The dimension was broken.
Its skies bled rivers of ink, and its ground—if it could be called that—floated in jagged shards, suspended by nothing. Gravity shifted by whim, and screams echoed from directions no being could place. Between the fractured realm, two beings stood atop hovering obsidian platforms, glaring at each other like rival suns.
One was Nytheris, Wraith General of the South, her cloak made of stitched shadows, face ever shifting with flickers of forgotten faces. Her breath chilled the air around her, and her fingers dripped with black mist.
The other—tall, still, wrapped in layered crimson-black armor with curved, obsidian runes glowing along his chest—watched her with contempt. His voice was a low thunder, calm and cruel.
"You serve trash born from fear," he said, folding his arms. "Wraiths. Haunted fragments, made from cowards and sobbing children."
Nytheris's laugh was a discordant echo, sharp and beautiful in its horror.
"And you serve what? Chaos without purpose? Burning villages until even your own kind forget why they follow you? I create nightmares. You just break things."
The male demon tilted his head, eyes glowing beneath his helmet. "Fear is fleeting. Chaos is forever. I was chosen by the King himself to carry destruction."
"You were chosen because you're loud," Nytheris snapped, stepping forward. "You think destruction is strength? Then let me show you what it means to truly terrify."
In the next moment, space itself tore.
They clashed.
No mortal eye could follow the violence.
Their blows cracked reality, tearing rifts in the sky. Nytheris unleashed a swarm of screaming shadows that burst from her robes, biting and gnashing—but they were incinerated by the demon general's hand, which burned with crimson fire.
He retaliated with a spinning strike of a chained weapon that split dimensions, but Nytheris twisted into smoke and avoided it. Her voice echoed from behind him:
"You bleed chaos. I drink it."
He snarled, turned, and slammed his blade down—only for her to catch it between two clawed fingers. Their faces neared. Hate thickened the air.
But neither won.
They broke apart, panting, glaring—suspended in their shattered realm, unwilling to be the one who collapsed first.
"This is not over," Nytheris said coldly, already beginning to fade.
He smiled darkly. "It never was."
With mutual hatred, they turned and disappeared into their own rifts—each preparing, each swearing to prove they were the true King's Blade.
Meanwhile, in the Velbrath Kingdom, the consequences of truth had begun.
Word of the Wraith infiltration spread like wildfire, and with it, the article that ignited it all.
"The Shadow Among Us" by Ryle Astoria.
The palace trembled beneath the weight of its own secrets. The King himself, pale and furious, ordered an emergency decree:
"Let no lie go unpunished. Prepare the Synchronized Truth Spell. Countrywide."
In cathedrals and temples, across every border and city, priesthoods gathered, coordinated by the highest clergy and guarded by soldiers in golden armor. The spell was ancient. Rare. Dangerous.
But it was time.
At sunset, across the kingdom, the spell was cast.
And the truth broke free.
Thousands of Wraiths—hidden for years—were unveiled in broad daylight.
Some screamed, their forms shifting grotesquely. Some tried to run. Others collapsed to their knees, muttering apologies they no longer understood.
But it wasn't just Wraiths.
Cheaters were exposed.
Murderers.
Spies.
Lovers who lied.
Merchants who betrayed.
Priests who stole.
Even among the innocent, the truth sowed disaster.
One noble executed his own son for lying about consorting with elves.
Another city burned its mayor alive after discovering he had been collaborating with slavers.
Children ran from parents.
Wives abandoned husbands.
Brothers turned on each other.
The line between "enemy" and "liar" began to blur.
And mercy became rare.
The article Ryle published, meant to expose the danger of Wraiths, had turned into the kindling of a national purge.
Public executions spiked.
Flames rose in marketplaces.
People turned in their neighbors for any suspicion.
And all the while, Ryle watched from atop a tower in Elden, his fingers pressed to his chin.
"It was supposed to reveal the hidden," he muttered. "Not… this."
Thea stood beside him, silent. Even she, who once believed in righteous vengeance, now looked disturbed.
Kessia was quiet.
Tobin, arms crossed, spoke low. "You told the truth. You didn't choose what people would do with it."
"But I knew they'd panic," Ryle said bitterly. "I knew the people would use it to cleanse more than Wraiths."
Below them, the city square filled with both cheers and cries.
Ryle stepped back from the edge.
He clenched his fist.
The truth had been unleashed—and truth had teeth.