The air began to change, as if sensing something unutterable. The smell of burning metal shifted to a bittersweet note, like flowers squeezed until their poison dripped. Red fog, like coagulated blood, crept low, infiltrating the gaps of the machine carcasses, into the chests of the soldiers who hadn’t had the chance to close their eyes, trapped in uncertainty.
Ashariel al-Jabbar stood tall in the midst of the silent battleground, that silence pressing down like a giant’s finger pointing into the darkness.
“This darkness... how terrifying it is,” Ashariel said, examining her iron gauntlet that still felt warm. “As if the world is turning against us, against the light.”
Her gauntlet still hummed with heat. Not from any power source, but from the battlefield she'd just forced into silence, a stillness that felt more like betrayal than triumph, stopped not by lack of energy, but by a calculation that was greedy.
“Every step we take darkens our land,” she lamented. “But beneath all this, there’s another force at play.”
Rinoa lay not far from her, still breathing. Still tethered to this world, like a mosquito trapped in a web.
“Rinoa, you've got to get up.” Ashariel's voice quivered with urgency. “We can’t let Azazil take advantage of all this.”
And that—was enough.
Then the voice cut through, creeping past the swirling mist and the ghostly clamor.
“This world is a ransom for the trapped souls,” the voice whispered, soft yet threatening. “And you, Ashariel, have forged unimaginable opportunities.”
Not just a whisper—too many voices for a single mouth, a sound born from the depths of darkness.
“Pain is a tool,” the voice continued with a soothing tone. “And Azazil, she who controls, reminds us of the weight of lives lost.”
“Mmm… how beautiful the unfulfilled destruction is.”
The fog shivered, quaking in the silence of buried fear. The soldiers, shadowed under Azazil's command, understood that loss was the spirit weighing them down, yet they were afraid to acknowledge the necromantic power that kept them teetering on the line between life and death.
“Every step you take into the darkness draws you closer to an unexpected awakening,” the voice whispered again. “Much like the countless soldiers who never returned but were brought back as instruments in the right hands.”
The figure emerged from the impending death, like filthy mushrooms sprouting where no life should exist. Azazilstared blankly ahead, her voice hoarse, "From the darkness I arise, bearing an inconceivable legacy. What you see here is but a shadow of my power." A lifeless Soldiermoved closer, a buzzing sound emanating from its hollow body, "We are your tools, we will snatch life away for your interests."
Sayyida Azazil al-Murra. Her figure is slender, captivating in a way that's utterly unnatural, like a predator that lures our mouths to scream, yet makes us want to cower in the corners. Spirit, a hollow voice echoing, whispers, "Do you see how they celebrate the birth of death? This is a stage, and we are all actors trapped in this play." Her dark hair flows like living ink spilling from the nib of a pen, its tips branching out, resembling a deep crimson disc that disrupts comfort.
Her gown isn't just any fabric; it’s a layer of thorny aura, as if woven from the very fears that move in sync with her breath, dancing on the edge of uncertainty. Azazil extends her hand, "Every breath is a call to the lost souls. They'll never know peace." The ground beneath her appears serene, yet beneath that surface, not a crack exists to betray the danger lurking close.
She didn’t need the world's permission to stand, as if she already had authority over everything that was alive and dead. A corpse, with a voice raspy like the echoes of resurrection and regret, uttered, "One with death, to reach a goal we can't comprehend." Around her, the corpses began to stir, moving their stiff limbs with a cracking sound that could send shivers down one’s spine. Azazil smiled slyly, "Rise up, my followers, and prove that death is merely an opportunity to rebuild."
Not a resurrection. No, it was something far worse. The Sunken Soldier, nearly formless yet brimming with feeling, growled, "We’re not just puppets. We are the memories of those entangled in war, longing for the glorious moments that have been erased. Come on, show them the power of darkness."
Instead, it’s a forced delay of death—a bitter wait that makes our hearts race, just counting down to the next moment. Broken fingers straighten as if guided by an unseen hand; ribs press out against flesh, forcing us to see what should remain hidden. Empty eyes burn with a dull red, dragging back the dark memories of bloodshed that will never be erased. The souls of war's victims—still not fully departed, trapped in the flood of blood—are drawn back, roughly stitched to bodies that should have found peace, as if this resurrection is just two sides of the same coin, and we’re all just waiting to remember.
Ashariel turned slightly, her heart pounding erratically. A cold whisper slithered into her mind.
“Necromancer,” she said tersely, as if naming the monster lurking in the shadows. Not an insult, she thought, but more like a chilling classification. She couldn’t shake off the dark history woven around such figures, all the blood and tears once shed on the battlefield.
“Yes, Ashariel,” Azazil replied, her voice sweetly lilting yet reverberating with an unsettling power. “The Necromancer is the master, the ruler of lost souls. What you see here is merely a glimpse of the might I’ve uncovered amid the roar of battle.”
