Sleeping goddess

Not far from the edge of Death Forest, a colossal wall stretched endlessly across the horizon, an unyielding barrier that separated the ancient wilderness from the sprawling empire beyond. The structure loomed high into the sky, adorned with intricate runes that shimmered faintly beneath the moonlight, pulsating with a power older than time itself. It was not merely a wall; it was a declaration—an assertion of dominion, a silent warning to all who dared challenge the sovereignty of the mighty empire.

A hush fell over the trees as the wind carried a presence through the foliage, unseen yet palpable. The rustling leaves whispered secrets to one another, sensing something—or someone—moving among them. Then, as if conjured from the very air itself, a figure emerged onto a sturdy branch, his form materializing with an unsettling grace. His red cloak billowed in the soft wind, and beneath it, a white mask, featureless save for the intricate red and gold symbols etched into its right side, concealed his face. Scar had returned.

He perched there, silent, unmoving, his gaze locked upon the imposing wall that marked the empire's boundary. For a long moment, he merely watched, his eyes flickering from one guard tower to the next, observing the disciplined patrols, the carefully woven enchantments that reinforced the gates, and the ever-vigilant sentries standing at their posts. Every movement, every detail, was recorded and assessed with the precision of a man who had spent his life surviving against impossible odds.

Slowly, his hand inched toward his mask. With a measured motion, he lifted it away, allowing his hood to fall back as well. The moonlight illuminated his features—crimson-red hair, wild yet regal, cascaded around his face, framing sharp cheekbones and a pair of piercing crystal-red eyes. They gleamed with an intensity that spoke of calculated brilliance, of a mind forever analyzing, forever plotting.

Orion, the man behind the enigmatic persona of Scar, exhaled softly. A direct assault on the empire's defenses would be suicide. Even with his strength, even with the power coiling beneath his skin like a slumbering beast, he knew the outcome would be disastrous. The empire did not build its walls in arrogance; they were fortified with layers of magic and reinforced by a network of elite warriors who could summon reinforcements at a moment's notice.

Fortunately, brute force was not his only path. With a flick of his wrist, the red cloak and mask vanished, dissolving into crimson runes that shimmered along the length of his arm before fading into his skin. A gift from the crypt—an inheritance from the spectral presence of his grandfather. The runes acted as a hidden repository, a secret vault where he could store his most treasured possessions. Books, heirlooms, weapons, the enigmatic black box he had yet to open—they all resided within that eldritch space, safe from prying eyes.

However, Orion knew better than to reveal all his secrets. He had another storage—a black dimensional ring, a far more mundane item in the world of the empire, something others could see without suspicion. It held his weapons and necessary provisions, while the runes remained his hidden advantage, his safeguard against the unknown.

With his transformation complete, Orion adjusted his attire. Gone was the crimson-cloaked specter of Death Forest. In his place stood a man who belonged, his posture exuding an air of authenticity and authority. He strode forward, heading toward the city's grand entrance.

The guards stationed at the gate stiffened as he approached. Their hands hovered near their weapons, their expressions betraying wariness. Orion did not blame them. He was, after all, an unfamiliar face. He presented a citizen badge, the ancient insignia glinting under the torchlight. The guards exchanged uncertain glances, still hesitant.

Then, he produced something else—a royal mark. The moment their eyes fell upon it, their hesitation transformed into shock. Their breath hitched, their hands trembled slightly, and within seconds, they bowed deeply in apology, stepping aside to grant him passage.

Orion studied them briefly before stepping through the gates. 'They're thorough,' he mused. 'Surprisingly competent.' He had expected more laxity, more arrogance. Instead, he found efficiency.

As he took his first steps into the empire, the city unfolded before him—towering spires of marble and gold, glowing lanterns suspended in midair by unseen magic, streets bustling even at this late hour with merchants and nobles draped in finery. The air was thick with the scent of exotic spices and enchanted oils, the hum of arcane energy pulsing beneath his feet.

Meanwhile, in a distant part of the empire, beyond the towering cathedrals and sprawling palaces, within the depths of a darkened, enigmatic castle, a disturbance rippled through the silence.

In a grand chamber, veiled in layers of ethereal grey mist, a woman lay reclined in a luxurious chair. She was a vision of divinity, her presence exuding an otherworldly grace that made the very air around her tremble. The mist swirled protectively around her, as if drawn to her essence, enhancing the celestial glow that seemed to emanate from within.

Her features were nothing short of exquisite—high cheekbones, full lips, skin kissed by a golden radiance that shimmered like stardust. Her long, flowing hair cascaded in waves of deep chestnut, pooling around her like a silken river. She wore a flowing white gown, its fabric so delicate that it seemed woven from moonlight itself, draping over her form in elegant folds.

Yet, despite her serene beauty, her expression was troubled. Her eyes, closed in deep slumber, twitched as if caught in the throes of an unseen vision.

A figure loomed in her mind's eye—a man perched atop a colossal tree, his posture laced with arrogance, his crimson-red hair wild under the moonlight. The runes along his arm burned like molten embers, his white mask dangling carelessly from his hand, its golden sigils catching the faintest glimmers of light.

She strained to see his face, to pierce through the haze of her vision. But the moment she tried, an invisible force recoiled against her mind, snapping her out of the dream with brutal finality.

Her eyes shot open, glowing with a fierce, unnatural radiance. The mist surrounding her trembled violently, as if disturbed by a force beyond mortal comprehension. The very walls of the chamber quaked under the pressure of her awakening.

A single drop of blood trickled from the corner of her eye, then another, painting twin crimson trails down her porcelain skin. Yet, she did not flinch. She did not wipe them away. Instead, she sat upright, her expression darkening, her fingers curling into a fist.

"He's here."

Her voice, though quiet, carried the weight of prophecy, echoing through the vast chamber with chilling finality. Her grey eyes shimmered with an eerie red glint as a wave of killing intent bled into the air around her. The once tranquil mist now churned violently, responding to her rage, coiling around her like a tempest poised to strike.

The woman who had been a sleeping goddess moments ago was gone.

In her place stood a vengeful specter, a harbinger of reckoning, poised to unleash her wrath upon the man who had dared trespass into her world.