> *In darkness we find our true strength, in light we discover our purpose. Between them lies the path every warrior must walk.*
—Ancient inscription, Throne of the Seventh God
The labyrinthine corridors of the ancient dungeon stretched endlessly in every direction, a testament to a civilization long forgotten. Crumbling stone walls were etched with faded runes that pulsed with weak, erratic flickers of Urza energy. Massive pillars carved with the visages of beings neither human nor beast supported vaulted ceilings lost to darkness above. The air hung heavy with the scent of decay and something older—a primordial essence that spoke of eons past.
In this realm of eternal night, a small black furball with crimson eyes crawled cautiously across the cold stone floor.
Its tiny claws clicked against fragments of shattered marble mosaics depicting epic battles between gods and monsters. The creature paused, its glowing eyes scanning the darkness with unnatural intensity. Fragments of memory—*a battlefield, the scent of gunpowder, orders shouted across blood-soaked ground*—flashed through its consciousness, then faded like morning mist.
*Hungry. Must find food.*
The thought was simple yet urgent. Three days had passed since it had emerged from the egg inside the decaying remains of a colossal beast. Three days of instinct warring with flashes of a former life that made no sense in this new reality.
The furball crept forward, following the faint scent of living things. Ahead, luminescent fungi clung to the walls, casting an eerie blue glow that revealed a small chamber. Skittering insects—each as large as the furball's paw—moved across the floor in erratic patterns, seemingly drawn to the light.
Perfect.
Drawing on hunting techniques it shouldn't have known, the furball flattened itself against the ground. It calculated distance, wind direction, and the speed of its prey. The insect's exoskeleton appeared thinnest at the joints—the optimal strike point. Three possible attack vectors presented themselves, with the approach from the right offering 78% probability of success based on the creature's movement pattern. The furball's crimson eyes narrowed, mapping the kill zone with military precision—thoughts too complex for a newborn creature, yet natural as breathing.
With a burst of speed that belied its tiny form, it pounced precisely where the insect would be in the next half-second, not where it was now. The attack was not the clumsy lunge of a predator but the calculated strike of a soldier.
The insect struggled, its mandibles clicking furiously. The furball's jaws—small but surprisingly powerful—closed around its prey. A satisfying crunch, followed by the bitter tang of hemolymph. Sustenance. Survival.
Days passed this way. Hunt. Eat. Rest. Explore. With each passing day, the furball grew stronger. Its initially awkward movements became fluid, graceful. Its fuzzy black coat developed a sheen, and its crimson eyes grew sharper, able to penetrate deeper into the darkness.
---
On the seventh day, the furball discovered something extraordinary. Following a passageway lined with toppled statues of warrior-kings, it emerged into a vast circular chamber. Moonlight streamed through a partially collapsed ceiling, illuminating what could only be described as a throne room of gods.
Seven massive thrones arranged in a perfect circle dominated the space, each carved from different materials—crystal, obsidian, petrified wood, bone, gold-veined marble, jade, and one fashioned from what appeared to be solidified flame. The thrones stood empty, yet power still emanated from them, causing the air to shimmer with Urza currents.
At the center of the circle lay a dais with intricate channels carved into the stone, all leading to a central basin. The basin was dry now, but traces of ancient sacrifices lingered in the stained stone.
The furball approached cautiously, drawn by an inexplicable sense of familiarity. As its tiny paw touched the edge of the dais, a surge of energy shot through its body. The Urza currents swirled violently, drawn to the small creature like metal filings to a magnet. The furball's body arched in agony as the energy penetrated its flesh, its bones, its very essence.
*Burning. Tearing. Reshaping.*
The pain was exquisite, beyond anything its small form should have been able to endure. Whispers filled its mind—countless voices speaking in languages both familiar and alien. Its vision blurred, replaced by flashes of cosmic chaos: worlds forming and unraveling, beings of pure light battling creatures of absolute darkness, the weave of reality itself stretching and contracting.
