One end

The walls of the cave tremble as debris rains down, clattering against the blood-streaked river that flows beneath. The grotesque creatures lie in pieces, their limbs scattered, their blackened goo bubbling grotesquely on the ground. The once horrific tide of monsters has been reduced to carnage, yet the atmosphere remains tense, crackling with unseen pressure.

"This is the purpose of a leader." Ryua's voice is ragged, her breath labored. Her body trembles violently, muscles torn apart, blood leaking from countless wounds. Still, she stands tall, her posture rigid, sword clutched tightly in her hands. 'That was my plan,' her original self muses somewhere deep inside her mind, though she is no longer in control. 

The one in control now—her past self—grits her teeth, eyes gleaming with a ferocity that hadn't been seen in years. Her face is eerily calm, yet something about her has shifted. Her eyes burn with a cold determination, far removed from the broken woman she had become. No one watching would see the same Ryua, for the one before them is different, a ghost of her former self, a leader who no longer knows fear.

"No, you lack leadership!" she screams, her voice echoing across the cavern. She arches the sword back, the blade glinting ominously as it cuts through the air. Time itself seems to slow. The world darkens. Shadows creep in from every corner until everything is swallowed by the black void.

'This... why is it dark—'

"When is the last time you took a step?" her past self interrupts sharply, voice cold and merciless, cutting through the confusion with a commanding tone. "You want to protect them? You want to save them?" She steps forward into the void, her voice like a distant drumbeat, slow and measured but full of reproach. "Move forward. How could you let them control you? How many times did you stop yourself from entering Xirithil?"

The scene shifts violently. She now stands in a vast, shadowy expanse. A step is taken, and a faint blue glow lights beneath her feet. This isn't a physical space; it is something far more primal. A place buried deep within every swordsman's heart. A hidden realm, vast and endless.

The ground beneath her feet isn't made of stone or earth. It's an otherworldly substance, shimmering like liquid shadow, stretching into the void. In the distance, a massive hill rises out of the darkness like a towering monolith. Jagged and imposing, it stretches up, disappearing into a sky blacker than night.

The only light in this space comes from countless swords—some elegant, some crude—all stabbed into the hill's surface. Each weapon glows with a faint, ethereal blue light. Curved katanas, broad swords, sleek rapiers, and serrated sabers stand like grave markers, their light barely illuminating the abyss. These are the remnants of warriors who once walked this path, their essence forever bound to the fabric of this void.

'I am no longer—'

"Stop making excuses!" her past self roars, voice cracking like a whip, a fierce reprimand that sends shivers down her spine. "Being a leader means you suffer for your team. You protect them by doing whatever it takes! Besides, we swore the path of the sword, you will always be welcomed here."

The words strike deep, cutting through her uncertainty like the sharpest blade. Her past self strides forward, leaving glowing blue footprints in her wake as she approaches the towering hill of swords. Each step is purposeful, filled with the confidence of someone who has never wavered. 

"You lost your way," the voice continues, unyielding, "Hesitation isn't an option. You were once a leader, a soldier who stood against everything. Where is that person now?"

Ryua looks down at the trembling hand that holds the sword. The urge to swing it, to wield it with purpose, gnaws at her insides, as natural as breathing. That longing, that desire—buried deep beneath years of guilt and pain—stirs again. 

But the weight of her past, the blood she shed, the innocent lives she took, holds her back. The images of those children, their faces full of fear, scream at her. 'Monster.' 'Murderer.' 'Why did you do this?'

"I'm not—" she starts, but her past self cuts her off once more.

"You are. A leader is someone who steps into the darkness for the sake of others. Someone who bears the weight of every decision, no matter how painful. You will protect them. Move forward."

The endless field of swords glows brighter, beckoning. The past self, eyes blazing, turns to face Ryua fully, the light of the blades reflecting in her gaze.

"If you can take steps, why am I here?" Ryua's thought echoes in the vast emptiness, her past self halting in response. A deep sigh escapes the other Ryua as she extends her arm, her fingers trembling as they stretch forward. She grits her teeth, attempting to move further up the hill, but she cannot. Her feet are stuck, refusing to cross an invisible threshold.

"This is as far as I can go... the edge of the hill," she murmurs, her gaze fixed on the seemingly endless ascent ahead. "While I couldn't communicate with you, I spent a lot of time here, just looking up." She speaks softly, staring at the towering hill that stretches infinitely into the darkness above, her voice heavy with longing. "I'm only a portion of you. We are the same, but I cannot move beyond this point until you move. You need to step onto the hill."

She takes a step back, frustration boiling beneath the surface. Her fist clenches tightly, and a glimmer of sorrow flashes in her eyes as she speaks to Ryua. "I won't lie to you... you don't need to worry about them." Her voice is softer now, more reassuring. "Before I brought you here, I saw Oda waking up. They'll be alright. But you... I just..." She trails off, her arm raising toward the peak of the endless hill, her hand trembling. "I am the part of you obsessed with swordsmanship, the part that never stopped craving the blade."

