Beyond Realities

The clash between Vael and Dark was a storm of legends—raw, unrelenting, and utterly devastating. Even though Vael's body bore the fatigue from his battle with Jack, his will burned hotter than ever. His coat fluttered with each breath, soaked in sweat and blood. Every muscle in his body screamed for rest, but he pressed on, his scythe gleaming under the broken moonlight.

Dark stood calmly, his crimson eyes gleaming with malice. Blood shimmered around him, suspended in the air like waiting blades.

Vael lunged first, dragging his chained scythe behind him. The steel links rattled and scraped against the debris-strewn ground like serpents slithering into battle. With a roar, he hurled the blade forward, the chain whistling through the air.

Dark raised his hand, and five elongated diamond-shaped spears of blood materialized above his shoulders and head—sharp, lethal, and humming with bloodlust. Without a word, he fired them like crimson bullets toward Vael.

CLANG! CLANG! CLANG!

Vael's scythe spun, deflecting the projectiles in a flurry of sparks and steel. The last one nearly grazed his neck, but he pivoted mid-air, landing hard on one knee. His breath was heavy—ragged. He could feel the ache in his shoulders, his grip slightly slower.

Dark smirked and vanished in a burst of mist, reappearing at Vael's flank. But Vael had anticipated it—he twisted with a snarl and slammed his scythe horizontally. Dark ducked, his coat ripping from the sheer force of the air pressure.

The ground cracked beneath them.

Dark leapt back, blood splashing from his hand as he scattered it across the battlefield. The red liquid crawled along the broken floor like living vines. Thorned spikes burst upward, circling Vael, threatening to pin him down.

Vael gritted his teeth and kicked off a rising spike. In one fluid motion, he hurled his scythe straight into the sky.

WHIRRRRRR—SHING!

In the blink of an eye, he vanished.

Dark's eyes widened—Vael had reappeared behind him.

The scythe came hurtling down, guided by the chain gripped in Vael's hand. It shrieked through the air like a falling star.

Dark spun, barely dodging the attack by jumping back—but not before sending a blood-thorn lancing from the ground. Vael twisted, avoiding the deadly strike to his chest, but the thorn caught his forearm.

SLICE!

Blood flew, and Vael winced.

Dark laughed mockingly. "You're getting old, Vael."

Vael tore the thorn from his arm, ignoring the pain. Blood dripped down his sleeve, but his eyes burned with silent fury.

He stood tall, the wind tugging at his coat, his chest rising and falling with exhaustion. "And you're still weak," he growled.

Dark's expression hardened.

"So be it," he said coldly. "You leave me no choice."

He closed his eyes. The wind died. The world seemed to pause.

Then he raised his hands, fingers dancing in ancient, silent language. Blood pooled around his feet and was drawn upward—tendrils from every direction, every drop, obeying his call.

His fingers interlocked into a sacred triangle. His eyes snapped open—glowing a deep, ominous red.

"Sanguine Palace," he whispered.

A dreadful silence followed. The sky darkened as a dome of blood enveloped the battlefield.

Walls formed around them—walls made of blood. Spears. Chains. Saws. The domain pulsed with life, reacting to every heartbeat.

Inside, Vael felt it—the stabbing chill. His muscles stiffened. His blood… it moved unnaturally in his veins.

Still, he didn't back down.

Dark stepped forward, now a crimson phantom in his own realm. "Inside here, your own blood betrays you."

Dozens of sharp crimson spikes launched toward Vael, piercing his arms, legs, and shoulder. He grunted, one knee hitting the floor. Blood dripped from his lips.

"To think…" he muttered, lifting his head with a tired smirk. "You'd push me this far."

But he didn't fall.

The legend still stood.

Vael's breath was ragged now. Every step he took echoed with pain—the weight of two battles pressed heavy on his body. His cloak fluttered behind him, soaked in blood, torn in places. Still, his eyes remained sharp, unyielding. His scythe's chain dragged across the stone floor, its metallic rattle blending with the low hum of Dark's looming presence.

Dark moved smoothly across the battlefield, a twisted elegance in every step. His crimson eyes gleamed with wicked delight. Within his domain, Sanguine Palace, he was god.

