blood-red hue. The ground was littered with burnt skulls and ashes mixed with still-steaming blood — the remnants of ancient rage.
At the foot of a mountain black as coal stood a man without a name or identity — known only among survivors as "N."
No one knew where he came from, nor why he fought. All they knew was that he was unbeatable.
N emerged from a sea of enemies — a thousand soulless monstrosities stripped of any human trace. Their bodies were grotesquely swollen, their mouths dripping with darkness, yet they all fell before a single blade.
A sword plain and unadorned, but shimmering with a deadly gleam. Each strike severed flesh and spirit alike.
His final blow was like an earthquake.
One powerful swing, sharp as a divine edge, split the mountain beneath him into nineteen thousand tiny shards, pulverizing everything in sight.
"Fifteen..." he whispered, counting something he did not yet understand.
Then he staggered, moving mechanically through the rubble, his body heavy and unfeeling, his gaze lost in a void. Questions echoed silently:
"Who am I? Why do I fight? What is this fury?"
No answers came.
As he walked, strange voices whispered — not human, but otherworldly — describing his torment, mocking him, or perhaps provoking:
"Your blood is not yours... your power is not yours... but you will pay the price."
He walked for an entire day without food or water. He fell many times but rose each time, crushing bones beneath the ash with every step. Finally, he reached the edge of a vast precipice — where the earth ended and the abyss began.
He fell.
Not into death, but into an endless void.
He fell for what seemed like an eternity — then suddenly…
His body collided with something soft.
His eyes fluttered open to find himself inside a strange cave, softly illuminated by a pale blue light. The walls were made of a translucent material that seemed to breathe and glow.
Inside were ten warriors clad in pristine white armor, waiting silently. They did not shout or show surprise. Instead, one said:
"At last, the Silent Butcher arrives."
"I am not—" N began, but his sword spoke for him. He instinctively raised it, his body moving with lethal precision.
The battle began.
The ground trembled with each step. Each opponent N faced wielded a different style — one with knives, another with hand-to-hand combat, a third unleashing razor-sharp gusts of wind — yet they all fell, one by one.
Victory was not easy. N endured brutal blows. Blood poured from his right eye; his right arm was fractured, but he did not stop.
At one point, three assailants lunged at him simultaneously. Using one enemy's body as a human shield, he absorbed the blows, then stomped on his shoulder and slashed through the other two with a single swing.
He fought as if possessed by more than one consciousness.
After dispatching all ten, he collapsed to his knees, blood streaming from his mouth, eyes fixed on the ceiling.
"I... don't know who I am... but I cannot stop."
Then, footsteps sounded behind him — soft but heavy, echoing like someone burdened by centuries of secrets.
A man cloaked in gray robes, face hidden by a mask, appeared and said:
"We know who you are, even if you do not."
"I am no one."
"No, you are everyone."
At that moment, a faint tremor shook N's mind, as if something inside was breaking.
But he resisted. He refused to know. He refused to remember.
Because the past only returns as a catastrophe.
Then he lost consciousness… once again.