One arm and one spear—that was all Caine could truly rely on.
Dozens, hundreds, thousands, millions, billions—the amount of enemies he faced seed endless.
Each of them was just as powerful and law-breaking as he was, and all seed to have abilities that specifically countered his assets and aid for his weaknesses.
Each battle was a life-and-death one that pushed him deeper and deeper into a state of empty focus.
A single mistake ant death.
But he persisted.
Every battle ended with him getting more and more injured, but he persisted.
Every enemy he encountered was more powerful than the last, forcing him to pull at the very depths of his core—but he persisted.
Every battle was a direct challenge to everything he stood for. Everything he'd worked for. Everything he'd once asked for.
But he persisted.
Every encounter was a spit on the Will he'd forged across two lifetis. The countless sacrifices he'd made. All the people he'd once had and then lost.
The world was utterly silent to him, the only sound reaching his ears being the fluttering of his torn robes and the whistle of air as he swung.
The pressure of death slowly beca unimportant, an impenetrable force he routinely faced and climbed over. His heart steadied, beating with unstoppable force, and his mind cald, facing it all one step at a ti.
The more he swung his blade, the more he felt his emotions stir and clash against the walls of his heart. The more he killed and triumphed, the more he felt his blood flow.
The more injured he beca, the more alive he felt. And the more he advanced, the more wrathful he beca.
Every step forward he took was filled with just as much unshakable conviction as it was endless wrath.
His bones broke countless tis, his flesh was torn relentlessly, and his blood had beco paint to a canvas that followed and trailed behind him, immortalizing each and every one of his steps.
Fate. Karma. Destiny. Totality.
The more he danced with death, the more he understood.
And the more he understood, the colder his gaze beca and the smoother his steps were.
Life, death, the future, the past—none of it mattered more than the present.
He had decided to live. So he would live. He had decided to fight and challenge Fate, so he would win.
Step after step, he'd walk ahead until infinity was conquered.
[Either die as a star, your radiance blinding the cosmos for the faintest of monts, or look ahead and climb mountain after mountain, allowing your heart to weather the storm and brutality of existence.]
***
In the middle of these lands of life and death, a grand, gigantic, and majestic gate stood, made out of pitch-black obsidian tal and outlined by gold.
Runes of white and dark gold hues danced across its surface, its aura imposing and mighty, so much so that the space around it seed to warp and bend in subservience.
Sat at the foot of this grand gate, a man could be seen sitting cross-legged, still and unmoving.
His skin was bronze, tanned and healthy, wrapped around refined and thick muscles, draped over by simple white robes.
He looked normal, and yet, looking at him, none would be able to take their eyes off him, as if he incarnated the very essence of the world.
As if a god made flesh—a mortal god.
Slowly, he opened his eyes, revealing their brilliant golden depths.
Ahead, a tall man covered in hundreds of different torn robes slowly walked over, his steps slow and his features obscured.
But from the little shown from his feet and the slight dangle of his only arm, countless scars could be seen.
The man noted all this in an instant and nodded to himself.
"It seems it's ti."
He pushed himself up.
"To reach the gate in such a short amount of years is sothing even I must recognize," the man slowly spoke, his voice deep and primal.
From thin air and into his palms, bandages appeared. With refined skill, he began to wrap them around his palms and forearms, black runes reflected across the bandages as he did so.
"But it is unfortunate. You are too young. But who am I to question the Supre Mother Fate? If you were deed worthy enough to compete against us, then I must oblige."
"The opponents you faced all were royalty of Fate, chosen across ti and space to compete for the crown, yet only the both of us remain now."
"The first candidate and the last, quite poetic, no?" The man chuckled, finishing the work he was performing on his hands.
He gripped his fists, testing the tightness of his work before nodding in satisfaction.
Slowly, a long sword ford out of thin threads of qi, weaving and landing in his palms.
A faint golden cloak of aura erupted from the man, soft and soothing as his qi began to flow with an unhurried motion.
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He swung his blade in the air a few tis, unbothered as the veiled man slowly made his way over to him.
"My na is Autumn Ignis, from the Lands Wreathed in Gold. Who may you be?"
The man's steps halted a few dozen ters away from Autumn, a silver pair of pupils suddenly gleaming from the darkness of the man's hood.
Autumn was taken aback for a mont but then smiled.
"It's fine. Not everyone is as talkative as—"
"You're quite old." Caine slowly uttered, his voice hoarse and strained, as if he hadn't spoken in decades.
His gaze turned to the horizon.
"Have you been here for long?"
Autumn nodded.
"As I told you, I was the first chosen. I've been waiting here for quite a few…millions? Billions? I'm not sure. I stopped counting ti ago."
"Billions of years." Caine slowly whispered, his voice devoid of any awe or emotion.
Normally, such a thing—an entity that had lived for millions of years—would've amazed him. But now, he couldn't find it in him.
All he felt was indifference as he stared at Autumn.
And inversely, Autumn could feel the dehumanizing gaze Caine landed on him.
It made his skin crawl, his soul shudder, and his qi tremble, but instead of frowning, he smiled—a pure and joyous smile at the prospect of this battle.
At the possibility of having a battle between equals.
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