Chapter 37—Descent into Shadow

The forest thickened as they left Shelen’s grove behind.

No birds sang. No crickets stirred. Their boots sank into damp soil, the roots twisting like veins beneath the surface, silent as graveyards. Even the air pressed heavy, as though the trees leaned in, listening.

Raiden walked at the rear, a hand brushing the hilt of his sword, but his grip trembled. Not from fear of the woods—but from the echoes Shelen had awakened.

Herald of the Storm.

The words resounded like thunder in his skull.

He had wanted to believe the prophecy was a curse. That his life was misfortune written into fate. Easier to hate it than to bear it. But Shelen’s certainty had struck something deeper, something he could not flee.

And with every step, the visions clawed closer.

It began as flickers at the edge of sight. A banner—black silk, emblazoned with a golden eight-pronged star. He had seen it before, in dreams, in the haze after training until collapse.

Then the haze burned away.

The forest was gone. In its place stretched a battlefield drowned in stormlight. Lightning split the sky, and armies surged below—men and beasts alike, locked in ruin.

Raiden staggered, clutching his temple.

“Raiden?” Randall’s voice was distant, muffled. “You good?”

But Raiden could not answer.

He was there.

The stench of ash and blood filled his lungs. The air seared with mana so dense it shimmered like heat. He saw the Anima: titans of stone, serpents of water, wolves whose breath burned frost into the ground. And beside them, twisted things—fur turned black, eyes glowing crimson, mist coiling from their maws. The Corrupted.

They fell upon men and Anima alike, striking without reason, without mercy.

And in the chaos, figures shone brighter than the rest.

The Ten.

One wielded twin blades of frost, her dance weaving death through the horde. Raiden’s chest clenched—her form so like Yuka’s that his heart nearly cried her name. Another burned like a sun, hurling meteors of fire that tore trenches into the ground. A third bore wings of light, his strikes so fast they split the air into ringing silence.

Others fought beside them—shadows and lightning, roots tearing from the earth, rivers conjured from nothing. Gods among mortals.

Yet even gods bled.

Raiden watched them stagger, falter, one by one. Their brilliance dimmed beneath the tide. For every Corrupted that fell, two more rose, mist coiling, eyes hollow.

A voice rang out—his own, yet not.

“Hold the line! If we break here, the world falls!”

He turned.

And there—himself.

No, not quite. Taller, clad in storm-wrought armor, a curved, slender blade flashing in his left hand. His eyes shone with a light that wasn’t human, a glint of endless skies. His mouth moved, and Raiden heard both the words and their echo in his bones.

“Summon the storm. Now.”

A spear pierced his vision-self’s chest. The weapon writhed with black mist, its tip pulsing with Corruption.

Pain lanced Raiden’s own ribs. He gasped, staggering against a tree, clutching his side. Blood wasn’t there—but the memory was.

The battlefield warped, tearing away. The forest returned, the night pressing close.

Randall’s hand was on his shoulder. “Raiden! Hey, stay with us!”

Ophelin’s eyes were wide, mace lifted, as though she could strike the visions away by force. Liana’s gaze was sharp, searching him with unspoken questions.

Raiden forced breath into his lungs, though each inhale trembled. “I… I’m fine.”

A lie.

But the visions did not stop.

Every few steps, reality and memory bled together. A ruined fortress overlaid the trees. The cries of warriors dead six thousand years echoed in his ears. When Tadari moved ahead to scout, for a heartbeat Raiden saw not Tadari but another—a man with wings of wind, his silhouette blazing against the storm.

The whispers clawed at him.

You know this. You fought this. You died here.

And another, fainter, but closer, curling like thunder in his skull:

Alluvare… you…

A name—a name of his friend he never knew—slipped through like lightning across a stormcloud.

He stumbled, bracing against his sword. His knuckles were white on the hilt.

Why him? Why this weight?

He had trained, bled, endured mockery and near-death just to stand his ground in a duel. That alone had nearly broken him. Now Shelen spoke of blades that killed gods, of storms that tore the skies, of prophecies reshaped around his name.

How could he bear it?

How could he be that?

The others kept walking, though Randall glanced back often, unease written in his brow.

Only Liana lingered near, her voice low. “You saw something.”

Raiden didn’t answer. His throat locked, his chest tight.

She didn’t press, only studied him. Her eyes narrowed—not with scorn, but with something like recognition. “Then remember this: visions do not kill. What stands before you does. Stay here, or you’ll die chasing ghosts.”

Her words cut through, sharp and cold, grounding him enough to breathe again.

But the ghosts lingered.

Every shadow between the trees looked like a soldier. Every gust of wind whispered names he should not know. And when his eyes closed, even for a blink, he stood once more on that endless battlefield—blade in hand, storm overhead, the Corruption surging without end.

And beneath it all, the faintest whisper of thunder:

Herald… Storm…