Ken stood in front of Ash, arms out like he was trying to block whatever came next. His boots were firm in the grass, but Ash could tell—he was shaking. Not the kind of fear that made you run, but the kind that made your soul whisper, This is wrong. This is very wrong. Even Ken, who joked through everything, wasn't saying a word.
The man watched them from atop the serpent's head. As if it hadn't decided what it wanted to do yet.
His head slowly and stared at Ken. No emotion. No hate. No care. Then, without any sound or movement, a sword appeared in his hand. It didn't glow. It didn't burn. It just… existed. As if it always had, and the world just remembered it.
He dropped it. The sword fell, spinning once, then twice.
Ash didn't think. His body moved before his brain caught up. Hands out. Fingers tight. The hilt hit his palm with a thud that echoed through his arms and into his chest.
He shouldn't have caught it. His hands wrapped around the handle like it was made for him.
Why?
Why did he move?
How could he even move?
Ken turned to look at him—just for a second. Something like confusion in his eyes. Or trust. Or maybe both. Ash's grip tightened. His feet shifted forward.
No. He wasn't moving. He wasn't choosing to move. His body was. His arm rose slowly, like in water. He tried to stop it. He tried to drop the sword, to run, but his body wasn't listening.
And then—
A cut. A single, fast slice through the silence. Ken stood still for a second. A very long second.
Then he split.
From the center of his chest, clean and straight. His body opened, like paper, and fell apart in two heavy halves. The sound of him hitting the ground was dull. Too real.
Ash stood there. Frozen.
Blood crawled up the blade. Not in drops, not in lines. It moved like it wanted to be there. Like it missed the sword and finally found its way home.
His whole body trembled, like it was trying to shake itself awake from a dream that had gone too far. His vision blurred. His knees went weak.
Ash opened his mouth to scream, but the sound never came out.
"No," he whispered. "No no no no no no—WHY?!"
His knees hit the ground.
And then the voice came. Low and deep. Not loud, but it made the air colder just by existing.
"I have waited," the man said, standing above them, still calm, still unmoving. "Waited longer than time itself. In this godless world."
Ash slowly looked up. The man wasn't human. He couldn't be.
The man continued, "To end who should have never been born. The Creator and all his failures." "The gods have started clawing back to life like rats from the grave. But none dare take the throne. None dare rule."
"They fear it, the one whose hunger turned heaven into a grave."
Ash couldn't move; he couldn't speak. He just shook.
The man's eyes narrowed. He tilted his head slightly, as if sensing something... deeper.
"So you are not him yet," the man said, taking a step forward, his gaze falling on Ash like a knife. "His presence is inside you. But His will... no. Not yet. You are still dreaming."
Ash's lips trembled. He wanted to scream again, to rip his skin off, to disappear.
The man tilted his head, almost curious. Then—snap.
A sound like dry wood cracking. The ground beneath Ash split open again, a violent, tearing scream from the earth itself. Dust and light exploded around him. He didn't even fight it this time.
He just fell.