“But why approach them,” Ashariel asked, her voice trembling, “why awaken those horror-filled memories? What’s the point of all this?”
“Because war is never truly over, Ashariel,” Azazil replied, her pace steady despite the tension hanging in the air. “Every soul has a story, every certainty has a purpose. Even after death, they must be called back to speak.”
Azazil smiled gracefully, her smile reminiscent of a full moon—beautiful, yet eerie, as if holding dark secrets behind its glow. “Lady Azazil al-Murra,” she responded softly, her voice like morning dew clinging to grass, waiting to be brushed aside. She slowly opened her arms, her movements deliberate yet confident, resembling a hunter preparing her net.
“And what do you expect from them?” Ashariel asked, uncertainty lacing her voice as she watched Azazil's every move intently.
“Honor, power, and lessons from the past,” Azazil replied. “Every corpse that rises carries with it a trace of history capable of shaping the future. It's a way to understand human nature and our failures from days gone by.”
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Dozens of souls screamed in silence, as if their voices drowned in the suffocating din of darkness surrounding them. A chill crept down Ashariel's spine, a bitter taste like poison settling on her tongue.
“You can hear them, can't you?” Azazil asked, her voice a soft whisper yet heavy with meaning. “Each of these souls is a valley of suffering I traverse on this journey.”
“What do you want from me, Azazil?” Rinoa demanded, her voice trembling but trying to hold onto her courage. “Why have you brought me here?”
“I've brought a bountiful garden, my dear,” Azazil said with a chilling smile. “A place where every soul contributes to my strength.” Azazil’s voice flowed, slow and rich with meaning, as if each word had the power to spark nightmares.
The corpses stood upright, like living dolls pulled by invisible strings. They did not attack—at least, not immediately. Yet something in their empty eyes made Ashariel's heart race faster.
“Look at them,” Azazil said, her hand waving dismissively. “They’re the outcome of the void I’ve manipulated, the power coursing through my veins. With this force, nothing can stop me.”
They waited, as if harboring sinister plans within their chilling silence. “They can whisper, telling countless stories, desires long buried,” Azazil continued, her eyes gleaming with madness. “Each of these corpses holds a life story that was severed. A tale I will resurrect.”
Azazil stepped closer to Rinoa, as if navigating an endless dark ocean. Her fingertips hovered over Rinoa’s chest, nearly grazing the dim Harmony Lattice, as if sensing the faint heartbeat hidden beneath the flesh walls.
“Leaking harmony,” she murmured contentedly, her voice like poison slipping through the bloodstream. “A soul far too generous. If I just pluck a little—” her words hung in the air, shaking the tranquility like waves on a still sea.
The field around her reacted, every breath felt momentarily stifled, waiting for the inevitable collapse. “Remember, Rinoa,” Azazil pressed on, her gaze piercing into Rinoa’s soul. “Every choice has consequences, and I am the master of those consequences.”
The quiet zone that Rinoa had left behind didn’t collapse, yet the scent of fear began to fill the air, a stench sharp enough to cut through with a knife. Ashariel swallowed hard, her fingers clenched tight, battling something darker than the uncertainty looming between them.
“What do you want from us, Azazil?” Ashariel asked, her voice quavering with suppressed panic. “Why do you keep chasing us?”
“Oh, Ashariel, you just don’t grasp how precious your life is,” Azazil replied, lowering her voice to a chilling tone that flowed like poison. “Every soul I capture grants me more power, and you... you’re the key to unlocking something far darker.”
It was rusty, and the sensation felt more horrific than ruin itself. Each of its ticks sounded like shards of aged metal, brimming with untold stories.
“Corruption. One word, yet it feels like a heavy block lodged in my throat. Ashariel took a step forward, and it was as if my feet were glued to the ground.
“You won’t escape your fate,” Azazil sneered, her crimson eyes gleaming faintly in the darkness. “Every move you make will only invite more death.”
“Don’t,” she murmured, her voice sounding eerily like a whisper emerging from the void. “Touch.”
Azazil turned, her gaze holding a cold glimmer that seeped into my soul. Not just eyes. But akin to a prowler in the night’s shadows.
“Everything you do is to protect the souls that remain,” Azazil replied, her voice now sounding more composed, more menacing. “But you know, there's nothing that can save them from the emptiness I offer.”
“Oh?” Her tone was teasing, like a serpent coiling around its prey. “You're protecting?”
“Yeah, I’ll fight until the end,” Ashariel shot back, trying to bolster her courage even in the face of danger. “Rinoa won’t become my sacrifice.”
She let out a soft laugh, the sound emerging from the depths of dark memories, as if reminding of something that shouldn’t exist.
“Calm down, Iron Hand. I’m not here to ruin your calculations.” There was something in her words that made my heart race, fear lingering like a shadow that refused to vanish.
