(Unknown realm)
The banquet hall was nice in its grandeur; Pillars carved with fat angels and broken kings rose into a ceiling lost in smoke, their mouths frozen in worship or scream, it was hard to tell which.
Tapestries sagged from iron hooks, soaked dark where old wine and older blood had dried together. Long tables split the room like ribs, piled high with platters that once knew gold and silver, now chewed raw by hands that had no manners at all.
At the far end, elevated above the feast like a blasphemous altar, the king hung.
It was a throne he sat on,a a throne grown from branches that had been brutally forced into him. Thorns with the thickness of wrists speared through his thighs, his ribs, his shoulders, blooming out his back in jagged bouquets of wood and bark. Steel nails formed his crown, hammered straight into his skull, their heads biting into skin split and swollen.
Where his eyes had been were hollow pits, streaming tears the color of rust that slid down his cheeks and dripped from his chin in slow drops. Every breath shook him and every breath tore another sound out of his throat. A broken and endless roar,, the noise of something that should have died days ago and was denied the mercy of a given death.
A witch stood beside the throne, standing as calm as a church priestess. Her fingers glowed faintly with dark purple and black magic as she pressed her palm to the king's chest. Each time his heart stuttered, she tightened her grip, whispered something, and forced it back into motion, which kept the king from dying.
And She smiled when he screamed louder.
And around him, the festival whirled more into a grotesque display of weirdness and fuckery.
Men and women danced barefoot across the stone, their feet slick and their laughter sharp and glassy. Children wove fast between them with laughs and smiles, faces smeared with red, hands clutching clumps of grass and fistfuls of dirt they chewed like delicacies.
People crouched over the floor gnawing on rocks, cracking teeth, gums bleeding freely as they laughed through ruined mouths. Others lay on their bellies beneath the throne, tongues out, catching the king's blood as it fell, gulping it down and begging for more.
"His blood…" one woman sighed, lips crimson, eyes rolled back.
"How sweet it is!" another cried, smearing it across her face like paint.
"This is how he'll serve us! Always having those nightmares, fearing he'll lose the kingdom," a man shouted, raising a goblet filled with nothing but red. "We're doing him a favor!"
The king roared, "You all…have gone mad! Mad I say!"
"He was always having those nightmares of everything being destroyed to the point where he went insane, this is the only way to keep him stable." Someome else said.
The king was known to these people as the symbol of endless happiness, where everyone followed his lead to do things that aids in their own joy. So seeing him be paranoid over the dreams he had, they followed his footsteps…
Nearby, two men fought over a bone that wasn't really a bone at all, just a splinter of table leg slick with gore. One tore the other's throat open with his teeth, no surprise that no one stopped dancing or looked away.
And in a corner, naked bodies tangled together, breathless and urgent it seemed, primal sounds swallowed by music and screams, hands grabbing breasts, skin slapping, kissing, and hunger wearing the shape of intimacy without its warmth, piles of bodies indulging in intercourse without any damn shame at all, the moans slowly growing each second.
Bardic mages stood on overturned tables, fingers flying over strings and keys that hummed with magic. Their instruments glowed, magic bright notes spiraling into the air like sparks. They sang with their voices layered and wild, a hymn to the old king.
"O King of crowns and sleepless nights,
You fed us fear, you fed us spite,
Now feed us flesh and feed us vein,
Sit still, sit sweet, endure the pain!"
Laughter rose with the tempo, and the music quickened. Feet stomped harder, blood splashed wider, and the moans got louder; the witch's magic burned brighter as the king's body convulsed like a zombie, the branches creaking and bark cracking under the strain of his thrashing.
The bards continued their song:
"Serve us still, serve us true,
Every scream is a debt come due,
Drink his terror, chew his plea,
This is love. This is loyalty."
The king's ruined and painful roar climbed higher, shaking dust from the walls and the throne he was stuck in. Then, his head snapped back fast with a cracking noise, mouth open in a sound so vast it drowned the music for a second of a heartbeat.
