Subsection: "Hunted Without Honor"
Hatku staggered through the ruins of the Nether realm, barely alive. His skin was cracked, his bones shattered, and worst of all… he had no power. Not a flicker. Not a single spark of the strength that once made him feared across realms.
The battle with Tretrabaxterri had left him a broken man, and word of his fall spread like wildfire.
Soon, every desperate warrior, vengeful outcast, and hungry soul knew:
Hatku—the once-legendary fighter—was powerless.
And the Universal Gods had promised rewards for anyone who could defeat him now.
For them, it was easy prey.
For Hatku, it was a death sentence.
He ran.
He hid.
He bled.
Clinging to shadows, surviving on scraps and what little potions remained in his broken satchel.
They came in waves.
A shadow assassin with fang daggers tried to slit his throat while he slept.
A fire-blooded rogue launched flaming spears across a canyon.
A cloaked storm-binder crushed cliffs around him with wind hammers.
Hatku narrowly escaped each encounter—using only potions, wit, and sheer will.
But it was only a matter of time.
Subsection: "The Girl in Crimson"
On the fifth day of hiding, rain fell. Thick, red rain—the kind that soaked into bone and burned like venom.
Hatku limped through a twisted forest of bloodroot trees. His vision blurred, and the pain in his side throbbed like thunder.
Then he collapsed.
He expected to wake up to death.
Instead, he awoke to screams—but not his own.
Three hunters had found him. One carried storm orbs, the other a golden blade, and the last held soul chains, humming with evil.
The soul chain wielder laughed, "You're done, Hatku. No power. No blade. And the gods want your head on a spike."
Hatku could barely lift his hand. The potions were gone. He was done.
But before the first strike landed…
She appeared.
A figure in a blood-drenched cloak, face hidden beneath a steel mask carved like a demon's grin.
Without a word, she launched forward—a blur of motion and blades.
She caught the golden blade mid-swing, twisted it free, and stabbed the wielder through the throat. Blood sprayed across the roots.
The storm orb user fired—but she dodged like lightning, closing the distance with a slide through mud and impaling him with a short dagger.
The last tried to use the soul chains—but she slashed them from his hands and delivered a kick that sent him flying into a tree. One more toss of her dagger—right between the eyes.
It was over in seconds.
Hatku, in shock, tried to speak. "Who... are you?"
She didn't answer. Just crouched beside him and pulled out a healing potion.
She held it to his lips. He hesitated, weakly.
"Why... help me?" he asked.
She only said one thing:
"Because they don't get to decide who dies."
Subsection: "Cottage of Ghosts"
She led him—slowly, carefully—through the forest to a forgotten cottage, hidden beneath hanging moss and illusion wards.
Inside was dusty but alive—shelves filled with potions, aged scrolls, glowing crystals, and rows of ancient blades. It felt untouched by time… yet filled with echoes of war.
Hatku slumped against the wall as she tended to his wounds with surprising care. She moved like a healer, not a killer. She knew what she was doing.
He watched her fingers work, noticed the strange aura around her hands—flickers of green flame, just like the one he was born with.
His stomach twisted.
No one had the same power as him. No one.
Unless…
No. It wasn't possible.
He looked at her more closely now.
The way she moved. The way she looked at him—not with pity, but purpose. He didn't know her… but somehow, he felt familiarity.
Still, he said nothing.
She pulled a blade from the wall—long, curved, and wrapped in leather.
She laid it beside him.
"You'll need it," she said. "When they come again."
Then she turned and walked to a small fire, her back to him.
Hatku stared at the blade. Something about it felt… wrong and right at the same time.
His fingers trembled as he whispered, "This sword…"
He didn't finish the sentence.
Not yet.