Alvinnué’s eyelids fluttered open.
He stood in silence.
Nothingness stretched in every direction — no shapes, no light, no air to breathe. Only endless black.
A thought stirred: the dark… why does it not frighten me?
There was no chill. No threat. No absence — only stillness.
A warmth — subtle, unspoken — wrapped around him, settling deep into his bones.
Not fear. Not sorrow. Only quiet comfort.
A faint glimmer appeared at the edge of the darkness — soft, like a dying ember.
Alvinnué turned toward it. The light pulsed, steady and alive, drawing him forward.
His boots moved before thought could take hold. Step by step, he walked.
The void seemed to part around him, bending like water.
The light grew brighter, warmer, until it filled his vision.
He stepped into it.
The darkness vanished.
Before him lay a village shrouded in muted grey light. The air smelled of rain‑soaked stone. Beneath it lingered the faint scent of distant incense and burning wood.
The village was unlike any living memory. Narrow lanes wound between small houses of dark wood and slate, their curved rooftops mottled with age. Paper lanterns swayed gently from poles and eaves, though the air was still. A low hum of quiet life seemed to hang in the air.
The village breathed with an ancient grace. Figures moved softly through the lanes, draped in layered robes of deep charcoal and ash, faces hidden beneath wide‑brimmed hats. Soft footsteps on cobblestone mingled with the distant murmur of a river.
Alvinnué stepped forward. He walked slowly through the village, his boots brushing cobblestones slick with rain. He watched the people — how they moved, how they spoke, how they lived.
There was something in them that stirred a memory deep within him. A familiarity he could not place.
A quiet recognition, like recalling a dream long forgotten.
Faces passed by — some fleeting, others lingering in his sight — and all felt oddly known. As though he had once walked among them before, though he could not say when or where.
The village lanes curved and twisted, carrying him deeper into its heart. The sound of footsteps gave way to soft murmurs.
Ahead, the path opened into a small square — the village center.
In the center of the square, a group had gathered. They stood close together, heads bowed in quiet conversation, robes rustling softly. Their voices carried faintly, though the words were lost to the hush that seemed to blanket the village.
The group moved with intent, their gestures careful and deliberate. Some pointed toward a low stone table at the center of the gathering. Others shook their heads, as if weighing what was spoken.
Alvinnué paused at the edge of the square. His boots made no sound against the stone. The village seemed to hold its breath around him.
There was something about the scene — the way they spoke, the way they moved — that stirred an even deeper sense of familiarity within him. A strange certainty that he had been here before, standing exactly where he now stood.
And yet… he could not remember when.
Then the murmuring slowed. The crowd parted.
From the far side of the square, a figure stepped forward.
He was a man. His robes were black, edged with accents of deep teal that shimmered faintly even in the muted light. The fabric flowed around him, catching on the still air like liquid shadow.
The crowd made way for him without a word, forming a circle of quiet anticipation. All eyes turned to the man as he walked to the center of the square. His movement was deliberate, calm — his presence somehow commanding.
Alvinnué’s breath caught. There was something about him… something that stirred a memory buried deep within his mind.
The air seemed to grow heavier. The quiet deepened.
The moment felt fragile, as if the entire village were holding itself in suspense, waiting for what he would do.
The man stopped. Slowly, he began to remove his robes. They fell away with soft rustling, revealing armor beneath — sleek, jet black, shaped to fit him like a second skin. Light glimmered faintly along its surface, though it seemed not to shine but to drink in light itself.
Without haste, the man began to walk toward the center of the square. There stood an obelisk — dark stone carved with intricate markings. Its surface seemed older than time itself, worn smooth yet humming faintly with quiet energy.
As Alvinnué stepped closer, his breath faltered. His eyes widened.
The runes etched along the obelisk were unmistakable.
Shanda‑Woldn.
A name — and a memory — burned at the edges of his mind.
The village held its breath. The air pulsed with silence.
The man in black armor stopped before the obelisk, as if waiting for something unseen.
Then the obelisk stirred.
A faint glow began to pulse from within its carved runes.
The light grew stronger, breathing in and out like a living thing.
It spread, washing the square in shimmering radiance.
The glow intensified further, until it burst upward in a column of brilliant light — not a single blast, but a continuous pulse.
The beam rose skyward in slow, steady waves, breathing and shifting as though it were alive.
It stretched far above the village, slicing into the heavens, each pulse rippling through the air.
Alvinnué’s breath caught.
The hum deepened, vibrating through bone and soul alike.
The crowd froze. Every figure in the square stared upward, motionless, bound by the power of the light.
Alvinnué stood rooted to the spot, his heart pounding.
The world had changed.
And somehow, he knew nothing would ever be the same again.
He turned his gaze toward the horizon.
There — far in the distance, beyond the rolling hills and misted valleys — more columns of pulsing light were rising.
One. Two. Then another.
Each stretching skyward like living beacons.
Their glow shimmered faintly in the distance, a network of light that seemed to ripple across the land.
Alvinnué’s chest tightened.
This was no isolated event.
This was something far greater.