Then the light came.
A white infinity symbol unfolded in the air above the hall, clean and perfect, and it was burning without heat. The music faltered, feet stilled in its motion, and lousy lustful hands froze mid-grab.
"What… is that?" someone whispered.
"Is this the king's true power?"
"Isn't this…what the king said he dreamed about…? The thing that will destroy everything…?"
"It looks just as he described…"
The king's scream broke off and his body went slack. For the first time since the branches had claimed him, his breathing eased for a second. A single tear cut through the blood on his face, and where it fell, the wood recoiled and the physical pain in his body was gone; he felt it leave him like a tide pulling back in the ocean.
Fear crept in where laughter had lived in the hall, even the children went quiet with their eyes wide, shaking hands clutching each other and their parents as the light above shimmered in sparks.
Then the branches began to rot, becoming shriveled and cracked as they fell away in chunks, dropping from the kings body as flesh knitted itself closed with an unknown healing mechanism.
His skin smoothed itself out, and his muscles tightened together, and his bones set peacefully to how they were before he was impaled on his throne. The nails in his head tore themselves free with wet sounds and clattered to the floor. The king dropped from the throne, landing on his feet and swaying, his breath coming in and out hard.
White light poured into his hand, and it was hardening into a blade, Its surface was stitched with weird looking runes that hurt to look at, lines that bent the eye and quietly moved.
He looked at all of them, blood slicked his body and matted his hair, and it streaked his chest like war paint.
He zipped forward at full speed, steel sang, and his anger carved through everyone. Bodies split cleanly and parted, an infinity symbol hanging between each half as they froze in the air, blood spraying upward before raining down. He moved through them like a raging hurricane, step after step, strike after strike. He did not turn the blade toward the children, he just stepped around them as they ran screaming, slipping in their parents blood.
The bards kept playing, their voices and magic instruments didn't stop at all.
And more bodies hung suspended in the air, and more blood fell like raindrops from them. The hall filled with the sound of sobbing children and the wet percussion of slaughter.
At last, the king stood alone at the center of it all, chest heaving, sword dripping white light now stained red; the infinity symbol above his head burned steady and cold.
But those bards never stopped.
Their fingers kept moving even as the hall filled with hanging corpses and falling blood, strings humming like nerves pulled too tight. The king's blade trembled in his grip, and then the light spilled out of it, and hands made of white light emerged from the blade itself.
They slid from the blade as if born from water, dozens at first, then another dozen, glowing softly like moonlit marble. They wrapped around the kings wrists, his arms, his legs, fingers threading through his hair, cupping his jaw, brushing his ruined crownline. Some grasped at his throat, and others rested over his heart.
Then they began to whisper, not in one voice, but many, layered and overlapping, close, breathless words pressung directly into his skull.
Promises. Familiarity. Belonging. The sound of something that had always been waiting, And the king did not resist from it at all.
Warm peace washed through him. The blood on his skin cooled and his breathing slowed down. The whispers grew louder and louder, much much closer, until they drowned out the screams of the children and the music of the bards alike.
Hands tightened and more emerged. They pulled him gently as if cradling something precious.
Then one clear and calm voice rose above the rest: "Come home. To the Tower. You have been chosen as the Pilgrim… bring the others who are worthy of climbing it. We will guide you."
The light then swallowed him whole.
—
(Unknown realm)
Sunlight flooded a city of pale stone and blooming color, with roofs curved gently upward, tiled in warm reds and creams. Balconies spilled over with flowers, vines heavy with blossoms cascading down carved railings. The air smelled like bread and clean linen.
And bells chimed softly as children ran through the square, tossing rose petals into the air while laughing voices followed them like music.
No spells or magic flickered here at all air, Everything was real simple and basic. Instruments sang without magic, the food was warm and filling.
