Warden Of Chaos

Z didn't remember the pain. Not really. Pain, he had learned, was fleeting. What stayed were the fragments—the sound of bones snapping, the wet heat of blood soaking his robes, the screams of priests cut short. Those were the memories that haunted him.

And the darkness. Endless, suffocating darkness.

He could still hear the echo of it, the Son of Chaos descending in a storm of roars and shrieks that didn't belong to this world. The temple shattered like glass. Priests were torn apart by invisible hands. And Z—young, fragile, and too slow to run—had been caught in the collapse.

When he woke, he couldn't feel anything below his waist. His eyes burned, useless and empty, their sockets dripping blood. He wasn't screaming anymore. There wasn't enough strength left for that.

Instead, there was silence. Cold. Heavy. Final.

He lay there, waiting for the end. And then he heard it.

A voice, smooth and ancient, like the shifting of tectonic plates.

"Do you want to live?"

It wasn't a question. It was an intrusion, filling his mind like molten lead.

Z couldn't answer. His throat was dry, his tongue swollen. But the voice didn't seem to care.

"I can give you life. I can give you sight beyond sight. I can make you whole."

He should have been afraid. He should have resisted. But what was left to fear when death was already clawing at your throat?

Z thought of the priests, the temple, the firelight on stone. He thought of the people he'd called his family—crushed, scattered, or worse. And he thought of himself, broken, blind, and alone in the rubble.

"What… what do you want?" he rasped.

The voice chuckled. It was not a sound meant for human ears.

"Only your service. And your soul, should you fail me."

Z hesitated. For a moment, he felt the weight of something immense pressing down on him, as if the universe itself was watching, waiting for his answer.

"Fine," he whispered. "Take whatever you want."

The laughter grew louder, more terrible, until it was the only thing he could hear. And then came the fire.

It started in his chest, spreading like liquid lightning through his veins. His body contorted, bones snapping back into place, muscles reknitting themselves. He screamed, but the sound was swallowed by the roar of chaos.

When it was over, he lay gasping in the darkness. He still couldn't see. His eyes were gone, their sockets stitched shut with something that felt like molten thread. But…

He could see.

Shapes danced in the void—threads of light and shadow, pulsing like veins. Magic swirled in endless patterns, the raw fabric of the world laid bare before him. And at the center of it all, he saw the faintest outline of a figure.

"Remember this moment, Z. For now, you are mine."

The voice vanished, leaving only the hum of the world as it truly was.

Z sat up, trembling, his hands gripping the dirt beneath him. The pain was gone, but the heaviness of something far greater had settled in its place.

For the first time, he wondered if he had made a mistake.

And then he laughed—a short, bitter sound.

"Guess I've got no choice now," he muttered. "Thanks. Real generous of you."

With nothing left but his new sight and a fresh scar where his soul used to be, Z stumbled forward into the dark.