And somewhere deep inside, he felt the stirrings of something ancient awaken.
And then — he heard it.
A voice.
Inside his mind.
“Children of the Void! Prepare for War!”
Then the vision shifted.
The village dissolved, and Alvinnué stood upon rolling hills of deep green, stretching endlessly to the horizon.
From the north, an army advanced — men and women clad in black armor, like the man in black armor from the village. Teal, crimson, and green sashes rippled among their ranks, colors glinting in the light.
From the south came another host — vast and numerous, a legion of twisted creatures born of corruption. Their forms defied nature: limbs bent in impossible angles, flesh fused with bone and shadow, faces stretched into silent screams. Each bore the mark of decay, their presence a blight upon the earth. With every step they took, the living grass withered to ash.
The armies faced each other in silence.
From the first army, a man stepped forward — the same man from the village.
He drew a short sword of black steel, its edge faintly shimmering with violet light.
Alvinnué’s breath caught.
He knew that blade.
It was the Doth-Éamon Short Sword.
His sword.
The first army surged forward.
They wielded shadow skills — movements laced with darkness and speed.
Alvinnué’s eyes widened. Shadow warriors?
But something was different. They moved with shadows — yet not the art he knew.
These shadows were alive.
Potent. Primal.
The armies clashed. Steel rang out, and a low roar rose across the field.
The army of men and women seemed to have the upper hand — their shadow skills were unbelievably powerful.
Then, from the center of the battle, a green light began to rise — dark and necrotic, pulsing with malignant energy. It spread, gathering weight and momentum.
And then it exploded.
A wave of death rolled outward, consuming everything in its path.
When the light faded, both armies were gone.
Then, the scene receded from Alvinnue’s vision.
When the light returned, Alvinnué saw the man in black standing alone upon a high, desolate mountain.
The mountain was stripped bare of life, a wasteland of death.
Before him loomed something indescribable — a being of death incarnate, its presence impossible to comprehend.
The man’s voice rose in a chant, a prayer of strength and defiance against the incomprehensible foe before him.
When the incantation ended, he lifted the Doth‑Éamon Short Sword high above his head.
The sky trembled and parted, a vast tear of light stretching across the heavens, illuminating the desolate mountain and casting long shadows over the wasteland below.
For a moment, time seemed to hold its breath.
From above, a beam of light descended.
Within it floated a heart of obsidian, pulsing with a dark, living rhythm.
He caught it and pressed it to his chest.
It fused with him, searing through flesh and soul, binding him to a power both terrible and alive.
Shadows deepened around him.
The man became a silhouette of living darkness.
He charged, driving the Doth‑Éamon Short Sword into the foe.
From the sky, runes appeared — vast, as large as continents.
Chains of light cascaded downward, binding the creature and dragging it beneath the earth, sealing it in a prison of unimaginable power.
The man fell to his knees.
The obsidian heart slipped free from his chest.
It hovered, each beat slower than the last, dragging time with it.
Cracks appeared.
Light seeped through.
It did not shatter.
It simply fell apart.
Shards drifted downward, slow as falling ash, settling upon the barren ground.
The man gathered them, shoulders heavy, eyes shadowed with sorrow, and began his descent from the mountain.
And then the scene faded, leaving only silence in its wake.
In the blackness, Alvinnué stood alone.
Then the voice came again, echoing within his mind, low and resonant. “Alvinnué… Alvinnué…”
He tightened his grip on his cloak and asked, “Who are you?”
“I am the end of all things,” the voice murmured, reverberating through the void around him.
“Did you show me these visions?” Alvinnué pressed, the remnants of the battlefield still vivid in his mind.
“These are the records of the first shadow and the sealing of the Death God,” the voice replied, carrying a weight that made the darkness feel denser.
“The… first shadow?” he whispered.
“A child of shadow, as you are,” it answered.
“What does it mean?” He felt a tremor of unease ripple through his chest.
“The answer is neither here nor there. The answer will become,” the voice said, fading into the silence.
Alvinnué shook his head. “I still don’t understand.”
For a long moment, there was nothing but stillness. Then the voice returned, firmer this time. “Seek the Shards of the Void God. There are five. One is already in your possession.”
He looked down. In his hand rested a shard, black as the void, pulsing faintly like a heartbeat. It throbbed once… twice… each pulse resonating through his veins, stirring something deep and unfamiliar.
“What are the shards? How do I find them?” he asked, voice trembling despite himself.
“Follow the path of the First Shadow, Matapang’ko. Remember that name,” the voice instructed, the syllables echoing like distant thunder.
“Where is the path? How do I find it?”
“You shall see it!”
The darkness shifted, forming a shape that pressed forward like liquid shadow. Jagged edges and flickering tendrils of dark light writhed across its surface, neither solid nor entirely intangible.
It surged closer until it entered his eyes, not by touch but by presence. A cold pressure filled his vision, and impossible shapes and colors burned behind his eyelids, leaving impressions as real as pain.
Alvinnué gasped as the form pulsed within his mind, bending perception itself and imprinting fragments of memory, knowledge, and power.
“Open your eyes, Alvinnué!”