Ashwalker:Blood in the Wind

They stepped into the Woundscape at dawn.

Ash blanketed everything. Not fresh. Not warm. Just… old.

Dead leaves. Powdered bone. Shattered war relics twisted into rusted vines.

This wasn't a battlefield.

This was a grave that forgot how to stay buried.

The girl held her scarf over her mouth. "This air's wrong."

"Not poison," the Ashwalker said. "Just grief."

She glanced sideways. "That a metaphor?"

"No."

The deeper they walked, the more she saw the signs:

Spears rooted like trees.

Helmets turned upward like broken bowls.

Flags still fluttering — even though there was no wind.

At first, she said nothing.

But then she noticed the faces.

Carved into stone.

Each one different.

Each one screaming.

She stopped.

"What are those?"

The Ashwalker didn't pause.

"Votive sentinels."

She frowned. "To protect something?"

"To remember," he said. "This was where the Creed abandoned its first champions."

They reached a ridge where the ash dipped low — forming a basin of forgotten war.

In the center stood a pillar of blades — thousands of weapons fused into a jagged tower.

Each blade pointed up.

Each one singed black.

The girl swallowed hard. "What is this?"

"The Monument of Regret," he said.

"Looks more like pride."

He turned to her. "You haven't heard it yet."

Then the wind shifted.

And she did.

A low hum — like strings tightening in the back of her mind.

Then a whisper.

"You would have died here too."

She flinched.

He caught her.

"You felt it?"

She nodded, breathing hard. "What… the hell was that?"

"The Nullbrand's reach. It's stronger where memory burns brightest."

He held her steady.

"You let it in."

She pushed off him. "I didn't mean to."

"It doesn't care. It remembers you now."

She stared at the tower of weapons, breath fogging despite the heat.

"And if I forget it?"

"You won't," he said. "That's how it works."

They descended the basin slowly.

The ash deepened to their ankles — soft, but resistant. Like it wanted to hold them in place.

The girl gritted her teeth. "This whole place feels like it's breathing."

"It is," the Ashwalker replied. "Breathing through you."

Halfway to the blade monument, she froze.

A sudden gust whipped around her — not wind, but feeling.

And the world changed.

The Woundscape shimmered — then vanished.

She stood in a village now.

But not one she'd ever seen.

Familiar voices. Burning rooftops. Screaming.

Children running.

A woman calling her name — but not her name now. Her name before.

She spun in place.

There. Her brother. Younger than she remembered. Holding a blade too big for him.

She cried out—

"Stop!"

The vision shattered.

She dropped to her knees, sobbing.

Ashwalker stood over her, hand not touching, but close.

"You saw it," he said.

She shook her head. "How? That was real. That was real. I was there."

"You weren't," he said softly. "But the Nullbrand was."

She looked up, eyes red.

"It's showing me things I buried."

"It feeds on what's buried deepest," he said.

"Why?" she asked.

"To remind you."

"Of what?"

He turned toward the monument.

"That no one escapes their history."

She staggered to her feet, fist clenched.

"I hate this thing."

"Good."

"I want to kill it."

He looked over his shoulder. "You can't."

"Why?"

"Because it's not alive."

She stepped past him, to the base of the weapon tower.

Her hand brushed a broken blade — dull, rusted, ancient.

But as she touched it, it changed.

The blade shimmered.

Smoothed.

Sharpened.

Her name etched into the hilt.

She gasped.

He didn't move.

"It recognizes you," he said.

She turned, voice shaking.

"Is that a good thing?"

"It means it remembers," he said. "Now you must decide if you'll remember too."

She stared at the sword in her hand.

It fit.

Not just in her grip — but in her. The weight, the length, the balance — like it had always been hers, waiting buried beneath ash and memory.

But she'd never held a weapon like this.

Never trained.

Never killed.

Not yet.

Behind her, a sound.

Not a growl.

Not footsteps.

A shudder.

She turned—

A figure emerged from the basin wall. Half-formed. Smoke and shadow wrapped in rags. No eyes. No mouth. Just a symbol burned into its chest — the same sigil from the gate.

The Nullbrand had taken shape.

A fragment. Not full. But enough.

It moved toward her.

No sword.

No speed.

Just intent.

She raised her blade.

It wavered.

So did her hands.

The Ashwalker didn't move.

Didn't draw his own weapon.

This was her fight.

Not because he was testing her.

But because he couldn't interfere.

To touch a Nullbrand memory was to invite your own past into the battle.

He'd already survived his.

This one was hers.

She stepped back once.

Then twice.

Then something inside her snapped.

"NO!"

She lunged.

Clumsy. Wild. But not aimless.

The blade met smoke.

Then resistance.

Then blood.

The creature screeched — a sound like glass fracturing inside the ear.

It reeled back, chest torn open, the sigil flickering.

She pressed forward — again — again — until it collapsed into the ash like wet paper.

No scream.

No flame.

Just silence.

The sword dimmed in her hand.

She dropped to one knee, panting.

The Ashwalker approached slowly.

Kneeling beside her, he didn't speak at first.

Then:

"Now it remembers you differently."

She looked at him, confused.

"What do you mean?"

He touched the hilt of her blade.

"Before, it saw fear. Regret. Grief."

He met her eyes.

"Now it sees resolve."

She stared down at the blade.

Then at her trembling hands.

"Am I… like you now?"

He shook his head.

"No."

"You're becoming."