A heavy silence descended upon the ruins.
A silence that was not normal.
It was as heavy as a curse.
The ground, stained with the blood of warriors and innocents alike, still oozed, saturated with a metallic, hot odor—like a poison that could never be erased.
The fire had consumed everything, but that putrid smell of charred flesh and burned dust lingered.
A raven cried in the distance, but even it seemed hesitant to return.
Then, the air cracked open.
Like a fabric being torn apart by bare hands.
The shadow opened.
A black circle twisted in space, tearing reality asunder like a gaping wound.
A dark mist spilled from it—fluid, alive, writhing as if the night itself were trying to escape this world.
And the Spectral Scorpions emerged.
Their figures flickered between two frequencies. Neither truly here nor truly elsewhere.
Their bodies, trembling, radiated a cold aura that made the air hiss, as if the shadow itself was trying to flee from them.
The first to step through the rift was a massive man, moving slowly, heavily, almost ceremonially.
His eyes were two black stones, full of exhaustion and contained rage.
Lieutenant Ash.
A veteran of the first holy war.
Right hand of Nocturna.
A witness to the world's failures.
He slowly crouched, his gloved hand brushing against a scorched stone, smoothing its surface like giving a final farewell to what once was.
He knelt beside a mutilated corpse.
A grimace crossed his face, an old face tanned by battles, marked by pain and shame.
— Sergeant Félicia (staring, voice breaking): Lieutenant… do you think it's the Luméens?
— Ash (hoarse voice, slowly): I don't recognize their signature. Too chaotic. Too… hungry. But this cruelty… It reeks of Lucius Nocturnus.
— Sergeant Akar (tense, scanning the ruins): Whenever that name resurfaces, it's never for a blessing.
Around them, the Spectral Scorpions buried the dead, but with no soul. Their movements were mechanical, as if programmed by oblivion itself.
Then Ash froze.
He felt something vibrating beneath his boots.
A beat. Weak. Insistent.
A flicker of light.
Faint.
But there.
And most importantly: alive.
He stepped forward slowly, drawing a short dagger with ancient engravings.
His fingers brushed the pommel mechanically—a bad habit, a silent prayer.
Two lieutenants followed him, silent as shadows.
Amidst the ashes and blood, he spotted a tiny figure.
Curled up.
Asleep.
A child.
Its breath was calm. Its skin intact.
Its face… serene.
Too serene.
An unreal aura surrounded it. The shadows around it seemed… to hesitate, as if afraid to touch it.
Ash felt his throat tighten.
A red halo, pulsing gently like a living ember, illuminated the child's forehead.
An inverted eye.
Then it closed abruptly.
And Ash understood.
This wasn't a survivor.
It was a message.
Around its neck, a ring glimmered faintly.
The Ring of Creation.
An artifact believed to have been destroyed during the first Nexus implosion.
Ash stepped back slightly.
Then, he closed his eyes, pressing two fingers to his temple.
— Ash (mental transmission): My Queen… we arrived too late. The village has fallen. But… there's a survivor. A child. He bears the Ring… and the inverted eye.
A silence.
Then a voice resonated in his mind.
Soft as the night. Hard as stone.
— Queen Nocturna (low voice, torn): He is the son of darkness and light.
— Queen Nocturna (continuing): Do not leave him here. Protect him from the Luméens. He is the heir of Shadows.
Ash opened his eyes.
— Ash (taking a deep breath): At your command, my Queen.
He bent down to the child.
Lifted it into his arms.
And closed the folds of his black cloak around it.
As if covering a fragile flame, a forbidden ember.
Then… they appeared.
Two figures in the mist.
One, white as a lunar specter.
The other, black as the absence of light.
Their steps made no sound.
Their gazes were endless abysses.
The dead grass beneath their feet wilted even more.
The air vibrated with their mere presence.
— Ash (gravely): From now on… he is your master.
The two beings bowed.
Their forms doubled.
Then bent, twisted…
And melted into the shadow of the child.
Without a sound.
Ash straightened.
In his palm, a black key appeared.
Its metal vibrated gently, surrounded by a dark mist.
He extended his hand toward the void.
And the mist obeyed his command.
A Door formed.
Massive.
Immobile.
Alive.
The Door of Shadows.
Ash exhaled, his gaze burning with ancient determination.
— Sergeant Félicia (whispering): We will protect him and teach him what no one could teach us.
— Sergeant Akar (adding): And he will choose his own hell.
Ash entered.
The Spectral Scorpions followed him.
And in his arms…
The child remained still.
They passed through the Door.
Behind them, a torn world.
Ahead of them,
The Tower of Zero.
And in their arms,
The echo of a new cycle.