze distant. "You wouldn't understand," he said quietly, his voice heavy with regret. "Not yet."
The wind howled around them, carrying with it the faint echoes of a battle far away—a battle that would determine the fate of a soul lost in the Land of the Forsaken.