Luxerio held his breath, bracing himself for agony, for annihilation, for something devastating and irreversible—but all that met him was silence.

  He stood frozen, eyes clenched shut, every nerve in his body taut and trembling like the string of a drawn bow. Seconds passed. Nothing happened.

  Slowly, cautiously, he cracked open one eye. The air around him was still. No flame erupted, no ghostly hand dragged him to the abyss, no supernatural wrath descended upon him. Just the same strange patch of clean land surrounded by corpses.

  "Huh?" he muttered under his breath.

  Confused, Luxerio turned around, his voice shaky as he called out, "Hey! Uh, is something supposed to be happening or—?"

  His words died in his throat.

  The armored warrior was gone.

  Where the towering figure had stood just minutes before, there was now nothing. The trail they had followed—littered with corpses, blood, shattered weapons, and twisted metal—was all still there. The destruction remained. But the warrior?

  Gone. As if he had never existed.

  Luxerio blinked, once, twice, trying to process what he was seeing. He turned in a slow circle, scanning the distance for any sign of the armored colossus, but there was no trace of him. Not even a footprint leading away.

  "He just... left?" he said aloud, incredulous.

  The absurdity of it only deepened the pit in his stomach. Of course the warrior could vanish like smoke—at this point, Luxerio wouldn't even be surprised if the man turned out to be a dragon in disguise. Still, he had brought Luxerio here. Told him to step into the circle. Made cryptic statements about completing some ancient "Tale."

  And now he was gone?

  Luxerio turned back toward the field beyond the circle, and that's when he noticed it.

  Something was different.

  He couldn't quite place it at first, but the longer he looked, the more his unease grew. The corpses. The field. Something had shifted.

  Then it clicked.

  "Wait a second," he whispered. "Weren't those bodies over there... before?"

  He narrowed his eyes. Yes, he was certain of it now. A few of the corpses had moved—not risen, not animated like the nightmares from horror tales. But their limbs, torsos, dismembered heads... they weren't in the same place anymore.

  And then he saw it.

  A lone eyeball, dislodged from its owner and resting atop a shattered helm, began to disintegrate.

  Not rot.

  Evaporate.

  A faint mist rose from the ruined flesh, almost invisible in the eerie red haze. Then another limb dissolved. A hand. A piece of jawbone. One by one, bits and pieces of the dead were slowly turning into a crimson vapor, bleeding into the air around him.

  Luxerio staggered back a step, eyes wide. "What the hell...?"

  He tilted his gaze upward.

  The sky had always been red here, but now he understood why. The mist. It was everywhere, not just near him. In the far-off horizon, where corpses were strewn like leaves in autumn, he could see the same process occurring. Entire swaths of the battlefield were melting into bloody vapor, and that vapor drifted slowly into the sky.

  And now he felt it.

  The heat.

  The air around him grew warmer, gradually but steadily. The hairs on his arms stood on end, and beads of sweat formed along his brow. The red mist shimmered faintly, like sunlight catching on gasoline.

  This content has been unlawfully taken from Royal Road; report any instances of this story if found elsewhere.

  Then—ignition.

  Without warning, the mist burst into flame.

  Fire surged outward from every corpse, erupting in low, steady blazes, spiraling and coalescing into streams of heat and light. They danced through the air like serpents, slithering toward the untouched circle where Luxerio stood.

  He froze.

  The circle remained untouched, a sanctuary amid the growing inferno. The flames swirled and twisted, forming a spiraling wall around it, not touching him but hemming him in. A perfect ring of fire. Like a forge.

  Luxerio's breath caught in his throat as the wall began to harden, the swirling tongues of flame slowing, freezing in place as if turned to molten glass. The colors shifted, from flickering oranges and reds to dull crimson embers.

  He was trapped.

  And then it happened.

  A portion of the flame in front of him flared, brighter than the rest, until it became almost blinding. It pulsed with an inner rhythm, like a heartbeat of fire. The light pulled together, condensing and folding inward.

  As Luxerio watched, shielding his eyes, the blaze reshaped itself.

  Stone formed from fire.

  An altar.

  The flames dulled, hardening into a solid mass with glowing lines etched across its surface like veins of magma. A symbol, ancient and sharp-edged, shimmered at its center.

  The symbol of flame.

  It stood tall, ominous, beckoning.