Vael slashed, swung, lunged—but Dark danced through every strike, his body weaving between death with the grace of a phantom. Blood licked the edges of the field like wild flames, responding to their master's will.

"Hah," Dark scoffed, backing away slowly. "You look tired, old friend."

Vael didn't answer. Sweat ran down his temple, mixing with the blood on his face. His chest rose and fell heavily, his knees trembling—yet still, he gripped the chain tighter.

Dark raised one arm, palm half-turned, two fingers pointing downward.

"Let's end this."

His fingers flicked.

A squelching, wet crack rang out.

Suddenly—thorns of sharpened blood erupted from the ground, twisting upward like red spears. One surged beneath Vael, bursting through his chest with a violent crunch. Blood sprayed across the stones. His eyes widened.

"Agh—!" Vael stumbled, coughing blood. He collapsed to one knee, the bloody spike lodged deep in his body.

Dark tilted his head, laughing softly. "That's it? Is that the great Vael?" His voice echoed with mockery. "You're nothing but a dying relic."

Vael's vision blurred, but he didn't fall. His fingers curled. His body trembled, yet his will did not break. He looked up at Dark—smiling. Even with blood dripping from his lips… he smiled.

"You talk too much," Vael whispered.

Then slowly, silently, he raised his hand.

His fingers moved—precise, ancient, practiced.

They folded into a complex gesture—crossing like the claws of some forgotten beast. His mana shifted, darkened, sank into the earth.

And with a low, hollow voice, he spoke:

"Reaper's Hollow."

The world changed.

A deafening silence fell.

No wind. No breath. No sound.

The battlefield disappeared.

Dark's laughter choked in his throat.

Everything went black.

It wasn't just absence of light—it was the swallowing of all things. The air thickened like tar. The ground was gone. Space twisted. The only thing that existed… was the tolling of a slow, haunting bell.

DONG…

DONG…

DONG…

Shadows moved—alive, ancient, and cold. They rose like ghosts, circling Dark, whispering things in a language lost to time. His body, once fluid and strong, now felt heavy… chained… judged.

Dark screamed. "What is this?!"

But no voice came out.

He turned—but the darkness offered no escape. He floated, suspended, helpless. His limbs refused to move.

Then—light.

Two towering wooden beams emerged from the void like ancient gallows. And there, between them, hung Dark—arms stretched wide, chains biting into his flesh. Blood dripped from his wrists, but it was not his body that felt pain.

It was his soul.

From the shadows emerged a figure.

Tall. Robed in pitch black. A hood hid its face, but in its hand was a massive scythe.

The Grim Reaper.

Dark's eyes widened. "No… no, stay away—!"

The reaper did not speak. It simply raised its weapon.

And with one sweeping motion—it cut.

Not flesh.

But mind.

Spirit.

Sin.

Dark's body didn't bleed—but his eyes rolled back. His voice was lost. The scream never left his throat.

He fell.

Dark crashed to the ground.

His body—once graceful, commanding—now lay twisted and still. Blood seeped from the corners of his mouth, his limbs limp, chest barely rising. His eyes were vacant, pupils dilated in terror, as if he had seen death itself stare into his soul.

He had.

The judgment had been passed.

And he survived it… barely.

The shadows that made up Reaper's Hollow began to dissolve, melting into mist and fading into the wind. The echo of the tolling bell rang one final time before silence reclaimed the battlefield.

Vael stood over Dark's broken form.

For a moment, he didn't move.

Then—his body staggered. His legs gave slightly beneath him.

He dropped to one knee, driving the heel of his scythe into the ground and leaning his weight on it like a crutch. His cloak, tattered and soaked in blood, dragged across the stone. Sweat fell in beads from his brow. His breathing—deep, uneven—was the only sound left in the aftermath.

The wind was cold.

And he was tired.

So very tired.

His fingers curled tightly around the handle of his scythe, not as a weapon now—but as a companion. A silent witness to everything endured. Its chain coiled loosely on the ground beside him, rattling gently with the breeze.

He stared at the horizon, blood dripping from his lip.

"That… was too close," he muttered to no one.

But there was no one left to answer.

The field was quiet. His enemy had fallen. Yet there was no triumph in his eyes—only the hollow calm of survival. The scars of two battles weighed heavy on his shoulders.

And for a moment...

He allowed himself to rest.