Two Worlds

The Year 2193 – September 19th, Land of Alexithymia, Precipice Clogwyn

The sun cast its last golden rays over the battlefield, a harsh reminder of the fleeting nature of peace. A bitter wind swept across the once fertile plain, now trampled and scarred by the heavy boots of the uninvited. The delicate wildflowers, once vibrant beneath the summer sun, now lay crushed beneath the weight of battle or left untouched, their final moments spent absorbing the ichor of death.

The battlefield was eerily silent, a stark contrast to the chaos that had unfolded just moments ago. The dead were scattered across the earth, their bodies still warm, yet motionless, their eyes wide and empty, their hearts stilled forever. The life that once thrummed within them was gone, leaving behind only the echo of violence and decay.

Not a soul remained alive within the perimeter, save for the one who had delivered this death.

A little under a kilometer from the plain, three figures emerged from the forest.

They stumbled and collapsed onto the ground, their bodies battered and bruised, their faces strained with exhaustion. Sweat beaded on their skin, mixing with the dirt and grime of their desperate escape.

"Ahh! We've made it!" Alexis spat out dirt, gasping for breath.

"Oh, Father of heavens... Hallowed be thy name... I bow to you for your mercy... for protecting us in this hell... I am eternally indebted to you," Pipola murmured, her voice shaky as she clung to a thread of hope, her faith a fragile lifeline.

Pipola's lungs burned, her throat dry, desperate for water, but her prayers were instinctual—an act of solace amidst the storm that raged within her.

"Look at my hand, Mom! Look! Can you believe it? We made it through those fences!" Alexis waved his trembling hand before his mother's face, his pride evident, despite the terror still lingering in his eyes.

"Yo, kid! You still with us?" Alexis called out to his younger brother.

"I'm not a kid!" Asta huffed in defiance.

"Climbing these fences, it was nuts!" Alexis praised, offering a grin to his younger brother. "I'm proud of you, kiddo. You're tougher than I thought!"

"I'm an adult now," Asta said, his voice firm, though his words carried a touch of uncertainty.

"Yeah, sure you are. A real man," Alexis chuckled.

"Let's rest for a bit. We still have a long way to go," Pipola suggested, the weight of the journey settling heavily on her shoulders.

"All right! From now on, it's a piece of cake. Nothing can be worse than what we just went through," Alexis grinned. "I'll be back in a minute."

"Where are you going?" Pipola asked, a hint of concern in her voice.

"To the toilet... Can I?" Alexis answered cheekily, his carefree attitude in sharp contrast to the chaos they had just survived.

"Don't go too far!" Pipola called out, a note of warning in her voice.

"Yeah, yeah. We're safe now, who cares?"

"I care! Be careful and don't go too far!" Pipola shouted after him.

"Yeah, yeah, yeah..." Alexis shouted from a distance, his voice carrying a mixture of frustration. "By the way... what are these damn fences for, anyway? Why couldn't we just use the entrance or, I don't know, take a safer route?!" He paused, his tone shifting to one of careless defiance as he waved a hand in the air. "Actually, I don't care!"

Exhausted, Pipola and Asta remained on the ground, trying to catch their breath. The moment of respite felt fragile, like a stolen piece of time that could slip away at any moment.

Asta absentmindedly twirled a strange flower between his fingers, savoring the small peace the moment offered. Pipola, too weary to fight it any longer, dozed off on the warm grass, her mind slipping into a fragile dream state.

In the serenity of the moment, time stretched, seconds felt like minutes, and the weight of their survival settled in the quiet between them.

"Mommy, do you think I'll see Lucian and Marius in the place where we're going?" Asta asked, his voice small, filled with uncertainty.

Pipola smiled softly, still half-asleep, "I'm sure you'll see your friends again, sweetheart."

"Where are we going to live now?"

"In a beautiful place, where everyone is kind and gentle. We'll have a big house, just the three of us. We'll live there happily."

"Aren't we a happy family already?" Asta's voice was innocent, but there was a hint of confusion in his question.

"Of course we are, my love. But things will be even better. You'll go to school, make new friends... maybe even a girlfriend," Pipola chuckled softly.

"Ew, girls are gross!" Asta wrinkled his nose in disgust.

"Just wait until you grow up. You'll see how quickly things change," she teased gently.

"Mommy?" Asta's voice interrupted her musings.

