The Conceptual Void.Time: Unknown.Location: Unknown.
"HAAH!"
Rudeus violently gasped, his body reflexively jerking as if he had just been pulled from the crushing depths of a frozen ocean.
He expected to taste the metallic tang of his own blood. He expected to feel the agonizing, mind-shattering pain of his severed arms, and the crushing impact of the Demon General's spiked boot caving in his skull.
But there was absolutely no pain. There was no physical sensation whatsoever.
Rudeus slowly opened his eyes. He was no longer lying on the blood-stained stone of the extraction portal within the Artificial Dimension.
He was floating in a completely still, absolute, suffocating black world where he couldn't see a single thing. It was an expanse of pure, unadulterated nothingness that stretched out into an infinite, sensory-depriving abyss.
"Where the fuck am I?" Rudeus questioned aloud, his voice echoing strangely, stripped of any acoustic reverberation.
He looked down, expecting to see his mangled, armless torso, but he couldn't even perceive his own physical form. He was just a floating, disembodied consciousness trapped in the dark.
'Am I actually dead? Is this the absolute, final afterlife for a reincarnated soul?' Rudeus thought, a cold wave of existential dread washing over him.
Suddenly, the absolute nothingness was pierced.
A single, microscopic point of brilliant, incandescent light appeared far to the east of his spatial orientation.
Rudeus widened his crimson eyes as he locked onto the anomaly.
"Wh-what the fuck?!" Rudeus muttered.
Driven by a profound, primal curiosity, and possessing absolutely no other options in the endless void, his consciousness naturally, inevitably drifted toward the solitary beacon. As he drew closer, the pinpoint of light began to rapidly, exponentially expand, transforming from a distant star into a roaring, blinding supernova of pure white energy.
"ARGH!"
Rudeus instinctively threw his phantom arms up to cover his eyes. The sheer, intense brilliance of the light was no longer just illuminating the void; it was actively, violently searing his retinas, radiating a heat that felt as if it were burning directly into his soul. It started to physically hurt, an agonizing, blinding pressure that threatened to tear his consciousness apart.
Then, for an entire, agonizingly long minute, the light completely swallowed him.
***
The Vision.Time: The Unwritten Future.
When the blinding, searing light finally, mercifully faded, the absolute void was completely gone.
Rudeus slowly lowered his arms, blinking away the lingering afterimages.
He was no longer floating in empty space. He was standing high upon an elevated, shadowed balcony, looking down into the vast, cavernous interior of a massive, impossibly colossal fortress.
The architecture was brutal, ancient, and deeply terrifying. It was carved entirely from seamless, jagged black obsidian, illuminated only by the flickering, sickly green light of thousands of massive braziers mounted on the towering pillars.
Gathered in the impossibly massive central courtyard of the fortress was a sea of people. There were tens of thousands of them, a chaotic, militant congregation packed shoulder-to-shoulder.
Rudeus looked toward the absolute center of the congregation.
His breath hitched in his throat.
Erected upon a massive, stepped dais was a colossal, terrifyingly detailed statue carved from dark marble. It was a statue of a man. The man possessed sweeping, messy green hair. But what immediately drew Rudeus's horrified attention were the eyes of the statue, inlaid with glowing, enchanted gemstones. The right eye was a deep, bottomless dark green, while the left eye was a piercing, vibrant crimson red.
It was a statue of him. Or rather, an older, hardened, slightly altered version of himself.
Every single person in the massive crowd—thousands upon thousands of warriors, mages, and commoners—were repeatedly, rhythmically bowing down, pressing their foreheads against the cold stone floor in absolute, unquestioning reverence.
'It seems they are actively, fanatically praying to that statue... praying to someone,' Rudeus deduced inwardly, his mind reeling from the sheer, blasphemous scale of the worship.
Suddenly, a profound, heavy silence fell over the massive courtyard. The rhythmic chanting ceased. The sea of bodies parted like the Red Sea, creating a wide, unobstructed path down the center of the hall.
Rudeus watched as a solitary man began walking slowly, with heavy, deliberate, earth-shattering purpose, down the center of the parted crowd.