The other Ryua's hand twitches as she lowers it, her expression hardening. "Climb the hill. It doesn't matter if you aren't the leader of this group. Have you forgotten the promise we made all those years ago?" Her words hang in the air as she retreats, slowly relinquishing control back to Ryua.

"I..." Ryua's voice feels hollow, fragile, like a whisper lost in the wind. She stops herself from moving, her hesitation so deeply ingrained that it paralyzes her. "I'm... scared," she finally admits, the words tumbling out of her like a confession long buried. After so many years of silence, of running, she has finally spoken the truth—to herself and to the part of her that has always known. 

It wasn't the voices of the dead that had stopped her. It was never the bloodstained memories. It was *fear.* The crippling fear of hurting someone again, of taking another innocent life, of making the same horrific mistake. The thought of it happening once more had shattered every ounce of confidence she once held. It kept her paralyzed, rooted to the spot, too afraid to move forward.

So she stands there, looking up at the hill. Minutes pass, or maybe hours. Time has no meaning in this void. Days might have passed for all she knows. Yet, it feels like only a second—one excruciating second that stretches into eternity. She stares up the hill, her mind heavy with the weight of countless blades and the unrelenting pull of destiny.

"This..." Her mind floods with new awareness. With every step, she sees more swords, each one humming with the knowledge of its past wielders. As her body shifts, so does her understanding. She adapts, growing, as the buried part of her—long dormant—comes to life. 

Normally, a swordsman takes one step at a time on the hill, as their body and soul need to adjust to the immense weight of the knowledge contained within each blade. But Ryua has grown, whether she wanted to or not. Through years of watching others, of surviving battle after battle, she has unknowingly absorbed the essence of swordsmanship.

And so, instead of walking, she runs. She sprints up the hill, her body surging with long-suppressed energy, her spirit lightened with every step. For the first time in decades, the chains of her past begin to loosen.

For the first time in years, a smile—a real, unburdened smile—appears on the face of the girl who has been bound by fear.

★ ★ ★ ★ ★

"All preparations are done, isn't that right, Skelly Boy?" Leena asks, her voice steady yet focused, her crimson eyes locked on the intricate magic circle that sprawls across the grass. The wide expanse of greenery, previously untouched, is now marked with the deep, blood-red lines of the sacrificial magic, surrounding the orb of water. The little skeleton beside her nods energetically, giving a cheeky thumbs up with its bony hand, its empty eye sockets somehow managing to express excitement.

"Good," Leena mutters, her eyes never leaving the circle. "Sacrificial magic is no laughing matter. Even though they're not necessary for this, I don't want any accidents." She pauses, placing a firm hand on the skeleton's head and giving it a soft, admonishing slap. "Double-check everything. We can't afford mistakes." 

With that, she steps forward, a rift appearing before her, and she disappears into its swirling depths.

The smell of blood greets her on the other side—clean, yes, but the iron tang still lingers in the air, too familiar, too haunting. Leena enters a chamber, lined with stone walls and softly glowing sigils. She picks up one of the nearly 100 cubes that sit in neat rows. The cubes are all different—varying in size and design, each intricately crafted. But the truth behind them is darker than their delicate appearance. These cubes, each and every one, were once living beings. Souls willingly entered this dungeon, knowing death could await them. 

"Don't blame me," Leena murmurs to the cubes, her voice cold, detached. "You entered the dungeon willingly... you knew the risks." She lets the cube fall back into its place as she moves, her hand brushing over the others without care or reverence.

"Mother, this will be it," Leena sighs, her voice lowering, softening. She steps through another rift, and this time, she emerges at the peak of a mountain. Clouds swirl thickly around the grassy plateau, creating an eerie calm that belies the magnitude of the moment. At the far end, a grand structure carved from ancient stone rises—its walls lined with hieroglyphs that tell stories long forgotten. In the center of it all sits a green-black orb, roughly the size of a bowling ball, its surface cracked and glowing faintly.

Leena walks to the orb, her steps confident, her expression hard. She places her foot on the orb, the ancient stone crackling beneath the weight of her presence. "Tsk, break already," she mutters, frustration creeping into her voice as the cracks on the orb begin to heal themselves almost instantly.

Tapping on her holographic screen, Leena sighs, brushing her crimson hair back as the moment approaches. "This is it..." She hesitates for a brief second, her finger hovering above the screen. Her mind flickers back, an image flashing before her eyes—a camera feed showing Kael, somewhere in the dungeon, alive, moving.

"That's right, I..." she starts, her voice faltering, but with a sharp exhale, she shakes off the distraction. She clicks the button.

Suddenly, the dungeon itself shifts. A deep, rumbling vibration courses through the stone, through the earth, and in a violent sweep of magic, everyone—Kael, Oda, Ryua, the prince, Itto, Cora, Bein, Yula, Baya, the one bald guy, all of them—are teleported to new, unknown locations.

Leena stands still, her eyes focused on the orb as it pulses underfoot, glowing with raw power. "It's time," she whispers to herself, a cruel smile pulling at her lips. "Mother... you will finally be reborn."