"Yes, sweetheart?" Pipola shifted to hold him closer.

"Will I see Papa one day?" Asta whispered, his eyes searching her face.

Pipola's heart tightened, but she smiled warmly. "Of course you will, my love. I promise."

The moment of peace didn't last long. As the stillness of the landscape stretched into eternity, Asta's sharp voice broke the quiet.

"Big brother is taking forever," Asta said, sitting up and peering around.

"ALEXIS?" Pipola's voice trembled as she called for her son.

With growing concern, Asta stood and brushed the dirt from his pants, his young body already restless. "I'll go find him."

"Wait, I'll come with you," Pipola replied, her voice tight with worry.

Together, they followed the winding path through the long bushes twisting and reaching like ancient, gnarled hands. The distant Clogwyn precipice loomed on the horizon, a silent, foreboding presence.

"Maybe he's up there?" Asta pointed to the top of the hill.

"Someone passed through here recently," Pipola said, her pace quickening as she felt the urgency of the moment.

As they followed the footpath, the air grew thinner with each labored breath, the weight of their journey pressing down like an unrelenting force. By the time they reached the crest of the hill, Pipola came to a sudden halt. Her legs locked, her chest tightened, and a cold dread swept over her. Her mouth went dry, words failing her as her eyes struggled to take in the scene below. The battlefield stretched out in grotesque detail—a wasteland of shattered bodies and scorched earth, the lingering echoes of the violence they had narrowly escaped. It was a vision of pure devastation, and it rooted her to the spot.

"Don't look!" she urged, quickly covering Asta's eyes with her hands, but the damage was already done.

Asta recoiled, his stomach turning as the sight of death gripped his young mind.

"How...? Why did this happen?" Pipola muttered in disbelief, her breath shallow.

"ALEXIS! WHERE ARE YOU?" she screamed, her voice raw with desperation.

Pipola hurriedly pulled Asta into the bushes, hiding them from the horror that stretched before them.

"Honey, I need to find your brother. I need you to stay here until I come back" she said, her voice trembling with fear.

Asta clutched his chest, gasping for breath as a sudden panic attack overwhelmed him. His vision blurred, and his thoughts scattered like leaves in a storm.

"Mommy, my chest...I can't breathe..." he cried, his voice fractured.

Pipola's heart shattered as she held him tightly, but nothing seemed to calm him. "Just don't close your eyes my love, mommy will take care of pain very soon," she whispered, struggling to keep her composure. The minutes dragged on as Pipola frantically searched for the medication that could calm Asta's spiraling mind.

Pipola clasped her hands together, her eyes darting to the skies. "Oh heavens, please, not now," she whispered, desperation thick in her voice. His entire body convulsed violently, as though a surge of electricity coursed through him. His heart pounded against his ribcage, each beat frantic and erratic, as he spiraled further into the abyss of his unraveling mind. His limbs jerked uncontrollably, his breath coming in shallow, uneven gasps—a storm raging within him, completely beyond his control.

"I'm such an idiot... I should never have brought you here... I knew this would happen, I knew it!" Pipola muttered to herself, guilt eating at her.

A bird sang nearby, a cruel reminder that life went on, even as her world was slipping into darkness.

"DAMN IT! WHERE DID HE PUT IT?!" Pipola's voice cracked as she shouted, her frustration echoing into the emptiness around them. She clenched her fists, trembling with a mix of rage and despair. "This is so unfair! Why is it always us? Why do we have to endure these horrors again and again?!"

Her words hung in the air, raw and bitter, a desperate plea to a world that seemed deaf to their suffering.

After several agonizing minutes of Asta's intense panic attack, Pipola's trembling hands finally found the vial of medicaments. She administered the dose with practiced urgency, whispering prayers under her breath. Slowly, mercifully, Asta's breathing steadied. His wild eyes began to focus, and the world around him returned in fragments—his hearing first, then his vision.

"Mommy, I need water," Asta rasped, his voice fragile.

"Yes, yes! Here, my love," Pipola said, her hands shaking as she uncapped a small bottle and brought it to his lips. "Drink slowly."

Asta sipped, the cool water soothing his parched throat. As clarity returned, the weight of their reality settled upon him. His gaze shifted, and the memories of why they had come so far flooded back.

"I'm sorry…" he murmured, his voice barely audible. "I'm not as strong as my brother."