The man possessed long, flowing green hair, exactly the same shade as Rudeus's. However, woven throughout the green locks were distinct, vertical stripes of vibrant, blood-red hair. As the man turned his head, the flickering brazier light caught his eyes. He possessed the exact same, piercing crimson red eyes as Rudeus, but his right eye held a distinct, dark green hue, matching the heterochromia of the massive statue.
It was him. But it was a version of himself that was much, much older. He appeared to be a man in his early to mid-thirties—perhaps thirty-two or thirty-four years old.
The older Rudeus was currently wearing a heavy, tattered, sand-colored desert robe that obscured his physique.
As he reached the base of the massive statue, the older Rudeus stopped. With a slow, fluid motion, he reached up, unclasped the heavy iron brooch at his throat, and completely took off the tattered robe, letting it fall to the stone floor.
Rudeus, spectating from the balcony, widened his eyes to their absolute limits.
Beneath the robe, his future self was clad in a terrifying, masterfully forged suit of pitch-black, full-plate armor. It wasn't the cheap, standard-issue iron of the Vanguard. It was a masterpiece of metallurgy, radiating a dark, suffocating magical aura. And emblazoned directly in the absolute center of the black breastplate, forged from dark crimson metal, was a massive crest.
It was not the roaring crest of the House Blackfyre.
It was a terrifying, intricately detailed crest of a Three-Headed Black Dragon.
The older Rudeus slowly clenched his heavily armored, gauntleted hand. The sheer, overwhelming weight of his presence seemed to suffocate the air in the room. He looked profoundly, devastatingly exhausted. His face was weathered, hardened by years of unimaginable war, and beneath his mismatched eyes were heavy, incredibly dark eyebags. His expression was completely devoid of any warmth, joy, or lingering humanity.
'Did he... did I... cry? Did he cry so intensely, perhaps mourning a catastrophic loss that lasted for three entire days, that he permanently scarred his face with those deep, dark eyebags?' Rudeus questioned inwardly, feeling a phantom ache in his own chest as he looked at the broken, terrifying man he was destined to become.
Before the older Rudeus could ascend the steps to the dais, a figure stepped out from the inner circle of elites to stop him.
"Gûl-shaba. Gûl-shaba." (Soul Whisperer.)
The voice echoed through the silent hall, speaking in a harsh, guttural, ancient dialect.
The older Rudeus stopped in his tracks, his heavy black boots grinding against the stone. He slowly turned his head, his mismatched eyes locking onto the speaker with the cold indifference of a predator.
The man who had stopped him was wearing a heavy, ceremonial robe with a deep hood that obscured his features.
"If you truly wish to forcefully claim the mantle and become the new, absolute leader of this congregation," The hooded man declared, his voice echoing with dogmatic authority, "Then you must adhere to the ancient rites. You must face and defeat one of the current High Elders in mortal combat, and prove your worth in blood."
The older Rudeus didn't offer a verbal reply. He simply stared at the hooded elder. His expression remained an unreadable, terrifying mask of absolute, apathetic exhaustion. He looked entirely tired of the archaic rules, tired of the bloodshed, tired of existence itself.
Suddenly, from the kneeling crowd near the front of the dais, a figure stood up.
With a swift, decisive motion, the figure threw off his heavy desert cloak and pulled back his hood, revealing himself.
He was a Dark Elf. His skin was the color of polished obsidian, and his long hair was a stark, brilliant white. Emblazoned upon his leather armor was a highly specific, intricate religious crest.
Rudeus, observing from above, instantly recognized the iconography from the deep lore of the visual novel.
'That crest! He is a high-ranking member of the cult entirely known as the "Triage of Soul Whisperers"!' Rudeus realized inwardly, his mind rapidly accessing his past-life gaming knowledge. 'That is the exact same, ancient religious cult that heavily features of the Saintess' enemies—one of the primary female leads, and eventually, one of Adelina's most formidable, partner!'
In the canonical lore of the game, the Triage of Soul Whisperers was originally a massive, continent-spanning religious faction strictly dedicated to absolute neutrality. They worshipped a mythical, messianic figure known only as the 'Soul Whisperer'. However, their peaceful neutrality became their ultimate downfall.
