Shadow Slave - Time Dilation

[Before you start, I would suggest putting some somber music on for the best delivery, some suggestions; Salvatore or Art Deco, and if you really want to get into the feels, try Windflower]

***

A Cursed Creature.

A Terror.

A profane god.

A name not meant for mortal tongues,

let alone mortal sight.

And now—

it descended upon the waking world.

Not slowly.

Not fast.

Just inevitably.

Upon NQSC.

Upon them.

---

The creature's hunched form crept higher,

its outline growing darker, heavier.

Sunny moved.

No time for ceremony.

No chant.

Just motion.

His odachi, still cloaked in the black fire of Lucien's flame,

still fed by the six incarnations and his Will,

sang through the air—

a slice meant not to kill,

but to cease.

It should have cut through space.

It did cut through space.

But then—

it stopped.

Not against bone.

Not against hide.

But Will.

The beak turned.

Sharp. Monolithic.

Drawn to him like gravity.

Then the talons shifted.

Just a twitch—

just enough—

And they came.

Too fast.

Far too fast.

Even for some Supremes.

But Sunny was no mere Supreme.

He moved.

A blur across broken ground,

his sword rising not as defense—

but as defiance.

Shadow against god.

The talons met the blade.

And the sky collapsed.

The air split like paper.

The wind imploded.

Sunny was hurled back—

violently, breathlessly.

Stone shattered beneath his boots as he landed.

He didn't scream.

Didn't grunt.

But his knees had to choose not to buckle.

Across from him—

Lucien stood at the gate's edge,

his face unreadable.

The fire at his back writhing in protest,

like it feared what it could not burn.

Then—

another strike.

The bird lunged again,

its talons like curses cast at the bones of the world.

The black flame responded—

a wall of withering heat, deathless and divine.

Impact.

A moment—

Stillness.

Another—

Silence.

And then—

Collapse.

Not the shield.

Not the flame.

But the world behind it.

The flames parted like curtains.

The blow had passed through.

Diverted.

Behind him, city blocks folded.

Steel screamed.

Glass turned to dust.

Nightmare creatures simply ceased.

The ground convulsed.

The horizon trembled.

Lucien's breath—

drawn in shallow.

Controlled.

But it came.

Once.

Just once.

But it did.

And Sunny, rising from the crater he'd formed—

felt something stir in his chest.

Not fear.

Not awe.

But an old, old hate.

The kind that had no words.

Only purpose.

Only strike.

---

The sky cracked.

And the world bent.

But neither Nephis nor Luna looked up.

They had already seen what had arrived.

It did not matter.

The battlefield was not yet empty.

Nephis moved through blood and ash like judgment wrapped in light.

Her flames blazed higher now,

her healing deeper, faster, angrier.

A claw tore through her ribs.

The bone shattered.

She exhaled—

and flame roared through her body like breath returning to a corpse.

She turned,

her sword screaming through the air.

The beast behind her—once a terror of molten limbs—

vanished in an arc of severed time.

She pressed forward,

wounds blooming and closing,

a self-consuming cycle of violence that didn't need permission to continue.

Where she walked, the ground cracked.

Not from power.

But from the heat of certainty.

She fought like someone who could not die.

Across the ruined plaza, Luna danced.

Her blade no longer gleamed.

Now, it shimmered—

like the last breath on winter glass, just before it fogs.

She flowed through broken streets,

one hand behind her back,

the other guiding the curve of her sword like a painter with trembling grace.

Each enemy that neared was reduced to delay.

Not a threat.

Not a fight.

Just a moment slowing her rhythm.

They came faster now.

Mindless beasts.

She gave them silence in return.

A beast lunged.

She leaned.

Another struck.

She pivoted, her footwork melting through the debris.

A single upward slash—

and the world blinked.

Three creatures fell.

She hadn't looked at them.

And then—

the weight fell.

Not from above.

But within.

The battlefield stilled.

The gates quivered.

The monsters—still in number—began to falter.

And the two women felt it:

A presence.

Not like the others.

Not a beast.

But something older.

Something that remembered gods.

A shadow passed over the blood-slick stones.

A low keening rose from the horizon.

And the flames around Nephis shifted—

Luna stilled mid-step.

Her sword paused, tip hovering above the ground.

She turned her head, slowly.

Eyes narrowed.

Breath still.

"…It's here," she whispered,

though no one had asked.

Because behind them, the crack in the sky still pulsed—

and the thieving god had arrived.

…

The air changed.

Not a chill, not a pressure—

just a hollowness,

like breath pulled from lungs already emptied.

Ash drifted sideways, caught in a wind no one felt.

The battlefield…

slowed.

Stilled.

The light dimmed,

not because of clouds,

but because hope had quietly stepped away.

The creature did not roar.

It did not announce its majesty.

It simply was—

like the knowledge of loss,

like a name carved on a gravestone long before death came calling.

Lucien watched it crawl from the wound in reality—

not with fury,

but familiarity.

And softly—

like silk torn by time—

he spoke.

"Some doors open only once,

and some… only with blood.

If this is the toll,

then so be it."

He looked to the beast again.

Then—

around.

A Saint.

Three Supremes.

Against a thing that remembered the dark before stars.

Not a battle.

Not a war.

A grave.

He clicked his tongue,

more in habit than disapproval.

Then turned—

slowly—

to Luna.

She was already watching him.

A silence passed between them.

Not painful.

Not warm.

Just long.

His smile, when it came, was not bright.

It did not reach his eyes.

It barely reached his lips.

But it was sincere.

And his voice—

hushed as a memory—

reached her without sound.

"I'm sorry."

Something shifted.