Pipola cupped his face gently. "You are very, very, very strong my heart."

"I'm scared," he admitted, his small body trembling.

Tears welled in her eyes. "It's all my fault. I'm so sorry… I should never have brought you here".

"Are we going to die?" Asta whispered, his voice quivering.

"No! Of course not!" Pipola said fiercely, pulling him into her arms. "I will protect you, no matter what."

Asta let out a faint "I know…" as he exhaled through his nose, the air tinged with the sharp, metallic scent of iron. The odor came from the blood-soaked earth and the lifeless bodies scattered around them—a grim reminder of the horrors they had endured.

The weight of the day's traumatic events, the sheer intensity of his panic attack, and his deep physical exhaustion finally took their toll. His small body went limp, surrendering to unconsciousness as he lay cradled in his mother's lap.

Pipola stroked his hair softly, her heart heavy with guilt and desperation. She allowed herself a rare moment of stillness, forcing her mind to settle, even as the world around her screamed of danger. She needed to gather every ounce of strength and courage left within her.

This was her only chance. She knew with bone-deep certainty that if she turned back to the hill, she might never come back. Time was slipping away, and so was hope. But she couldn't—wouldn't—leave without her missing son.

"Blessed be the heavens," she whispered, her resolve hardening. "Guide me…just a little longer."

She hoisted her sleeping son onto her back, securing him with the remnants of her torn sweater. His small, warm chest pressed against her bare spine, offering a fleeting sense of comfort in a world that had otherwise gone cold.

"Alexis, I'm coming for you," Pipola whispered, her voice resolute despite the terror etched into her face.

Her journey toward the precipice was a silent march through despair. She no longer had the strength to call out her son's name; her voice was spent, reduced to little more than a hoarse whisper. She moved like a shadow, occasionally stopping to linger over the bodies of her fallen friends and compatriots. The world around her was a blur of darkness and decay. Her vision wavered, her body trembled, and her legs threatened to buckle with every step.

Just as hope began to slip entirely from her grasp, she saw two silhouettes, standing motionless against the fabric of the night, about 300 meters away.

"Alexis?" she called, her voice trembling with a fragile blend of hope and fear.

Neither figure moved. They stood frozen, like statues carved from the shadows themselves, making it nearly impossible for her to discern their identities.

"Why don't you look at me...?" Pipola's voice cracked as her heart sank.

Alexis had never been easy to manage. The rupture with his father and the years spent drifting from one foreign country to another had left deep scars. Since the age of 10, he had witnessed horrors no child—or adult—should ever endure. The weight of these experiences, compounded by the strain of their journey, had turned his simmering anger inward, most often directed at his mother. He blamed her for their predicament, for the life they were forced to lead, and silently regretted not staying behind with his father.

Yet despite their constant conflicts, an unbreakable bond had formed between them—a lifeline in the brutal world they navigated together.

"Alexis..." her voice barely rising above a whisper as her body threatened to give out. She forced herself forward, her lips cracked and bleeding from the cold.

With every step closer, dread coiled tighter around her heart. Something about the second figure—its stillness, its unnerving silence—filled her with a primal fear. Her legs trembled as her instincts screamed for her to turn back.

The wind suddenly surged, howling across the desolate plain.

Finally, she reached her son. Alexis stood there, unresponsive, his eyes locked onto the stranger beside him. His face was streaked with dried tears, his expression hardened by a mixture of hatred and despair.

Dead-eyed, the stranger—Quarta—gazed at the horizon, her face and clothes drenched in blood.

"Did you do this?" Alexis's voice cracked as he addressed Quarta, his words heavy with accusation and disbelief.

Quarta's empty gaze slowly shifted toward the boy. Her eyes were hollow, devoid of life, as if the soul that once resided within her had long gone.

Pipola's breath hitched. She stepped between her son and Quarta, her hands trembling as she clung to Alexis's arm. "Please, let's go" she begged, her voice barely audible. "We need to leave."

Quarta remained unmoved. She raised her blade, its sharp edge glinting in the dying light.

"You've done nothing wrong," Quarta said coldly. "The world is what's wrong."

Sensing the fatal intent in Quarta's movements, Pipola flung herself forward, shielding her son with her body. "Spare my children!" she cried, falling to her knees. "It's my fault! I brought them here. Take me, but please, let them live!"

