The Ashwilds stretched endlessly beneath the two moons, cracked and bleeding light. Kael's bare feet scraped against glass dunes sharp enough to slice flesh, and the wind carried distant echoes of war machines long silent.
Each step was a battle against the hunger clawing at his insides, each breath a flame flickering against the cold night. He pulled his worn cloak tighter, the weight of exile heavier than the biting desert air.
Ahead, a shattered ruin caught the faint gleam of moonlight—a collapsed bunker buried beneath decades of sand and dust, its walls scarred by rust and ancient fire.
Kael moved toward it, drawn by a silent pulse in the air. His blood, the fire that lived inside him, throbbed with uneasy warmth.
Inside the bunker's depths, darkness swallowed him. His fingers traced over cracked consoles, broken circuits—remnants of a war that had ended before his time.
And then, among the wreckage, something black caught the flicker of his torch—a knife, sleek and obsidian, its surface rippling like liquid shadow.
Kael pulled it free. The blade hummed softly, a whisper against his skin, as if alive.
A faint engraving ran along its edge:
"Ego"
He remembered the tales—Elgraf, the general of Hel, whose black Ego Knife was said to be forged from the heart of a dying star, a weapon that could cleave souls and shift the fate of worlds.
Kael tightened his grip. The knife pulsed again, syncing with the fire in his veins. It was more than a weapon; it was a key.
Outside, the wind howled louder, and the distant horizon flickered with unnatural light—signs that the planet itself was waking, and so was his destiny.