When the fanatical, militaristic 'Holy Nation'—a massive, puritanical kingdom located on the Southern Continent—unilaterally declared a brutal Holy War against all other kingdoms and independent religious factions, the Triage was devastatingly caught in the crossfire. Because of their unbreakable, dogmatic creed of absolute neutrality and non-violence—an ideology explicitly passed down to them by their First Soul Whisperer—they categorically refused to fight back against the invading paladins.
This tragic adherence to their creed resulted in a horrific, unilateral massacre. The Holy Nation slaughtered millions of their believers, completely burning their temples to the ground.
The few, desperate, shattered remnants of the cult—the surviving Dark Elves, the persecuted human sympathizers, the scattered werewolf tribes, and even the marginalized Orc clans—fled the southern and central continents. They migrated into the absolute harshest, most unforgiving environment on the planet: The Barren Wastelands of the West.
There, in the ash and the dust, their neutrality finally broke. They festered in their hatred, secretly, meticulously planning an apocalyptic revenge that would eventually cause the complete destruction of the Holy Nation. But, in the tragic, canonical endgame of the visual novel, because their revenge threatened the stability of the entire world, Adelina the Sword Saint and the Holy Saintess were forced to intervene. The two heroines united their powers and systematically, violently hunted the cult down, rendering them completely extinct. That was their ultimate, inescapable demise in the original lore, leaving them entirely forgotten by history for decades.
But here... in this terrifying vision of the future... things had drastically, violently changed.
They weren't extinct. They were a massive, unified army.
Getting back to the scene unfolding below, the Dark Elf stepped forward, walking until he was standing directly in front of the older Rudeus.
With a look of profound, absolute fanaticism burning in his eyes, the Dark Elf suddenly threw his arms wide open, exposing his unprotected chest. With his right hand, he drew a jagged, obsidian sacrificial knife from his belt and unceremoniously dropped it onto the stone floor at the older Rudeus's feet.
"Take my life, Gûl-shaba," The Dark Elf declared, his voice ringing with absolute devotion. "Execute me. Take my blood as your rite of passage. It is the absolute only way the Elders will accept your ascension."
He was willingly, joyfully offering his own soul and his life to satisfy the archaic laws of the cult.
The older Rudeus slowly, tightly clenched his armored fist. He looked at the Dark Elf, then looked at the jagged knife on the floor.
He didn't reach for his weapon. He didn't accept the sacrifice. He looked utterly disgusted by the entire, barbaric charade. He didn't want any of this pathetic, ceremonial bloodshed. He didn't want to rule a cult of victims.
Then, he did the absolute, unthinkable.
He violently kicked the sacrificial obsidian knife away.
"I'M POINTING THE WAY!" The older Rudeus screamed, his voice no longer a quiet, exhausted murmur, but a deafening, terrifying roar that possessed a strange, unnatural, multi-layered resonance. It carried the physical force of a shockwave, echoing off the high obsidian walls of the fortress.
The moment the words left his lips, the absolute fanaticism of the crowd ignited.
Every single person in the massive courtyard—the humans, the elves, the orcs—violently, simultaneously surged to their feet.
-SHING!
-SHING!
-SHING!
Tens of thousands of steel blades, curved scimitars, and jagged axes were simultaneously unsheathed, the metallic chorus echoing like a peal of apocalyptic thunder.
Suddenly, a man from the inner circle of Elders—a powerful, high-tier psychic Arcanist—stepped forward, raising his hands, his eyes glowing with coercive magic. He attempted to use his most powerful, mind-altering compulsion directly on the armored intruder to force him to submit.
"Slow down... submit to the rites..." The Arcanist commanded, projecting a massive wave of psychic lethargy.
But then, the Arcanist's eyes widened in absolute, paralyzing horror.
"!!!"
His powerful, mind-altering magic hit the older Rudeus and simply... shattered. It evaporated against the man's mind like a single drop of water hitting the surface of a burning sun. It had absolutely zero effect on him.
The older Rudeus completely ignored the pathetic magical attack. He began to slowly, deliberately walk directly toward the absolute center of the armed, shifting crowd.
He raised his voice, speaking not in the common tongue of the Empire, but in the harsh, guttural, ancient language of the Wastelands—a terrifying fusion of Black Speech and ancient desert dialects.
"Nar wahad ishi bi-sietch thrakatulûk kash!"(There is absolutely no one in this entire room who can stand against me!) His voice boomed with absolute, unshakeable, terrifying authority. He continued to pace, his mismatched eyes sweeping over the armed warriors, daring any of them to strike.