Not the world—

not the battlefield—

But everything.

A stillness spread,

not quiet,

but expectant.

And in that breath between heartbeats—

the flames changed.

What had once raged in black,

now darkened beyond black.

Colorless.

Godless.

Endless.

A hush fell across the battlefield.

And Lucien?

Lucien was gone.

He did not step into the fire.

He did not become it.

He simply was.

There was no boundary—

no edge between flesh and flame,

between soul and sorrow.

He was the flame.

And the flame was him.

A burning that did not devour.

A fire that did not hunger.

It unwound.

Time bent—

space creased—

The ground curled backward,

the heavens dimmed,

skyscrapers melted like wax,

clouds frayed like old silk,

and reality itself began to—

forget.

The flame erased gently—

with reverence.

It was not destruction.

It was finality.

And then—

as the last strands of Lucien's body

dissolved into that divine pyre—

a voice reached for him.

A whisper, brittle and breaking:

"…don't… please—"

It was soft.

It was human.

But it was too late.

He was not listening.

He was gone.

The flames swelled.

Not violently.

But deeply—

like a wound remembering how it was made.

They grew.

They gloried.

They licked at the bones of the skyline,

kissed roads until they cracked in worship.

And the gate—

The gate screamed.

The bird behind it thrashed—

its shriek folding the sky,

its talons raking across the flame—

not to cut,

but to unmake.

It struck at the fire with existence itself.

And failed.

Because these flames were not born of matter,

nor magic,

nor will.

They were a gift.

From something older.

Something colder.

Something that did not ask to be worshipped.

The god of Shadow.

Of Death.

Of Solace.

A requiem, not for the dead—

but for what dares to refuse dying.

The flames were gone.

Not extinguished—

spent.

Not smothered—

fulfilled.

And in their absence,

the air felt thinner.

As if the world was holding its breath,

unsure if it had survived.

Ash drifted like slow snowfall.

Soot clung to the sky.

The buildings stood like tombstones—

silent, leaning, hollowed.

Where once had been fury incarnate,

now lay stillness.

A plaza in ruin—

torn stone,

melted glass,

scorched steel—

And the thing that had made the sky scream?

Gone.

Not dead.

Not slain.

Erased.

Half of it lay across the shattered square,

a heap of feathers and bone unraveling into dust.

The other half?

It had never existed.

Not anymore.

There was no triumph.

No celebration.

Only grief.

And then—

he was there.

Not risen.

Left behind.

A man stood where the god had ended—

naked, save for the thin trail of black ember curling over his skin.

The flames no longer clung to him.

They remembered him,

but they did not claim him.

He breathed,

but not as Lucien.

Not anymore.

And then—

Luna came.

Not fast.

Not breaking.

Just walking.

One step after another,

each one a silent refusal to believe.

Her blade was gone.

Her radiance, dimmed.

What remained was the girl beneath the goddess,

the woman who had once laughed in moonlight,

and kissed a boy who teased death.

Her breath caught.

"Lucien…"

It wasn't a question.

It wasn't a plea.

Just his name—

offered like a prayer,

knowing no god would answer.

The man turned.

And her world ended.

His eyes…

They were no longer pale.

No longer swallowing light.

No longer his.

They were black.

Not shadow.

Not darkness.

Just void.

Empty of warmth.

Of memory.

Of him.

And in that hollow soul,

something writhed.

A flower blooming where nothing should grow—

bile-colored, sick with knowing.

Corruption.

Not invading him.

Becoming him.

Luna didn't cry.

She couldn't.

Because the moment demanded reverence.

Because grief this sacred—

grief this cruel—

deserved silence.

He was standing.

He was breathing.

But the man she had loved was no longer there.

Only what remained.

And the moon,

once radiant,

once sure,

once whole—

stood before him,

and broke.

He stood there.

Not Lucien.

Not anymore.

Just a figure draped in ruin—

bare, scorched, wreathed in fading embers.

And the void behind his eyes did not look back.

But still… Luna stepped forward.

She was trembling now.

Not from fear.

Not yet.

From the refusal of grief.

From a hope that clung like blood to broken glass.

"Lucien,"

she called again.

Her voice cracked—

just slightly.

Like a petal breaking beneath frost.

He didn't answer.

His head tilted, just slightly.

Too slow.

Too smooth.

As if learning how to be.

There was something blooming beneath his skin—

not power,

not flame,

but wrongness.

Corruption traced his veins like black roots,

curling toward his heart.

And still, she hoped.

She took one more step.

Her hand trembled at her side—

reaching,

almost lifting,

as if maybe…

Maybe.

A flicker passed through his body.

A tremor of unmaking.

And then—

He growled.

Not in words.

Not in memory.

Just sound.

Her breath hitched.

The moonlight in her eyes dimmed,

then faltered.

And finally—

her hand moved.

Not reaching now.

Summoning.

A shimmer of silver bloomed in her palm—

her blade, the Taijijian,

once gentle,

now heavy with mourning.

Still, her arm hesitated.

"Luci…"

a whisper.

As if the sound of his name might anchor him to himself.

As if love could drag a soul back from the dark.

But the void behind those eyes flickered—

not with recognition,

but with hunger.

Something that once had a name took a step forward.

Luna's grip tightened.

The blade rose—

slowly.

It wasn't righteousness that held her steady.

It wasn't duty.

It was sorrow,

dense and absolute,

sinking like a stone through the last of her hope.

A breath.

A pause.

The world waited.

And in her silence,

in her agony,

Luna realized—

she wasn't drawing her blade to protect herself.

She was drawing it

to kill the man she loved.

Or what was left of him.