At the edge of it all, high above the square, Ifrit leaned against a balcony thick with flowers.
Nineteen, thin but wiry. Ragged black sackcloth hung loose on his frame, sleeves torn uneven, black fingerless gloves frayed at the seams. His brown hair was a mess no comb had ever won against. A scar cut across one cheek, and one of his eyes was pure white, and the other burned a dark pink.
He watched the festival like it offended him personally.
'Gross,' he thought. 'All that lovey-dovey crap… it stinks.'
"Brooding again like an edgy fantasy character, young Ifrit?"
He screamed loudly, a non-prideful girly squeal ripped out of him as he jumped sideways, nearly falling over the balcony before he flailed and caught himself. He staggered back with his heart pounding.
"Y-You old hag! You can't just sneak up on me like that!"
Behind him stood an elderly florist wrapped in layers of soft green and violet colors, her shawl speckled with pollen. Her gray hair was tied up in a lopsided bun with a wooden pin shaped like a daisy, and she was just smiling.
"Why are you up here?" she asked pleasantly. "Shouldn't you be down there with everyone else? Today's the welcome home celebration for the brave souls who investigated that weird symbol that appeared two years ago. They've been sending updates, you know. Including your parents. They say they're on their way back now and can't wait to share what they found."
Ifrit snorted, folding his arms. "That weird symbol that looks like the number eight but sideways? Yeah. Don't really care. Those guys wanted to poke stuff they don't understand. I wouldn't go if I were them."
"Aw you miss your parents?" The old woman grinned as she got close.
"Tch! No!" Ifrit looked away.
Far beyond the rooftops, across shimmering water and haze, something pale hung in the sky. Distant and almost invsible.
It was an infinity symbol.
The old woman, named Edna, tracked his gaze, humming. "It's worth investigating, right?"
Silence.
"I guess," Ifrit muttered. "Still not going down there, Edna."
Edna reached behind her and produced a neatly folded suit. "Yes you are."
Ifrit stumbled back. "No—no—I don't wanna go. No one wants me down there anyway! None of them like me! They're all scared of me!"
Edna pounced at him and what followed after that was straight chaotic shenanigans.
They crashed across the rooftop, grappling and rolling as Ifrit yelled and flailed, desperately trying to keep his sackcloth on while Edna somehow suplexed him with terrifying precision. She slammed him into the stone, flipped him, pinned him while carefully sliding flower pots out of the way mid throw without spilling a drop of soil.
"You're gonna put it on," she said cheerfully, straddling him. "Staring at the festival is gonna make you more edgy and broody and dark and boring."
"I'M NOT DOING IT ON PURPOSE! Get off me, old ass!"
Somehow Edna won, and moments later, Ifrit stood stiff as a board, arms at his sides, face twisted into a sulky scowl. The suit fit perfectly with those clean lines and pale fabric, simple and elegant.
Edna clasped her hands. "Aww. You look handsome. This is the Land of Solace. Fluidity and tranquility guide us. Suits show that."
"I look ridiculous," Ifrit snapped. "I've got two different eyes and a face scar. It doesn't fit. I look badass and menacing. I can't be seen in some suit."
"It fits perfectly," she said. "You want to look presentable for your parents, don't you? Now head down there. And if you try to leave or hide, I will brutally slaughterize you with this harpoon."
She pulled out a harpoon, from behind her.
It was large and sharp, and it seemed to already have blood on it.
Ifrit stared. "Are you fucking kidding me?! Where did you pull that from?! And why is there blood on it?! Are you insane?!"
"Go now, dear."
He stared at her, smugged, and started down toward the festival.
Halfway there, he glanced back.
Edna stood on the balcony, aiming the harpoon at him, smiling sweetly and waving.
Ifrit raised his hand and flipped her off without breaking stride, disappearing into the crowd as petals fell around him.
