Nightblade (Darkest night)

The abyssal darkness surged forward.

The harrowing pressure around Morgan was a sheer, terrifying manifestation of primordial existence that ignored the physical boundaries of the abyss.

The cavern shattered.

Miles of ancient slate plain buckled, the interlocking stones grinding into dust that instantly vaporized under the sheer gravity of the primordial pressure.

The thick columns holding up the cavern snapped like brittle kindling, plunging into the lightless abyss beneath Nythrakar’s titanic figure.

The air itself vanished, stripped of oxygen, replaced by a suffocating, absolute weight that flattened the very concept of space around Morgan.

Morgan tried to scream, but no sound escaped his throat.

Small streams of blood began to leak from his eyes, his nose, and his ears.

"Aargh, aaaaah!"

Within him, the golden sun roared; the Void expanded in lockstep, weaving a dense mantle of shadow around him that repelled the weight of the ancient creature’s presence.

The two synchronized forces spun around one another in a brilliant, harmonious vortex, repelling the malice that sought to literally erase him.

A moment later, the pressure doubled.

Morgan’s right femur splintered. Pain, hot and blinding, tore up his spine.

The golden and dark sphere of aura around him violently compressed, shrinking until it was clinging to his clothes like a thin, second skin.

Within the Void, several jagged cracks appeared on the sun’s luminous surface.

A harrowing pain twisted through Morgan’s very being, wringing a soundless scream from his lips.

​"Gah—!"

Blood erupted from his mouth, spraying across the stone.

His vision went white, then red, then a sickening, splotchy grey. Everything else faded in a conflagration of pain. His eyes hurt, his leg hurt, everything hurt.

"Ah...damn..."

"...Morgan!"

Morgan felt a hint of panic in Sarenus’ voice.

"Are you worried for me?" Morgan thought with a hint of amusement.

"Fool! If this keeps up, you could die!" Sarenus snarled.

"My Lord, allow us to help you," Kazarax whispered.

No..." Morgan choked out.

​The word was barely a wet bubble of crimson popping on his lips.

His legs gave out completely. He collapsed, his left shoulder slamming against the cracked, vibrating slate with a sickening thud.

His cheek pressed into his own warm blood pooling on the stone.

He couldn’t breathe. His ribs were bending inward, clicking painfully against his lungs.

"​If I release them..." Morgan’s mind spun, his thoughts fragmenting into jagged shards of panic and stubbornness.

"...If I let them bear it... I’ll just... be hiding behind the Voidwalkers again."

"I need to do... this..."

The titan’s golden eye loomed in the haze above him, unblinking, unfeeling, vast enough to swallow his entire sky.

​"...Is this the end of your resolve? Will you be just another vessel?"

​The voice echoed directly inside his brain, with enough force to split his skull open.

Nythrakar let out a sigh akin to a whirlwind.

"Perhaps I was wrong about you. Why did I entertain the thought that you would be any different?"

​Morgan tried to push his hand against the floor.

He gritted his teeth, tears foaming in his eyes.

"Damn it!"

His arm trembled violently, the muscles tearing under the stress, his fingers slipping in his own blood.

"Gaaah! Damn it!"

He couldn’t lift his chest an inch. He couldn’t move his legs,

The golden light around him flickered, the ethereal dome around him threatening to drown beneath the oppressive ocean of infinite darkness pressing down from above.

​Morgan stared up at the golden eye, his sight slowly fading away into darkness.

Damn it...

​His arm collapsed. His chin hit the stone.

​And the world went black.

When Morgan opened his eyes, there was no pain, no roaring wind, no smell of sulfur or iron.

The world was blissfully silent.

He was standing—or rather, floating- in an endless, silent void.

It was a serene, lightless expanse, vast and still, like the surface of a frozen ocean beneath a starless sky.

​

Floating in the distance were shattered, luminous fragments and the soaring, white-marble spires of a long-lost city.

A bit chaotic, isn’t it?"

​Morgan didn’t flinch.

He turned his head slowly, his movement weightless in the infinite, lightless expanse

​Standing a few paces away was a man.

​He wore a simple, dark tunic, frayed at the cuffs, showing the wear of a traveler who had walked across continents.

His hair was black, streaked with silver at the temples, and his face was carved with lines of profound, unimaginable exhaustion.

Yet his golden, luminous eyes held a quiet, gentle clarity.

​Azrael.

He looked less like the terrifying, world-shattering phantom Morgan had encountered in the misty ruins, and more like a man who was simply exhausted.

I was wondering when you’d drop by," Morgan said, in a flat tone.

He looked down at his hands.

There was no blood, no torn clothes, and thankfully no broken bones.

"Though I usually prefer my hallucinations to come with a bit more warning."

​Azrael offered a small, weary smile that didn’t reach his eyes.

If anything, it softened the severe lines of his face.

"You have done remarkably well, Morgan. Much better, in fact, than any who came before you."

"Modric burned, or so the snake says," Morgan muttered, crossing his arms.

"Nythrakar, it said, we’re nothing more than leaves, rotting on a river."

Morgan let out a decisive snort.

"And did I forget to mention, I’m currently lying face down in a puddle of my own blood while a mountain tries to step on me. I wouldn’t exactly call that a victory."

You are surviving," Azrael replied quietly. He took a step closer.

"But your body has reached its absolute limit. Your physical shell was not constructed to hold the weight of a god’s true gaze."

Azrael extended a hand toward Morgan.

"Allow me to take over, Morgan."

There was no malice in his voice, no hint of deceit or nefarious purpose.

​Morgan’s eyes narrowed slightly.

"Take over?"

Azrael nodded.

"Yes...I can absorb the pressure,

and carry this burden for you. You have fought enough. "

Morgan silently stared at him for several moments.

...Allow me to take your hand, Morgan. You have carried enough...

He could hear Azrael’s voice echo through his own thoughts.

​It was a sweet offer, one with a promise of release from all the excruciating pain he was currently suffering.

He could just step back and let someone else- someone who had fought this war for ten thousand years—handle the terrifying, bone-crushing reality waiting outside.

​Morgan looked at Azrael’s open hand.

Then, Morgan let out a short, dry breath through his nose, a quiet scoff.

​"So that’s your grand solution?" Morgan asked, rolling his shoulders.

"You step in, do the heavy lifting, and take the wheel?"

​Azrael didn’t lower his hand.

"It is the merciful choice."

​"Sorry," Morgan said, giving him a flat, unimpressed look.

"But I’ve already got a talking demon and an ancient king living in my head. Rent is getting a bit crowded in here. Adding a tragic, immortal martyr to the lease seems like bad management."