The world crawled with nightmares.
The eerily empty streets now thundered with chaos—bloodcurdling screams, the clash of metal against stone, and the inhuman roars of monstrosities unleashed.
Though the people had been evacuated, remnants of civilisation still lingered. Lonely homes stood against the downpour, stubborn in their silence. Streetlights flickered. Faded decorations swayed in the wind. Empty parks and abandoned stalls whispered of children who once played there.
Now, only death remained.
Only the rain.
Only the storm.
From the gaping wound in the world, the abominations poured like wildfire. Each one a grotesque blasphemy—twisted mockeries of man and beast. Crab-like horrors with distorted human torsos. Tentacled fiends that slithered like deep-sea nightmares. And worst of all, the malformed things that wore the shape of children—shark-jawed and soul-shriveling.
But none reached the city.
None crossed the first line of defense.
Morgan stood alone at the threshold, her blade a silver blur in the rain.
No creature survived her gaze. No monster slipped past her wrath.
Her longsword flashed wide in a horizontal arc, severing limbs and pincers alike. Rain mixed with black blood. The abominations shrieked and lashed out—scythes and claws raining down like hail.
Morgan moved through them like a dancer through smoke.
A pivot, a slice—two heads rolled. A feint, a riposte—three hearts pierced. A blur of steel and wrath.
[You have slain an Awakened Beast: Carapace Scavenger]
[You have slain an Awakened Monster: Carapace Centurion]
[You have slain...]
The familiar whisper of the Spell echoed in her mind—but she didn't listen. She didn't care.
Morgan had lost herself to the rhythm, to the slaughter.
The sight of falling corpses, the tremble of death under her blade—it made her lips curl upward in a blood-slicked smile.
The abominations faltered. They recoiled from the storm that was the Princess of Valor.
Morgan moved with effortless precision. She fought like an assassin. Precise. Cold. No mercy in her eyes. No hesitation in her strikes.
Only death. Only destruction
She was a blade. An executioner. A living calamity forged for war.
'Give me more!'
She didn't know when to stop. She didn't care. This was what she was born for. A single, sharpened truth that carved into her soul.
And that... was enough.
...
"She... doesn't need our help."
The man in the black suit adjusted his collar, eyes narrowed behind silver-rimmed glasses.
"Of course not," said the young woman beside him, her voice cool despite the madness. She looked no older than twenty, yet spoke with the weight of decades. "It's merely a Category 2 gate."
"That doesn't mean we lower our guard." The tall knight in white armor raised his sword, his voice grim.
"One mistake..." he said, cleaving through an oncoming abomination, "...is all it takes to be your last."
The creature collapsed with a hollow scream, its eyes still frozen in madness.
"When the Gate Guardian arrives," he continued, flicking black blood from his blade, "we move."
Elle watched the battle unfold with an unreadable expression.
It was the first time she had seen Lady Morgan fight in a real battle. By all means, she should have been thrilled. Awed. Inspired.
Instead, something colder settled in her chest—a whisper of unease, coiling and growing darker with each passing second.
Something's wrong.
She narrowed her eyes at the abominations emerging from the gate. Not one of them lasted more than a heartbeat. Not a single monster posed even the slightest challenge.
They weren't fighting. They were being erased.
Morgan carved through them like a living calamity, each swing of her blade a death sentence. There was no tension in the air. No struggle. Just a widening chasm between destruction and helplessness.
Are all of them really just Awakened...?
It was a Category 2 gate. There should have been a mix—Awakened, maybe even a few Fallen-tier monsters. Yet so far, nothing even remotely strong had appeared.
Were the Fallen simply late to arrive?
Or... were they hiding?
And then there was the gate itself.
Elle lifted her chin, her gaze settling on the distant tear in reality. It glowed with a sickly, pulsing light. But it wasn't just dark—it was worse than dark. It was empty. Like something inside it wasn't just concealed... but devoured.
'That's not normal darkness,' she thought. 'That's something far more sinister.'
Her instincts flared. She summoned her sword and armor in a shimmer of cold light and turned sharply to her companions.
"Master Waren. Aria. Gareth." Her voice was tense, urgent. "We need to finish this. Now."
Waren didn't even look at her.
Aria tucked a strand of hair behind her ear, more annoyed than alarmed. Gareth gave her a hard look, his brow furrowed.