Ifrit walked and walked, the stone streets gleamed under the sun, scrubbed clean and dressed up for the day. Ribbons hung from windows, flower garlands draped over railings, and people crowded balconies and rooftops, leaning out, waving cloths and hats, laughing so loudly it spilled down into the streets like music you couldn't shut off.
"I'm glad they're safe!"
"Thank goodness for their safe return!"
"They said there was danger out there, real danger, but they handled some of it! Can you believe that?"
He kept his eyes forward with his shoulders hunched slightly, and hands shoved into his pockets. The suit felt weird on his skin, like it belonged to someone else and was offended he was wearing it.
A few faces tilted downward as he passed. Conversations dipped then resumed in softer tones.
"Isn't that Espen and Galdar's kid? Ifrit?"
"Yeah. That's him."
"No way he actually came to the festival. And in a suit? Him?"
"Go easy. People have been scared of him for years. Kid's had it rough, hasn't he? Maybe he's finally venturing out instead of getting into trouble."
"That's exactly why they're scared. Stabbed in the chest seven times and lived. Fell off a building and walked it off. Then that man he killed.."
"He said he was defending himself from getting robbed himself. But the way it looked to everyone else, looked like straight murder, seeing how mad he was while bashing that guys head with a rock."
Ifrit didn't look up or slow his pace down.
'I don't care if they're scared of me,' he thought. 'That bastard tried to rob me. I hit first. I'm not some pushover.'
A pause crept in anyway that was uninvited.
'…Maybe it gets lonely. Or whatever.'
He hated that part.
'But I shouldn't let it bother me, right? Bullshit. Fate's always got its boot on my neck. Ever since I was a kid. Every time something almost works out, it finds a way to screw me sideways. I know I'm reckless. I know I'm a problem. But I can't sit still and wait for fate to crap on me again. I've gotta outrun it. If I don't, I'm never gonna be happy.'
The heart of the festival opened up around him. A wide square bursting at the seama and drums thumped and instrumental strings sang. Wind instruments laughed and cried all at once, children darted between legs, chasing streamers and each other. Food stalls hissed and popped real food that was steamy warm, scents curling through the air.
People noticed him, some pretended not to and failed.
"Ifrit…"
"He's here."
"Of course he is. His parents went after that symbol."
'That's why I didn't wanna come,' Ifrit thought, rubbing the back of his neck. 'Too much happiness. Makes my skin crawl. Feels fake standing here when my head's a mess. Like I don't belong. Like I walked into someone else's home and everyone inside already decided they hate me. Like I'm stepping on eggshells. Or spikes. Or whatever the hell that saying is.'
A small hand suddenly grabbed his.
"Ifrit! Ifrit!"
He flinched, looking down. A kid with grimy knees, bright eyes, and a missing tooth beamed up at him. "Everyone says you're strong! And tough! Can you win me a prize?"
"Huh?" Ifrit yanked his hand back. "Scram, brat."
The kid clasped their hands together and pulled the most dramatic and exaggerated puppy face imaginable, eyes shimmering like they were about to pour buckets.
Ifrit froze up and he felt it immediately, the weight of many eyes staring into his soul. The sudden quiet curiosity of people watching to see what he'd do.
He sighed, long and irritated. "Fin—"
"Yes!!! Thank you!!" the kid screamed, bouncing.
Ifrit recoiled. "Huh?! You were faking that shit!"
The kid nodded enthusiastically. "Uh-huh! Now you gotta help me and my friends win prizes!"
"…Friends?" Ifrit echoed.
The kid grinned wider.
Children crowded in around Ifrit until he was practically walled in by small bodies and noise, all of them bouncing on their heels and shouting like he was already a legend.
"He's gonna win us all prizes!"
"Yeah, he's strong!"
"Thanks, Ifrit!"
He stood there with a thick wooden hammer resting against his shoulder, its handle worn smooth by a thousand hopeful hands, his mouth curled into a smug angry line that twitched at the edges like it didn't quite know what it wanted to be. His eye flickered as he stared down at the game in front of him, thoughts drifting somewhere dangerously self-aware.