"Umm-hai ninkâkh uruk, eldar-hai ninkâkh uruk, tar-Gûl-shaba-hai prophesised uruk! Dir wanda ishi durbatul!"(Your mothers warned you about my coming! The ancient elders of the elves warned you about my coming! The high priests of the Triage of Soul Whisperers prophesied about my coming! Fear the absolute moment that I finally come to you!) He stopped pacing. With a heavy, metallic clank, he casually, arrogantly sat down on a stone bench in the center of the hostile crowd.
He slowly turned his head, locking his piercing, heterochromatic gaze directly onto a single, trembling man standing in the front row. It was a human warrior, a devout believer of the cult, currently clutching a curved blade.
"But if you genuinely, foolishly think you could actually have a microscopic chance to beat me...." The older Rudeus spoke, seamlessly shifting back to the common tongue, his voice dropping to a terrifying, intimate whisper that somehow carried to the very back of the hall.
".....Ghwai ishi dir...."(.....But if you are afraid....) He leaned forward, resting his armored forearms on his knees, his eyes burning into the human warrior's soul.
".....Kwi nazg ash?"(.....What if I could actually be the one?)
".....Ash bi-la salat ishi wanda?"(.....The specific, divine entity you are desperately praying for at this very moment?) He slowly, menacingly stood back up from the stone bench.
He began to walk slowly, deliberately directly toward the trembling human warrior.
"Salat tul jaddati. Matat krah-nazg ishi..."(You are currently praying to your grandmother. She died exactly 11 eclipses ago...) He kept walking, his heavy black boots closing the distance between them with slow, terrifying inevitability.
"Ayn shai ghafa ghaash, kash orc-hai durbatul. Arba'ash ishi wanda."(She lost her left eye because a jagged branch of a dead tree violently struck her face as she was desperately running from a horde of abyssal monsters. She was exactly fourteen years old when that tragedy happened.) The human warrior's eyes blew wide open in absolute, unadulterated, mind-shattering shock as he heard those incredibly specific, deeply personal details.
'Ho-how could this possibly be happening?!' The warrior screamed inwardly, his hands violently shaking, dropping his sword to the stone floor. 'How could he possibly, perfectly see my deepest past?!'
"Ishi wanda, burzum-dunya nazg tabarak hai...."(At that specific time, in that era of suffering, this abandoned, dying world had a specific name for broken beings like you....) The older Rudeus finally stopped, leaning his face incredibly close to the trembling warrior. He looked past his physical body, staring directly into the man's naked soul.
"....Inamorta." The warrior gasped, his breath hitching.
Inamorta. That was the exact, highly secret, incredibly intimate name that his late grandmother had given him to protect him when he was a child surviving in this harsh, unforgiving wasteland. It was a name absolutely no one else in the entire universe knew.
The warrior's knees instantly, violently buckled.
He dropped entirely to the stone floor, prostrating himself completely before the armored man. He raised his head and unleashed a scream of absolute, fanatical, religious devotion.
"BURZUM-TAR!"(DARK LORD!) The single, fanatical scream ignited the powder keg.
The entire, massive congregation—tens of thousands of warriors who just seconds ago had their blades drawn—simultaneously, violently dropped to their knees. A massive, unified roar of absolute, terrifying submission shook the very foundations of the obsidian fortress.
"BURZUM-TAR!"(DARK LORD!)
"BURZUM-TAR!"(DARK LORD!)
"BURZUM-TAR!"(DARK LORD!)
"BURZUM-TAR!"(DARK LORD!)
The Dark Elf who had offered his life earlier slowly stood back up, looking at the kneeling masses, his eyes shining with unspeakable awe and reverence.
".....Gûl-shaba."(.....Soul Whisperer.) The Dark Elf whispered, a single tear cutting through the ash on his face. He was profoundly, overwhelmingly glad. He had finally lived to see the day that their prophesied savior was recognized by all the fractured peoples of the wasteland—the monsters, the humans, and their own kind finally recognized exactly who this terrifying man truly was.