Then, as suddenly as it had begun, the torrent of energy subsided. The furball collapsed, panting, its crimson eyes now glowing with newfound intensity. It felt... different. Stronger. More aware.
One of the crimson eyes flashed with a memory:
Seven figures, their forms too bright to comprehend, arguing in a language that shook the foundations of reality. A decision. A sacrifice. The universe torn asunder and remade.
The vision vanished as quickly as it had come, leaving the furball trembling. Whatever this place was, it held significance beyond its current understanding.
A low rumble shook the chamber, dislodging dust and small stones from the ceiling. The furball froze. Something massive was moving in the adjacent halls. Something that had claimed this sacred space as its territory.
The rumbling grew louder. Heavy, plodding footsteps approached. The furball darted behind one of the thrones—the one made of obsidian—and watched as an enormous creature entered the chamber.
The beast resembled a grotesque fusion of elephant and tortoise—a elephantortoise, as the creatures of this world might call it. Its shell was cracked and scarred from countless battles, and its tusks were chipped but still deadly. Six beady eyes swept the chamber suspiciously.
"Eww..ugly..!"
The furball held perfectly still, controlling even its breath. The elephantortoise lumbered toward the center of the room, where it began to perform what appeared to be a ritual—circling the dais three times before settling its massive bulk near the throne of petrified wood.
For days, the furball observed the creature from hiding, learning its patterns. The elephantortoise left the chamber to feed, returning to sleep and perform its strange ritual. Other monsters occasionally ventured into the periphery of the throne room, but none dared challenge the hulking guardian.
The furball grew bolder in its exploration of the surrounding areas, discovering ancient libraries with crumbling scrolls, armories with weapons turned to rust, and chambers filled with artifacts of unknown purpose. Each discovery brought flashes of recognition, though the memories remained frustratingly incomplete.
---
On the fourteenth day, everything changed.
The furball had been hunting in a corridor adorned with frescoes depicting what appeared to be the creation of the world—The Source splitting into multiple energies, forming the various planes of existence. It had just caught a particularly juicy centipede when a scream of rage echoed through the dungeon.
The furball dropped its meal and raced back toward the throne room. The sound of combat grew louder—roars of pain, the cracking of stone, the distinctive whoosh of something moving at incredible speed.
Peering from a cracked doorway, the furball witnessed an extraordinary battle. The elephantortoise was engaged in combat with a slender, serpentine creature covered in iridescent scales. The newcomer moved like lightning, darting in to slash at the elephantortoise's legs before retreating beyond the reach of those deadly tusks.
The battle raged for what seemed like hours. Blood—green from the elephantortoise, purple from its opponent—splattered across the ancient thrones. The sacred space, dormant for millennia, now vibrated with violence.
Finally, with a move of unexpected swiftness, the elephantortoise caught its opponent with a tusk—impaling the serpentine creature. A shriek of agony echoed through the chamber as the creature thrashed, then fell still.
The elephantortoise trumpeted in victory, but the sound was weak. It had sustained numerous wounds, and its breathing was labored. It dragged the carcass of its enemy to the edge of the dais, where it collapsed.
The furball waited, mouth watering. Here was an opportunity—real meat, not the insects and small rodents it had subsisted on. Once certain the elephantortoise was sleeping, it crept from its hiding place.
Moving silently across the throne room, the furball approached the slain serpent. Its still-warm flesh promised a feast unlike any the furball had enjoyed in its short life. Cautiously, it began to tear at the flesh, gorging itself on the rich meat.
So focused was it on its meal that it failed to notice when one of the elephantortoise's six eyes opened.
The blow came without warning—a tail like a battering ram slamming into the furball's tiny body.
Pain exploded through every fiber of its being as it was sent flying across the chamber.
It crashed through one wall, then another, bones shattering with each impact.
As the furball tumbled through the crumbling stonework, a strange clarity washed over it. In these brief moments of flight, it surveyed the darkness that had been its home.