'Have I gotten soft?' he wondered. 'Should I jump off a building now? Yeah. That sounds right.'
Nearby, adults watched from a cautious distance, whispering like they were witnessing some rare animal behaving out of character.
"He's winning prizes for kids… how did those brats manage that?"
The stall itself was proudly primitive, all rope and carved timber, the kind of thing built by hand and repaired a hundred times over. Painted across the base in chipped lettering was the name Stonehowl Measure, a strength trial favored at local festivals.
A thick wooden striker plate sat at the bottom, connected to an internal pulley system that ran up a tall frame. Inside it, a weighted block rested at the base of a vertical channel, and above it hung a cracked bronze bell shaped like a lion's open mouth.
The operator, a broad man with rolled sleeves and a nervous smile, clapped his hands together and explained quickly, as if worried Ifrit might lose interest. "You swing the hammer here, all force, no tricks. The impact sends the block upward. Hit the bell, you win. Doesn't matter how many tries, just muscle and timing."
Ifrit nodded once. "Alright then."
More people gathered.
"Ifrit playing with children? That's new."
"Everything's going swell today. If he's helping kids and the warriors are coming back, this evening's bound to be special."
Ifrit lifted the hammer and simply brought it down with a clean, decisive swing that carried more weight than anyone expected.
The Stonehowl Measure detonated as wood split apart like it had been insulted personally, ropes snapping and whipping through the air as the frame collapsed inward, the bell tearing loose and vanishing in a cloud of dust and splinters that rained across the square. Debris skidded across the stone, and thebhammer head cracked clean in half.
There was a beat of stunned quiet before the children exploded into cheers, jumping and screaming like this was exactly what they'd hoped would happen.
The operator stared at the wreckage, blinking rapidly. "Well… I guess you win all the prizes—"
The kids charged the operator like rabid animals, drool and foam shooting from their mouths with excited growls.
They swarmed the stall, grabbing wooden swords, carved animals, painted cards, toy tops, anything their hands could reach. The man yelped and tried to shield himself, ducking behind another festival-goer as children clung to his legs and arms like feral animals, laughing and shrieking while hauling their loot away.
Ifrit stepped back, watching them scatter, their joy so loud and unfiltered it almost hurt to look at. He turned to leave.
"Thank you, Ifrit!"
"I don't care if people are scared of you, you're great!"
He paused just long enough to glance back. "Mhm. Bye now."
Something faint slipped into his chest, definitely unwelcome, like a door he'd boarded up years ago creaking open for a second before slamming shut again.
'Is this satisfaction..?'
Then the ground trembled.
At first it was subtle, a low vibration beneath the ground, but it grew deeper, deep enough that people started looking around, confused smiles fading into concern.
"Did you feel that?"
"Is something wrong?"
"My head hurts…"
Hands went to faces, blood began to trickle from noses, some dropped to their knees retching and vomiting violently, while another staggered aside clutching their skull. The air felt crazy and pressurized, like something enormous was leaning down on the city.
Ifrit stood untouched, heart hammering as he looked around. The children near him were shaken but standing.
'I felt one second of satisfaction,' he thought, panic creeping in, 'and now what the fuck is going on?! Is this fate striking again..?'
Every head turned toward the water, and a figure was walking across it.
White light bled from him, hair glowing, sword burning in his hand, and above his head hovered the merciless infinity symbol.
"Who is that?!"
"That symbol…it's the same one we saw!"
"But the other one vanished, this one's over his head!"
Ifrit stared, chest tightening. "Where are my parents…?"
The man raised his blade.
What followed happened faster than thought itself, he tore through the town in an instant, a streak of light carving through streets and bodies alike. Stone shattered and bodies split; people were torn apart mid scream, limbs severed, torsos pierced clean through as destruction rippled outward like a wave. The square became a slaughterhouse before anyone could run.