The older Rudeus ignored the chanting crowds. He slowly turned his head, his mismatched eyes locking onto a massive, heavily armored Orc Warlord who was still stubbornly standing near the back of the dais, refusing to kneel to a human.
The older Rudeus raised his armored, black-gauntleted hand. He pointed a single, uncompromising finger directly at the defiant Warlord.
"ISHI BURZUM-HULM, CHU CHUK TÁ CHUF GÛL-HAI BI-LA KAIFA! GHWA MUDHAR FARAH ISHI RUH!"(IN YOUR DEEPEST NIGHTMARES, YOU SECRETLY GIVE WATER TO THE DEAD SO THEY CAN FINALLY HAVE REST! AND THE ACT OF THAT SECRET MERCY BRINGS PROFOUND JOY AND WARMTH THROUGH YOUR ENTIRE HEART!) The massive Orc Warlord physically flinched, his brutal, scarred face contorting in absolute shock as his deepest, most closely guarded, shameful secret of compassion was violently laid bare before the entire cult.
The Orc's massive battleaxe slipped from his grasp, clattering loudly against the stone.
He collapsed heavily onto both knees. He offered both of his massive, green hands forward in a gesture of absolute, total submission to a superior power.
"Burzum-tar...."(Dark Lord....) The Orc whispered, joining the chorus of the conquered.
The Dark Elf High Elder slowly approached the older Rudeus, bowing deeply at the waist.
"Gûl-shaba....."(Soul Whisperer.....) The Dark Elf asked, his voice trembling with anticipation.
The armored man slowly turned his head, looking down at the Elder.
"...Kwi ru'ya hai?"(...What do you foresee for us?) The Dark Elf begged for a vision of the future.
The older Rudeus stared out over the sea of thousands of kneeling, fanatical warriors. His eyes burned with the fires of an impending, apocalyptic crusade.
He replied, his voice echoing with absolute, terrifying certainty.
"Mahdi-Jannah....."(The Great Paradise.....)
The Dark Elf gasped, immediately dropping back down to his knees, pressing his forehead against the stone.
"Burzum-tar..."(Dark Lord...)
"....Ma'ta ishi tariq."(....Show us the way.)
The older Rudeus slowly, deliberately reached over with his right hand. He pulled off the heavy, articulated black metal gauntlet from his left hand, letting it fall to the floor.
He reached into a hidden compartment on his belt and retrieved a small, delicate object.
It was a beautiful, ancient ring. In the absolute center of the silver band was an intricately carved, glowing crystalline flower shape.
"This specific artifact," The older Rudeus announced to the silent, waiting congregation, his voice shifting back to the common tongue, "is my late mother's ducal signet. The final legacy of the Faery House."
With a slow, deliberate motion, he slid the ancient ring onto the index finger of his bare left hand.
He turned back to face the massive crowd. He raised both of his arms, his voice suddenly exploding outward, roaring with the fury of a dying star, formally introducing his true, absolute identity to the universe.
"I AM RUDEUS MAXIMILIAN 'SOUL WHISPERER' BLACKHEART!" Young Rudeus, spectating the vision from the balcony, violently gasped, his phantom hands flying up to grip the railing.
'Wha-what the absolute hell?!' Rudeus screamed inwardly, his mind completely reeling.
'Tha-that's literally me?! He changed his name! He discarded the Blackfyre name entirely and claimed Blackheart!'
The older Rudeus—now definitively known as Blackheart—continued to roar, raising his left hand high into the air, the Faery House ring gleaming in the brazier light.
"TAR-SHAMAL!"(KING OF THE NORTH!) He violently closed his fingers into a fist and forcefully, brutally pounded his armored chest, right over the Three-Headed Dragon crest, the metallic clang echoing like a war drum.
"Yad-Ilah bi-la shahid!"(The Hand of God be my absolute witness!)
"Ash Lisan al-Gaib!"(I am the absolute Voice of the Outer World!) He then aggressively thrust his armored arm forward, pointing directly toward the East—pointing directly toward the heart of the civilized continents, toward the Empire and the Holy Nation.
"MAHDI THRAKATULÛK ISHI JANNAH!"(I WILL LEAD YOU ALL TO PARADISE!) The declaration was the spark that ignited the apocalypse.