“Calculations you always deem certain,” Azazil scoffed cynically. “But history shows that on the battlefield, everything can be shattered with just one reckless decision.”
She turned, gazing at the Terranova aircraft carrier in the distance. Its shield still stood—taut, pulsing, almost on the brink of breaking—like a heart trapped in a no-exit situation.
“Your task isn’t finished,” Azazil continued. Her voice was soft yet piercing. “Zaahir wants that metal to fall. And you’re held back by this girl who’s half dead.” Her words sent chills down my spine, as if I could hear an echo from another realm.
Ashariel clenched her gauntlet, and for some reason, it sounded like a machine groaning. Something was seriously off, and the air felt heavier with every passing moment.
“You know how valuable that is, Ashariel,” Azazil pressed on, her eyes burning with her necromantic power. “That metal isn’t just metal; it’s the key to controlling Memento Mori.”
Ashariel glared at her fiercely. “Don’t underestimate my strength, Azazil. I won’t let you use it for your wicked purposes.”
“You don't understand,” Azazil retorted, her voice rising like thunder shattering the dark sky. “Memento Mori holds a history that's far deeper than you realize. It's the essence of warriors trapped in an endless cycle of war.”
Zaahir had spoken before. Not an order. A layered prohibition. And this restriction wrapped around her like a sturdy noose that couldn’t be severed.
Non-lethal enforcement.
Rinoa Alfrenzo must persist.
Termination cascade unacceptable.
Ashariel didn't deny it—she knew, all too well, that the truth often lurked in the deepest depths. “What’s your reason, Azazil? Why all this?”
“The only reason you need is power,” she replied with a shrug, as if the action was no more significant than a bit of idle gossip. “The power to summon back those who have gone. Just imagine, Ashariel, an army that never fades, poised and waiting for revenge.”
“You can’t toy with lives like that,” Ashariel insisted, her voice trembling as she gripped her gauntlet tightly. “Every soul has its own rights.”
“On the battlefield, those rights mean nothing,” Azazil countered, her tone demanding absolute power. “If this world is filled with chaos, what’s left to protect?”
“I assess the threat,” she replied flatly, her voice empty like the night sky. “And she—” her gaze fell on Rinoa, “—has delayed the world.” It was something that ought not to be ignored, creeping into my thoughts.
“You’re not seeing the bigger picture,” Azazil chimed in, approaching Ashariel, drawing closer to her face. “Rinoa is the heart of this fire. Without her, everything will crumble. With her, we can rekindle the hope that has long been extinguished.”
Azazil chuckled, a laugh that shouldn’t have existed among us. Around her, the corpses laughed silently, their jaws trembling in an eerie, stiff movement, like puppets controlled by dark strings.
“And I’m here,” she said softly, her voice like a whisper of wind in a dark corridor, “to eliminate that delay.”
She raised a finger, and in that moment, everything felt like it was flowing in slow motion, as if time paused to let the horror seep in.
"NECROFLORA DOMINION: THORNED PARADISE"
The volcanic land pulsed. From the fissures in the black rock, red thorns erupted—not of material, but of condensed souls. They pierced into the bodies of the undead, injecting absolute obedience. The army of the dead turned toward Terranova Ark, following an unseen whisper.
“I will bind the field,” Azazil declared, her voice shaking the heavens. “These souls will become the flesh bridge.”
“A bridge filled with suffering and rebirth,” Ashariel added, her eyes glowing, dark and deep. “It is only between the lines of death and life that we find true strength.”
Ashariel processed this in a fraction of a second.
Metal.
Corpses.
Souls.
Auditor’s corruption.
“Alright.”
She stepped forward. Her gauntlet flared, though not completely. There was no summoning of absolute fields. “Every one of these souls has a loud whisper we need to control,” she continued, her voice carrying weight. The Terranova shield pulsed wildly as the soul poison touched its structure.
Azazil glanced back at Rinoa, reminding her, “Oh Rinoa, let your heart be your guide in the grasping dark.”
“Stay calm, little flower. Should you wake… this garden will welcome you.”
Ashariel’s black wings spread wide, as if answering a call from the darkness. “We are not alone when this shadow unfurls,” she said, her voice trembling with a chilling presence. “Silence whispers your name, Rinoa.”
The dead army began to stir.
But the air tensed. Not because of them.
But by something unbound to any field.
“What do you feel, Azazil?” Ashariel asked, doubt ringing in her tone. “There’s a tremor lurking beneath the tyranny that awaits.”
The Void trembled.
Ashariel sensed it first.
“A shadow that’s ancient, they've been trapped for far too long,” Azazil warned, her caution drifting in a chilling dusk. “We need to be ready.”
Azazil realized it too late.
Something was drawing near.
And for the first time since this war began—
even Zaahir
chose
to wait.
“Time’s turned into a dangerous weapon,” she whispered, her gaze sharp as a dagger. “Waiting is part of this game.”