  Luxerio took a step back, mouth dry, heart hammering.

  "What... the actual... hell... is happening?" he muttered.

  The silence returned. No warrior. No voice. Just fire and stone. And him.

  Alone in the center of a forgotten ritual, wrapped in flame and fate.

  And the altar stood in front of him.

  Luxerio stood, eyes locked onto the glowing flame symbol embedded in the altar. Then it came—the call. Not a sound, not a whisper in the wind, but something felt. Deep in his bones, in his blood. A voice not heard but experienced.

  It commanded him forward.

  Luxerio blinked. "What the hell was that?" he muttered, his voice too soft to be brave, too tense to be dismissive. The sensation was confusing—opposing in nature. He understood the intent, somehow, yet everything in him screamed not to do it. Like being dared to shove his hand into fire.

  He chuckled nervously at the comparison. "Yeah... that tracks."

  His thoughts returned to that strange, half-forgotten prayer—the moment everything went sideways. It had something to do with contradictions, didn’t it? The details were foggy, slipping away whenever he tried to focus on them, but the feeling stuck. This moment felt the same.

  He glanced at the flaming altar, the circle of scorched flame that enclosed him. A prison of heat and pressure.

  "What the hell do I even do?" he whispered, clenching his jaw.

  Then, again, the call. Stronger. More insistent. It wasn't just a request anymore—it was a challenge. A contradiction he could feel burning under his skin.

  His fists clenched. His breathing slowed. He looked down at himself: torn coat, blood-stained pants, dirt, grime, exhaustion... nothing about him screamed hero or chosen one. Just a barely-standing urchin who should have died in a gutter by now.

  He was an Outsider. Yet not one of the special ones chosen to be Loreborn.

  He had no talent that would make him valuable to the people of this world whether in the form of charisma or intelligence.

  He was not even physically strong enough to work the labor wage slave jobs that populated the realms.

  He had no future that he could look forward to, both in his world and this one.

  And no one cared if he lived or died because no one knew him.

  And why would they?

  And that was the thought that calmed him.

  If no one cared, then there were no consequences. And if there were no consequences, then why the hell not?

  With a firm breath, he stepped forward. The symbol pulsed faintly. Every inch closer made the hairs on his arms rise. Not from fear, but from that same damn contradiction. Wanting and rejecting. Craving and denying.

  He stopped before the altar.

  "Screw it."

  He raised his hand and pressed it against the symbol.

  The pain was instant.

  "AAGH! FUCK!" he screamed, yanking his hand away. His palm was black. Burnt through. He could feel the cooked skin and muscle twitching.

  He glared at the symbol. "You coulda just said no!"

  Then—a shift.

  The atmosphere changed. He couldn’t describe it. But it was no longer mystical or foreboding. It was tense. Like the air was waiting to snap.

  "What now?"

  A voice answered. Familiar. Cold. Tired.

  "Step back."

  Luxerio spun around.

  The armored warrior.

  Right behind him.

  "Holy shit!" he gasped, staggering backward.

  The warrior wasn’t even looking at him. Its gaze was locked on the altar. Luxerio turned to follow it and immediately noticed it too—the flame symbol had changed. It pulsed now. Throbbed with malevolence.

  And then he understood the message it was broadcasting, even though it said nothing aloud:

  He was not the one.

  The words rooted themselves into Luxerio's heart, a cold dread spreading through his chest.

  "Wh-what does that mean?" he asked, barely above a whisper.

  The warrior answered by action.

  In one swift motion, it drew both greatswords from its back—one in each hand. The steel shimmered in the red mist, and for the first time, both blades were unsheathed at once.

  Luxerio panicked. "Wait, what are you—?!"

  With a single, terrifying motion, the warrior plunged both swords into the ground in a massive crack, the earth splitting beneath them. Then it looked at him.

  "You have stepped where only the Marked One may tread."

  Its voice, as cold and dead as always, now held judgment.

  "You have chosen deception. You followed me, unworthy in hopes of stealing power that was not yours. And for this, your fate is to perish—in brutal death."

  Luxerio took a step back, heart pounding. "W-what?! No, I didn't even know what the hell this was! You never told me anything!"

  His words were cut off by the sound of cracking flame.

  The warrior raised its arm.

  And without hesitation, plunged its hand into the flame symbol.

  The altar shattered in a cascade of searing heat and light.