"You doubt Lady Morgan's ability to handle this?" he asked, tone sharp.
Elle blinked, her frustration simmering.
"I don't," she snapped, waving her arms. "But this gate isn't normal." She pointed to the churning darkness beyond. "It's been over two minutes and we haven't seen a single Fallen."
Waren exhaled through his nose.
"You don't follow the reports, do you?" he muttered. "A similar event happened last month. Category 3 gate in NQSC. No corrupted abominations. Not even a Gate Guardian."
Finally, he glanced at her—barely. "These things are rare, but not impossible."
Elle shook her head. "Or maybe the Guardian was never found."
Her eyes slid back to Morgan, whose sword had just impaled a mass of writhing tentacles.
"The Guardian is here. We just haven't seen it yet."
Aria laughed—a short, mocking sound.
"So what, it's hiding among us now? Lurking in the shadows, plotting its grand reveal?" She smirked and clapped Elle on the shoulder. "I try not to belittle others, Elle. Don't make it difficult."
"Enough," Gareth cut in, stepping between them and raising his sword to form a wall of steel. His gaze landed on Elle, stern and final.
"If Lady Morgan calls for support—we move. Not before. Understood?"
Elle hesitated... then nodded.
Gareth lowered his blade, and silence fell once more.
Only the sounds of battle remained—wet impacts, the grind of steel through bone, and the endless patter of rain.
It's not enough.
Elle's hand trembled.
People like that... they don't get remembered.
Her shoulders twitched beneath her armor.
But if there's even a sliver of opportunity... I'll take it.
Her gaze swept the battlefield, sharp as a predator's. She scanned every corner. Every twitch of motion. Every corpse. Every shadow.
Nothing. Just ruined streets and butchered monsters.
Where is it...?
Still she searched.
Where is the Gate Guardian hiding?
She wouldn't back down.
Not Lady Morgan. Not the Knights of Valor.
This wasn't just about survival anymore.
This is my chance.
Her grip tightened on her sword.
I'll be the one to slay it.
And then the skies will remember my name.
...
It was a beautiful war. A marvelous massacre.
Corpses littered the ground like discarded dreams. Nightmares crumbled to ash and bone. With each swing of her blade, Morgan cleansed the world of another monstrosity.
And she smiled. She should have been happy. She was happy.
And yet...
Why did every strike feel so hollow?
She gazed into the tide of monsters, endless and grotesque. She was built for this—no, forged for it. The perfect sword. A weapon made to kill.
Human or abomination—it didn't mattered. She would slaughter them all with the same cold precision.
No hesitation. No remorse.
But somewhere in the heart of the bloodshed, a question lingered like a splinter beneath her skin:
What do I want?
A wish... that would make me happy.
Could it really be found on this battlefield?
She cleaved through a charging beast without a blink. Parried a serrated pincer. Spun and brought her sword down in a graceful arc, cleaving another head from its spine.
The same motions. The same rhythm.
Strike. Parry. Kill. Repeat.
Would it all amount to anything?
Stupid, she thought, and her smile faded.
Of course not. This was her life.
The path was chosen for her.
The desire was assigned to her.
And that should have been enough. It had to be enough.
Chasing some fragile illusion of a happy wish... when had she started believing in such childish things?
Time to end this.
It had gone on too long already. The Gate Guardian should've appeared by now. If it would appear at all.
What she didn't expect... was a child.
She faltered.
A pale figure stepped through the gate. A boy—slender, black-haired, with dark circles under his eyes and strange black markings crawling across his face. He walked with an eerie stillness, untouched by the chaos around him.
Morgan's eyes narrowed.
Is that... a human?
He looked like any normal teenager—like someone she might pass on the streets of NQSC, if not for the madness swirling in his gaze, the black sigils etched across his skin and the unspeakable pressure radiating from his body.
Was he one of the ancient beings? A native of the dream realm who fell to the corruption?
The boy stopped a few meters away, lifting his head.
Their eyes met.
And in that instant, Morgan felt it—the darkness in him was alive. It writhed behind his gaze like a caged beast, pulsing with something far beyond malice.
Dark sparks ignited around his frame. They twisted in the air, converging into shape—one became a sword wreathed in deep azure glow, and the other a jagged greatsword, cruel and serrated, humming with destruction.
