The God of Life's words still echo in my mind, a weight I can't shake. There is no easy way out. There is no simple solution to ending the cycle I've been trapped in for so long. But I feel a spark of something within me—maybe it's the strength I've never had, maybe it's desperation. But it's there, and it's pushing me forward.
I know what I must do.
I need to get to him—the God of Life. He is my only hope. The moment I take the first step toward the temple, however, a chill runs down my spine. It's not just the biting wind or the harsh snow surrounding me. No, this is something else. I feel the pull of him. The God of Death. He's coming. I can sense it in the air, his presence like a shadow, stretching over everything I've ever known.
But I don't have much time.
I push forward, climbing the rocky terrain of the mountains, the path getting steeper and more treacherous with each step. My legs burn, my breath coming in ragged gasps, but I can't stop. The temple is within reach, and it promises freedom—the freedom I've longed for, the freedom from the God of Death's unrelenting grasp.
But as I reach the top of the mountain, I see something that wasn't there before. Something buried partially in the snow at the base of the temple.
A knife.
The moment I lay eyes on it, a shiver races down my spine. The weapon's design is unlike anything I've ever seen before—its blade gleams with an otherworldly light, and strange symbols are etched into the steel, glowing faintly in the moonlight. The aura of power that surrounds it is palpable.
This is no ordinary knife. This is something ancient. Something powerful. And it might just be the key to ending everything—the key to severing the bond between the God of Death and me.
I reach down and carefully pull it from the snow, its cold handle sending a shock through my body. A sudden sense of urgency floods me. The God of Death will be here any moment, and I can't let him find me before I am ready.
I tuck the knife into the folds of my cloak, its weight reassuring against my side. I turn back toward the temple, determined to reach the God of Life. The power of the knife—its promise of destruction—is the only hope I have left. I'll need it.
But just as I step forward, I hear them. The unmistakable sound of boots crunching against the snow. Footsteps.
I freeze.
I know who they are before I see them—the soldiers of the God of Death. They move swiftly, efficiently, their eyes scanning the surrounding landscape as they march toward the temple, led by a dark figure cloaked in shadows.
I don't have time to hesitate.
I hide the knife beneath my cloak, clutching it tightly as I turn to leave. But it's no use. One of the soldiers spots me, his eyes narrowing as he takes in my presence.
"There you are," he says, his voice low and menacing. "The master will be pleased."
Before I can react, I feel a hand clamp down on my wrist, its grip unyielding. The other soldiers close in, surrounding me, their cold eyes devoid of mercy. I struggle, my breath catching in my throat, but I know I can't escape them—not without a fight.
"Let go of me!" I shout, twisting in their hold, but they don't release me. If anything, they tighten their grip, pulling me forward toward the carriage that awaits.
"You don't have a choice," one of the soldiers growls, dragging me toward the open door. "You belong to him."
I grit my teeth, my pulse pounding in my ears. They can't take me back. Not now. Not when I'm so close to ending this.
My hand tightens around the knife hidden beneath my cloak, the weight of it a constant reminder of what I must do.
The soldiers continue to drag me toward the carriage, and I fight against them with everything I have. I struggle to break free, but it's hopeless. They are too strong, and I'm too weak.
As they shove me into the carriage, I get a glimpse of the figure that looms in the distance—his presence like a dark storm cloud on the horizon. The God of Death. He's here. He knows.
I'm trapped.
The soldiers close the door behind me, and I'm plunged into darkness, the sound of the carriage wheels crunching against the snow the only thing I hear.
I clench my fists, feeling the knife against my side, its power growing stronger the more I grip it. The God of Death may have found me, but he doesn't know about the weapon I carry. He doesn't know that this time, I'm ready.
This time, I will not be his prisoner.