And Ifrit hit the ground hard while severe pain engulfed him. His arm was gone, blood pumping out in thick, hot surges as he clawed at the stone, vision blurring. Bodies lay everywhere. Everyone around him was dead except the children.
They were alive but crying their eyes out.
The glowing man stood before Ifrit, light devouring the ruin around both of them.
Ifrit forced himself up on one knee, shaking, teeth clenched. "Fuck this… fuck all of it. I'm not letting fate ruin me. I get it now, feeling happy even a little bit isn't for me. I don't know who you are or what you want, but …I'll beat you up."
His thoughts screamed louder than his voice.
'I don't care what he is. If he's here and my parents aren't… Did he do something to them?!'
The man turned as debris and ash fell around them, lifting his blade forward once more.
Ifrit's mind snapped backward to childhood, to a bed and a tranquil voice, his mother reading stories she'd written herself, stories where Ifrit was the hero, unstoppable and reckless, and being invincible, the kind of person who always survived.
The sword cut through him.
He twisted just enough to avoid total annihilation, but not enough to live. His body split apart, halves pulled away from each other as an infinity symbol burned into the space between them, suspending what remained of him in the air.
And the city fell silent in its horrid grandeur; The glowing man tilted his head, the smallest hint of surprise flickering through his posture. That first strike had been meant to end Ifrit instantly, yet twice now the boy had reacted to the man's attacks.
He lowered his gaze to the blade.
….
….
….
….
….
Dark water swallowed him.
Ifrit sank slowly, the ocean around him thick and lightless, pressing in from every side as if it had weight and intent. His lungs burned almost immediately, each instinct screaming at him to thrash and swim upward, but the surface felt impossibly far away, like it belonged to another world entirely.
Around him, people drifted downward through the gloom, hundreds upon hundreds of bodies, all falling at different speeds, limbs loose, eyes wide, bubbles tearing free from open mouths like silent screams.
Above the surface, barely visible through the distortion of water and darkness, figures stood watching. Dozens of them. Maybe more. They were nothing but silhouettes, unmoving, faceless, staring down as if this was something expected, rehearsed, rehearsed a thousand times before.
Rage ignited in his chest, and Ifrit kicked hard, arms cutting through the water as he tried to swim upward, teeth clenched so tight his jaw ached. The distance didn't change no matter how violently he moved, he continued sinking, dragged downward by something deeper than gravity. His fingers curled into fists, nails biting into his palms as fury drowned out the fear.
'I'm not done yet,' he thought, anger boiling hot enough to keep him conscious. 'Edna. Mother. Father. I don't know what the hell is happening. Magic popping out of nowhere, glowing lunatics cutting cities apart, now I'm drowning in some cosmic nightmare.'
His vision became blurry, dark spots creeping in.
'Wherever this is taking me, even if it's hell….they won't be able to hold me either. I'm sick of this loop. Sick of feeling like I don't belong anywhere, like I'm some mistake that slipped through the cracks and nobody knows what to do with.'
The water deepened, colder, heavier.
'Screw that.'
His memories crept in again, he was small, tucked into bed beneath worn blankets, the smell of old paper and candle wax filling the room. His mother sat beside him with her hair loose and voice warm as she held a book she'd clearly written herself, pages uneven, ink smudged from being rewritten too many times.
"And the mighty and strong King Ifrit stopped before the Minotaur King of the Lower World," she read, smiling. "'We will destroy you and take over your kingdom, human King Ifrit!' the Minotaur roared."
Young Ifrit in the bed bolted upright, eyes wide. "Ooh! What did I do next?! What did I do next?!"
She laughed softly and turned the page. "Well, my dear, you told them, 'I am the defender of the people, and I'll beat you all up!' And you defeated them all with one swipe. And the day was saved, fate was stopped again!"
Young Ifrit smiled, "Yes!"