Quarta's hand faltered, her blade hovering inches from Pipola's face. For a moment, a flicker of humanity seemed to surface. But it was fleeting.

Fast asleep, Asta drifted through a dreamscape painted with laughter and warmth. His mind replayed the peaceful moments he cherished most—forest adventures with his older brother, the day they claimed an abandoned cabin as their secret base, and the countless afternoons spent playing outside in pure, unfiltered joy. These were memories he knew he would carry forever, untouched by time.

In the dream, the sounds of laughter echoed through the trees, blending with the rustling leaves and chirping birds. But slowly, the joyous symphony began to fade. The laughter dimmed, replaced by an eerie silence that settled over the scene like a heavy fog. Then, from the distance, a sound emerged—a distorted echo, strange and unplaceable. It wasn't part of the dream; it was something else, pulling at the edges of his reality.

The echo came again, this time sharper, more insistent. The dream began to unravel as the sound drew nearer, each repetition peeling back the layers of his subconscious. The warmth of the dream faded, replaced by a growing discomfort. It was no longer just noise; it had transformed into a voice—his mother's voice, strained and urgent, cutting through the veil of sleep and dragging him unwillingly toward wakefulness.

"Please, spare their lives! I know your law is absolute!" Pipola's voice cracked as she threw herself to the ground, her desperate plea echoing across the blood-soaked plain.

The commotion stirred Asta from his uneasy slumber. His head buzzed with disorientation as he blinked away the haze of sleep. The moment his senses sharpened, the metallic tang of blood hit him, overwhelming and thick in the air. His stomach churned.

By the time his eyes focused, he saw his mother kneeling in the dirt, her hands clasped together in supplication. "I am ready to accept death for the unforgivable actions I've committed!" she cried, her voice trembling but resolute.

"Mommy..." Asta's voice wavered as panic took hold. "What? What is going on? Mommy, what are you doing?!" His young mind reeled, unable to piece together the horrifying scene unfolding before him.

He turned his gaze toward Alexis, his older brother, who stood rigid behind their mother. For the first time in his life, Asta saw tears streaking down Alexis's face, cutting silent paths through the dirt on his cheeks. His fists were clenched so tightly that his nails bit into his palms, and blood seeped from where his teeth bore into his lower lip.

"If I'd stayed... none of this would've happened. It's all my fault," Alexis whispered, his voice choked with guilt.

"Alexis...?" Asta called to him softly, his voice laced with confusion and fear. But Alexis didn't respond, his body trembling under the weight of his self-reproach.

"Please!" Pipola cried out again, her voice breaking. "Please, let them go! I disrespected the rules, I soiled your lands, but I beg you—spare them! Take my life instead. They're too young, too innocent to die. I'll give you anything! My life is all I have left, but it's yours—just let them live!" Her sobs wracked her body as she pleaded with every ounce of strength she had left.

"Mommy?" Asta whispered, his small voice cracking under the strain of his rising terror. "Why are you saying that? Why are you saying these things?"

Quarta stood nearby, silent and unmoving. Her cold, emotionless gaze bore witness to the scene, her expression unreadable.

"Except for my life, I have nothing else to offer," Pipola continued, her voice barely a whisper now, raw from crying. "Take it, please. Just promise me... promise me they'll live."

There was a concept people clung to, something fragile yet powerful—hope. Pipola embodied it in its purest form. She was a mother of unyielding strength, intelligent and compassionate, driven by a singular purpose: to give her children a better life. She had poured everything she had into that dream, even when the world seemed determined to crush her spirit at every turn.

The universe had never been kind, dealing blow after merciless blow whenever she reached too close to her dreams. Yet, even in the face of despair, she found solace in fleeting moments—the laughter of her boys, their shared meals, the simple joy of watching them grow. Those were the treasures that made life worth enduring. Deep within her, hope flickered like a fragile candle in the wind. Maybe, just maybe, things could change one day.

But the world was unrelenting, and Pipola's resolve was now being tested in the cruelest of ways. Yet, for her, even this final act of sacrifice was a testament to her enduring love—a mother's last hope for her children to live on, free from the horrors she could no longer shield them from.

"So be it..." Quarta's voice was void of emotion as she raised her sword, its blade catching the faintest glimmer of light before descending with brutal finality.