Every single person in the colossal courtyard—the monsters, the dark elves, the warlords, the humans—violently surged to their feet. They threw their weapons into the air, screaming with a fanatical, bloodthirsty devotion that shook the very tectonic plates beneath the fortress.
"BURZUM-TAR!"
"BURZUM-TAR!"
"BURZUM-TAR!"
"BURZUM-TAR!"
"BURZUM-TAR!"
"BURZUM-TAR!"
"BURZUM-TAR!"
Rudeus widened his eyes to their absolute limits as he witnessed the terrifying, overwhelming, cult-like cheering directed at his future self. The sheer scale of the religious fanaticism was deeply, fundamentally horrifying.
Suddenly, the vision violently, forcefully shifted.
"Wa-wait!" Rudeus shouted, reaching out as the obsidian fortress melted into a blinding blur of colors.
When the blur solidified, Rudeus was no longer in the Barren Wastelands.
He was standing in the absolute center of the Realm of Humans.
He was standing in the capital city.
Rudeus widened his crimson eyes in absolute, paralyzing horror as he looked around. The magnificent, pristine white marble architecture of the capital was completely, utterly ruined. Towers were collapsed. Massive fires raged out of control, painting the night sky a demonic, suffocating orange.
He immediately recognized the massive, burning flags draped over the ruined palace walls.
"Tha-that's...!"
It was the official, imperial flag crest of the Rosania Empire. Two majestic, golden lions opening their mouths toward a radiant golden sun above them. The flag of Princess Veronica's family.
It was currently burning to ash.
Rudeus slowly looked up toward the grand balcony of the ruined Imperial Palace.
Standing upon the balcony, overlooking a sea of millions of conquering soldiers, was a man.
"!!!"
Rudeus violently clenched his phantom fists, his breath entirely stopping.
It was none other than the future version of himself. Rudeus Blackheart.
He was still wearing the terrifying black armor with the Three-Headed Dragon crest. But now, resting atop his green and red-striped hair, was a massive, jagged, terrifying crown forged from dark iron and obsidian. He had successfully overthrown the dynasty. He had become the dark, conquering Emperor of this terrifying future.
In his right hand, the Emperor held something by its hair.
With a slow, brutal, theatrical motion, Emperor Blackheart raised the object high into the air for his massive, fanatical followers to see.
It was a severed head.
Blood continuously dripped from the ragged stump of the neck, splashing onto the pristine white marble of the balcony. It was the severed head of the arrogant, golden-haired Crown Prince of the Rosania Empire.
Emperor Blackheart, looking down at his conquered domain, raised his left hand and began to chant a slow, rhythmic, terrifyingly gullible hymn.
♫ "HAMD BURZUM-TAR, ILAH AL-GAIB!" ♫ (PRAISE THE DARK LORD, GOD OF THE OUTER WORLD!)
The moment the Emperor began the chant, his massive, conquering army followed suit. The army was no longer just the Triage cultists. It was a massive, terrifying, integrated horde of abyssal monsters from the Barren Wastelands, towering armored orcs, massive, club-wielding ogres, agile dark elves, and heavily armed human zealots. Millions of voices united in a horrifying, deafening choir that drowned out the roaring fires of the burning capital.
♫ "ILAH AL-GAIB!" ♫
♫ "ILAH AL-GAIB!" ♫
♫ "ILAH AL-GAIB!" ♫
♫ "ILAH AL-GAIB!" ♫
♫ "ILAH AL-GAIB!" ♫
♫ "ILAH AL-GAIB!" ♫
♫ "ILAH AL-GAIB!" ♫
The chanting was a physical weight, a hypnotic, religious fervor that vibrated through the very bedrock of the ruined empire.
Emperor Blackheart then shifted the cadence of the chant, his voice booming with dark, unassailable majesty.
♫ "HAMD BURZUM-TAR, MAHDI THRAKATULÛK MAHDI-JANNAH!" ♫ (PRAISE THE DARK LORD, WHO WILL LEAD US TO THE GREAT PARADISE!)
The endless sea of monstrous followers flawlessly, fanatically repeated the chant, their voices rising to an apocalyptic crescendo.