The memory faded while the ocean returned.
Ifrit stopped fighting the fall, letting his body go limp as he stared into the endless dark below. 'I'll stop it,' he thought, calm settling over the rage like a blade sliding into its sheath. 'No matter where I end up. Nothing gets to decide my life for me.'
The figures vanished. The last traces of light were eaten whole.
—
—
[Calamity Tower]
[Tutorial Floor]
Ifrit woke choking on blood. "Ack!"
He sat upright quickly with a sharp gasp, his hands slamming into wet ground as pain flared across his body. He was sitting in a large body of shallow dark red, the metallic stench of blood thick in the air. Around him lay charred corpses, some scattered, others piled together as if thrown there without care, limbs blackened, faces frozen mid terror.
The sky above was a violent red, clouds boiling thick and black, hanging low like they might collapse at any moment.
All around him, people were waking up.
"W-Where are we?!"
"Something attacked me…s-some glowing bastard with a thing over his head!"
"Me too! White sword….he cut everything apart!"
Ifrit's heart hammered as he took it all in, head swiveling. 'The hell… me too. What is this place? What's really going on?'
The crowd was chaotic, hundreds upon hundreds upon hundreds were feeling all sorts of emotions. Some people sobbed openly, clutching themselves or each other. Others screamed, pacing in small circles, hands tangled in their hair. A few lashed out, shoving strangers, throwing punches fueled by panic and confusion.
"Someone tell us something!"
Several stood perfectly still, eyes watery and unable to process anything at all, while a couple collapsed outright, fainting where they stood. One man hyperventilated so hard he dropped to his knees, fingers clawing at his throat.
Ifrit turned and froze, and to his left stood a girl about his age, calm in a way that felt strange. She wore a loose white tank top stained with dirt and soot, baggy white pants cinched at the waist, white wraps bound tightly around her hands. Her dark red eyes were sharp and alrrt. A faint burn mark traced her cheek, and her medium length white hair fell in tousled, layered waves, slightly frizzy. Tattooed on the back of her neck was a name: Sephyr.
She met Ifrit's gaze briefly, clicked her tongue, and looked away.
"What was that—" Ifrit started, irritation flaring.
"Look!"
Heads snapped forward, and in the distance stood a colossal black sword, easily a hundred feet tall, embedded deep into the ground. Its surface was scorched and cracked, and fused into the hilt was a massive charred face, mouth twisted into something that might once have been a scream.
Hovering above it was the man, that glowing man, now fully visible, long white hair glowing softly, light purple blue eyes that seemed to wander, a silver infinity symbol hovering like a halo above his head. He wore a white robe that drifted as if untouched by the wind.
Anger exploded through the crowd.
"It's him!"
"You! You killed everyone!"
People broke into a run, screaming, fists clenched, grief and fury burning away reason as they charged toward the massive sword.
Sephyr didn't move. Her fists tightened at her sides with her knuckles whitening.
Ifrit wasn't watching her.
He was already running.
"I'll end him," he snarled, feet pounding against the blood-soaked ground. "I'll end him here!"
'I'll beat him up..'
He moved faster than the others, rage driving every step with his lungs burning and vision narrowing to the glowing figure ahead.
"That kid…"
"He'll die…!"
"They all will! We saw how strong that glowing man is!"
Even Sephyr watched him go, eyes narrowing.
'Fool. Him and all of the others.'
Some stayed behind, fearful even.
The glowing man's voice rolled across the field, layered and heavy, echoing inside their heads as much as their ears.
"I am Zabriel, the Demon of Infinity. You stand within the Calamity Tower of 777 floors." His stare settled on the charging crowd, then on Ifrit. "You don't want to waste a life on the first floor by trying to fight me, do you?"
Some slowed and stopped while fear finally clawed its way through the haze of rage.
Ifrit didn't, as now he and only about 5 others were the only ones running towards the man.