The children's cries, the sound of the wind, and even the rustling trees seemed to hold their breath as her sword pierced Pipola's chest, slicing cleanly through to her heart. Time collapsed into a surreal stillness. For a moment, the world was quiet—too quiet.

The Eastern border of the Lands of Alexithymia seemed to sink into a suffocating silence as Pipola gasped her last breath, her body collapsing into the waiting arms of her sons.

Asta's world shattered. His chest heaved as he fought for air, but the weight of grief choked him. Tears poured freely down his face, each drop carving new lines of sorrow. Alexis let out a raw, guttural scream—a sound so primal, so filled with anguish, it reverberated through the stillness like an explosion, shattering what remained of their fragile reality.

Quarta turned away, her silver hair catching the dying light as her cold, mechanical steps carried her from the scene. But within her, chaos raged.

"What have I done?!" Her inner voice screamed, a torrent of guilt and confusion clawing at the edges of her mind. "That wasn't me! I didn't choose this!"

"The mission is incomplete," the operator's voice interrupted, sterile and detached. "Terminate the remaining targets."

Quarta's hand twitched as she forced out a single word. "Affirmative."

No! Stop it! Release me! her inner voice protested, but her body moved like a puppet on strings. Each step felt heavier, each breath more labored. The children's screams echoed in her mind, dragging her back to the abyss of her own torment.

As she stumbled, her boot caught on a lifeless body, sending her sprawling to the ground. Her head struck a jagged rock, and for a moment, everything went black. When her vision returned, her gaze fell upon her blood-streaked hands.

"Where am I?" she whispered, disoriented. "What just happened?" The crimson stains on her arms seemed to burn into her skin, a haunting testament to her actions.

In her daze, she didn't notice Alexis until it was too late. Driven by a rage that surpassed fear, he had picked up Quarta's fallen weapon. His trembling hands raised it high, the weight of vengeance propelling him forward.

"YOU!" he screamed, lunging at her.

But the weapon, designed solely for its keeper, activated upon foreign touch. A surge of electricity coursed through Alexis, his body convulsing as the weapon discharged its fatal power. He collapsed, his body smoking, lifeless before it hit the ground.

"ALEXIS!" Asta's scream pierced the air as he rushed to his brother's side. Tears blurred his vision as he shook Alexis's unresponsive form. "No, no, no!" he sobbed, his small hands trembling as they clung to both his brother and mother. "Why did you do this?!" he shouted at Quarta, his voice cracking under the weight of unbearable grief.

Quarta stood frozen, her mind spiraling into chaos. Regret, sorrow, and an alien sensation of guilt consumed her. She couldn't look at Asta, couldn't face the devastation she had wrought.

As darkness fell, the cold wind whispered through the plains, tugging at her silver hair. She looked more ghost than human, her pale face devoid of color, her eyes haunted and hollow. The moon rose, casting an eerie glow on the tragic scene.

"Another group of trespassers approaching from the southeast," the operator's voice stated.

Barely able to move, Quarta stumbled toward the new threat, her body on autopilot. Each step was a struggle, the winds battering her like a fragile leaf clinging to life. Her hands trembled, her breath ragged.

Meanwhile, Asta remained behind, his small frame desperately trying to drag his family to safety. His arms ached, his muscles screamed in protest, but he refused to give up. "Mommy, big brother, hang on," he whispered through his tears. "Don't leave me alone, please..."

The stories of hell his people told seemed trivial now. What he faced was far worse than any fiery torment. Alone, in a land of death and shadows, he clung to the hope that someone—anyone—would save them.

Far in the distance, he saw Quarta's silhouette growing larger, her form a harbinger of doom. His heart raced as terror seized him. "Please leave us alone..." he screamed into the night, his voice raw and desperate.

Closer and closer, Quarta advanced. Asta's arms gave out as he collapsed, shielding his mother and brother with his own body. "Go away!" he cried, his voice breaking. "Just go away!"

Before Quarta could reach him, a new group arrived—figures cloaked in black, their hoods obscuring their faces. They moved swiftly, seizing Asta and dragging him away despite his thrashing resistance. "Let me go!" he cried, his voice hoarse. "I won't leave them!"

One of the cloaked figures struck him hard, and Asta's world faded to black. The group disappeared into the dense forest, leaving behind only the echoes of a broken family and a tragedy that would forever scar the land.