Fourteen days of survival. Fourteen days of growth. From a helpless newborn to a hunter capable of navigating this labyrinth of death. It had not merely existed here—it had conquered. Had mastered the shadows. Had left its mark.
*I survived you,* the furball thought with defiant pride as the dungeon receded. *I am more than you tried to make me. This is not defeat—i won....you..son...of.a.....*
Then came the fall into darkness, and the sudden shock of icy water. *This is death...huh!* the furball thought with strange clarity as it plummeted through darkness. **Again.**
The sensation of falling ended abruptly as it plunged into icy water.
An underground river—swift and merciless, swept the broken little body through lightless passages.
The furball tried to swim, but its limbs wouldn't respond. All it could do was keep its head above water as the current carried it deeper into the unknown.
Time lost meaning.
The furball drifted in and out of consciousness, occasionally bumping against stone formations or being pulled under by the current. Fragments of memory—*a flag torn by gunfire, a comrade's dying face, the detonation sequence of a nuclear warhead*—swirled through its mind, mingling with the cold and the pain.
Gradually, the darkness began to change. The absolute black lightened to deep gray, then to a dim blue. The river widened, its current growing gentler. And then—a sensation the furball had never experienced in this life—warmth touched its fur.
With one final surge, the river deposited the broken furball onto a sandy bank.
Above, a circle of blue more vast than anything it had ever imagined stretched endlessly.
The sun—a concept known only through fragmented memories—beat down upon its wet fur.
The furball tried to move, but its body refused to comply. Internal injuries and broken bones made even breathing an agony. It lay there, crimson eyes fixed on the sky, waiting for the end.
*At least I'll die under the open sky.*
The thought brought a strange comfort. The furball's eyes began to close.
A shadow fell across its small form. The furball's eyes snapped open, expecting to see some predator come to finish what the elephantortoise had started. Instead, it beheld a figure unlike any it had encountered.
A man stood over it, tall and imposing against the bright sky. Wind caught his flowing white hair, making it dance like living flame. He wore a long coat of deep crimson that flared dramatically in the breeze, revealing glimpses of armor beneath. A bow of unusual design was strapped across his back, and his amber eyes glowed with an inner fire as they assessed the injured creature.
With graceful, deliberate movements, the man knelt beside the furball. The creature tensed, expecting pain, its soldier's instincts demanding it prepare for combat even in this broken state. But when the man's hand hovered near, the furball felt something unexpected—a gentle warmth radiating from his palm, soothing even before contact was made.
When he spoke, his voice was like distant thunder—powerful yet somehow gentle, the tone of a mentor who had seen countless battles yet retained compassion.
"What paths you must have walked, little wanderer," he said softly, his gaze meeting the furball's crimson eyes with neither fear nor disgust. "Such will to survive. Such determination in one so small."
A large hand, calloused but warm, moved with slow precision toward the furball's broken body. The creature flinched instinctively, but the touch, when it came, brought not pain but a wave of soothing warmth that spread through its shattered limbs.
"I am Veer,..Veer Flameforge," the man said, his voice a rumble that seemed to speak directly to something deep within the furball's essence. "Guardian of the divine flame. And you, little one, bear the mark of purpose."
With infinite care, Veer lifted the furball, cradling it against his chest. The closeness of another living being—not as prey, not as predator, but as protector—was entirely new. The steady rhythm of Veer's heartbeat resonated through the furball's small body, a cadence of safety it had never known in this form.
"Rest now," Veer murmured, one finger gently stroking the creature's wet fur. "Your journey through darkness is over. The path ahead leads to light."
As consciousness began to fade, the furball felt its rigid defenses melting away. For the first time since awakening in this strange world, it allowed itself to relax completely.
"Aww... feeling sleepy, huh?! Well— it's time to go to your New Home" Veer murmured while looking up at the full moon in dark blue sky—holding a furry creature in his small arms.