Her breath caught.
Did he just summon memories...?
No. That wasn't possible. Nightmare creatures didn't wield Memories. They weren't carriers of the Spell.
Then what is this thing?
The Gate Guardian? A Fallen Devil with a spatial storage ability?
Her thoughts scrambled to place it, to make sense of its frail form. But nothing added up. He looked too weak. Too fragile.
Too... human.
But she wouldn't make the mistake of underestimating it. Pride always come before the fall.
She raised her blades, legs tensed, ready to strike—
And then, the boy spoke.
His voice was quiet. Gentle. And yet it froze her where she stood.
"What is it that you wish?"
Morgan's eyes widened.
What...?
"Tell me," he whispered, the darkness flaring behind his words. "For your wish... will become your nightmare."
Morgan clicked her tongue.
"What do you mean?"
The child let out a loud, unnerving laugh—loud, deranged. Then, without warning, it raised its blades and lunged forward.
Steel clashed as Morgan caught the attack. The impact rattled her arms. She reeled back, then responded with a swift arc of her own. The child leapt away, laughing again—shrill and wild.
What the hell is this thing?
Could it really speak, or was it just mimicking human language like a parrot?
More abominations poured from the gate, but Morgan's focus never left the boy. He surged toward her again, twin blades aimed for her throat. He came from both sides—a pincer strike.
Morgan ducked low, dodging by a breath. Her boot connected with his chest a second later, sending him skidding back.
That one strike told her everything she needed to know.
It's weak.
It couldn't be a Fallen. An Awakened Devil, maybe. Nothing more.
Her stance shifted.
She dashed forward, relentless. Pivoting off her lead foot, she spun into a horizontal slash aimed at his ribs.
The boy dropped low, letting the blade whistle past by mere inches. He countered with a thrust—quick, precise. Morgan twisted, meeting it with the strong of her longsword, and shoved him back.
She was fast. Too fast for his comfort. And unlike him, she fought to kill with every strike.
Without giving him a second to breathe, she stepped in again, boots slamming against cracked pavement. Another slash—diagonal this time. He caught it, but the force behind it drove him back like a battering ram.
Her knee shot forward, grazing his cheek. But before any blood could trickle down, the cut closed.
The child's expression darkened. He surged forward, blade sweeping down in a heavy arc. Morgan gritted her teeth, catching it mid-swing with a solid block, the impact shoving her a step back.
His strength... it increased?
Not just slightly. It was a leap. Like she was suddenly facing four of him. No. More.
His left elbow twisted in. A horizontal slash followed, his arms tight, his blade a blur. She slid forward on one knee, sword dragging low in a deadly arc toward his ankles.
He lifted his foot just in time, and with the same motion, kicked a chunk of rubble into her face.
Morgan flinched. Just for a second. But that second was all he needed.
A blade thrust forward—no flourish, just raw killing intent. She twisted, letting it carve a shallow line across her abdomen. Not fatal, but bloody.
His movements had changed. They were fluid. Purposeful. Each strike landed exactly where it should, like he already knew where she'd be before she got there.
She leapt back to gain distance, her breath sharp, eyes narrowed.
The child smiled—slow and rueful.
"I've seen enough."
The quiet confidence in his voice chilled her more than the blood trailing down her side. It wasn't arrogance. It was certainty. Like he considered the fight to be over.
Morgan didn't pause. She lunged, feinting high to bait him into defense. But his blade mirrored hers—not clumsily, but with eerie precision. Her technique, mimicked exactly.
Their blades clashed. He twisted into her motion, redirecting it—disarming her. She wrenched free just in time, staggering back, her eyes flickering.
He wasn't just adapting—he was learning. And from the looks of it, he was on the verge of doing it better than her.
She swept low again—one of her signature counters. An unexpected move designed to knock opponents off their feet.
But this child didn't jump away. He stepped into the sweep, sliding behind her leg. Then, raising his sword mid-motion, he intercepted her strike—perfectly.
Morgan's jaw tightened.
There was no mistaking it now.
He knows my style.
And he was much better.
But how?
He had seen it once. Once.
Yet his movements carried the weight of years of training. Like he had mastered her technique, perfected it beyond reason.
And that...
That was terrifying.
AN: Do share your thoughts in the comments and leave a review if you liked the story :)