♫ "MAHDI THRAKATULÛK MAHDI-JANNAH!" ♫
♫ "MAHDI THRAKATULÛK MAHDI-JANNAH!" ♫
♫ "MAHDI THRAKATULÛK MAHDI-JANNAH!" ♫
♫ "MAHDI THRAKATULÛK MAHDI-JANNAH!" ♫
♫ "MAHDI THRAKATULÛK MAHDI-JANNAH!" ♫
♫ "MAHDI THRAKATULÛK MAHDI-JANNAH!" ♫
Rudeus kept clenching his phantom fists so tightly he felt his non-existent nails digging into his palms. He stared at the horrifying, apocalyptic tableau unfolding before him.
"Wha-what in the actual, absolute world is happening here?!" Rudeus screamed into the void, his mind unable to reconcile the boy he was with the terrifying, genocidal God-Emperor he was apparently destined to become.
Then, the chanting faded into a dull, muffled drone.
Rudeus's eyes widened in absolute, paralyzing terror.
High upon the balcony, Emperor Blackheart slowly stopped chanting. He slowly, deliberately lowered the severed head of the Crown Prince.
And then, the Emperor slowly turned his head.
Across the vast, impossible distance of the courtyard, across the burning ruins of the capital, and across the very fabric of time itself... Emperor Blackheart focused his mismatched, heterochromatic eyes directly, perfectly onto the exact spatial coordinates where the disembodied consciousness of the younger Rudeus was currently floating.
Rudeus instantly started to violently tremble. He was frozen in place. The older version of himself was staring directly through the veil of time, looking right into his soul.
The Emperor's lips moved. He didn't shout. He didn't use the booming, magical resonance. He simply spoke in a quiet, incredibly dark, and terrifyingly cold whisper that bypassed the physical world entirely and echoed exclusively within the younger Rudeus's mind.
"Ishi ru'ya ba'id-uzg."(You've peered entirely too far.)
***
The Physical World.The Barren Wastelands.Present Time.
Without any warning, without any transitional blur, the connection to the vision was violently, physically severed.
Rudeus violently jolted awake.
"HAAAH!"
Rudeus gasped loudly, his lungs desperately expanding, sucking in a lungful of dry, ash-tasting air. He violently clutched his chest with both of his hands, his heart hammering against his ribs like a trapped bird desperately trying to escape a cage.
He was sitting upright.
He blinked rapidly, the terrifying afterimages of the burning Rosania Empire and the piercing, heterochromatic stare of Emperor Blackheart slowly fading from his retinas.
He looked down at his chest, where his hands were clutching his tunic.
He froze.
His eyes slowly, confusedly widened.
He moved his right hand. The fingers flexed. He felt the heavy, cold black iron of his Vanguard gauntlet. He moved his left hand. It responded perfectly.
His arms were completely, perfectly restored.
There were no massive, horrific lacerations on his back. There were no bone-deep gashes on his stomach. He wasn't bleeding out on the stone floor of the extraction portal. It was as if the brutal, agonizing torture inflicted by the Greater Demon General Dratkthar had never, ever occurred in the physical realm.
"Wha-what is this?" Rudeus questioned aloud, his voice raspy and dry, repeatedly gasping as his mind struggled to reconcile the physical reality of his intact body with his last memory of being hacked to pieces.
He slowly lowered his restored hands to his sides. He felt the rough, dry texture of dead wood against his back.
He was currently resting against the massive, thick trunk of an enormous, completely petrified tree.
"Wh-who the hell was that man in the vision? And where the absolute fuck am I right now?"
Rudeus pushed himself up, using the petrified tree trunk for support. His legs felt strangely refreshed, completely devoid of the crushing, viral fatigue of the fever he had been suffering from just hours ago.
He looked around him.
The environment was a scene of absolute, desolate nightmare. The earth was a cracked, barren expanse of grey ash and dry, dead dirt. Massive, terrifying skeletons of giant behemoths littered the horizon, their bleached ribs curving upward like the arches of ruined cathedrals. The sky above was choked with thick, swirling, oppressive clouds of dark grey ash, entirely blocking out the sun.
It was definitively, absolutely not the lush, manicured grounds of the Imperial Academy. Nor was it any of the simulated biomes of the Artificial Dimension.
"Haah..." Rudeus let out a long, shuddering breath, his crimson eyes scanning the endless, corpse-ridden horizon of the Barren Wastelands.
"Where the hell am I?"