The world lay dead and silent, only Phantoms roamed, and perhaps some remnant of a broken memory of Albion's lost splendour. Or at least, this was what the alternate reality had depicted. A bad ending to the nation, a what-if scenario, a failed timeline.
A young woman was alone in its depths, wrapped in shadows of those past glories that clung to her like a second skin. Ruined statues loomed around her, fragments of stone figures with faces half-worn by time, their hollow eyes staring into nothingness.
Once, in this reality, they had been proud icons of a kingdom that had long since crumbled to dust. Now, they were little more than reminders—monuments to failure, relics twisted by the passing centuries.
She felt a strange kinship with them.
Hidden beneath her cloak, her hands wrapped around her back, she was skipping across the stone path of the ruins she had been exploring. There was a comfort in knowing failures such as this. Her humming was playful, almost eerie in contrast to the scene before her.
“Didn't think that it would be this bad for you~!”
She was sent here, as ordered, her peers were also doing their own thing in the mean time, but she didn't bother. This was a task for her to finish, this hunt for her to savour. Yet another repeat of the thrill to get stronger.
She was a patient person. Years, decades, centuries—even time itself had failed to wear her down.
“Perhaps that’s what separates us, maybe!” she said, her voice akin to a teenage girl. “I endure. You fall.”
Her red, glowing eyes cast a faint light from beneath her hood, a crimson radiance that echoed through the emptiness. She didn't often comment on history, ‘fake’ or not—there was rarely a need—but here, in this Veil, the words felt right, almost reverent.
This land of ghosts and shadows was something she was delighted by after hearing tales of triumph after triumph. Once it was alive with purpose, now a hollow, patient thing.
She allowed herself another small smile, unseen beneath the cloak. It was an indulgence, but a harmless one.
“Such potential…oh I can't wait~”
The play was clear enough: unleash malice upon her targets, demonstrate her mastery again, prove herself worthy. But it was not simple obedience that drove her. She had taken the lives of kings, warlords, heroes, and even villains alike. And each time, she told herself it was for the craft. For the honing of her art. To reach for that pinnacle, to attain that coveted status.
A classic reason for an Apostle to become one in the first place. Others like her had other motivations, some angered, some prideful, some greedy, some very much self-centred. But her motivation was simply just that, to perfect her craft.
At the least, aside from ultimately answering to a singular cause, and despite their self determined goals, they had that universal aim to reach for that pinnacle, to become god-like. To get a taste of that power, whatever it would take them.
A bloodthirsty predator, some had called her. But it was a crude label for something as pure as the hunt.
She drifted further into the shadows of the ruin’s old night, letting them swallow her completely, her form little more than a whisper against the ruined landscape. Patience, she reminded herself. That was her advantage. It was what had kept her alive when entire kingdoms crumbled to dust. Let her prey have their moments of false security, their whispers of hope.
Her thoughts turned to the six people who have entered here as she mulled over, those fated prey of hers, prophesied for her to meet. Children who had wandered into the domain as if they belonged here, trying to liberate it from their world, as if they could even begin to understand this place.
She hadn’t moved against them yet. There was no urgency. The thrill, after all, was not in striking them down quickly but in watching, waiting—learning the rhythms of their movements, the flaws in their stances, the flickers of fear that would soon give way to panic.
The Apostle waited, her eyes fixed on the distant forms of her quarry. They were afar, but her senses tracked them as if they were in front of her. Her eyes thinned in anticipation, her grin expanding, and she felt the stirrings of that familiar thrill, that slow, simmering anticipation that was almost like hunger.
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In her mind’s eye, she could already see the scene that would unfold—their terror as they realised what hunted them, the fleeting light in their eyes as she closed in. For her, this was as much ritual as it was combat. She would know their fears, learn their weaknesses, and finally, when the moment was right...
She exhaled, chuckling, quietly cackling even. “Six people…”
The Hero walked with a steady, almost stubborn resolve, as if the weight of the world rested on his shoulders and he welcomed it. There was a certain predictability in him, a straightforwardness she found almost amusing. His movements were precise in spite of his weapon of choice, his stance ever-ready, but it wasn’t just skill that defined him—it was his indomitability.
He wore his gentle heart like armour, a shining bulwark against the darkness of the Veil. And yet, she sensed the cracks beneath the surface. Heroism was a brittle thing, and even more so for him who had that title forced upon him. It was built upon expectations, duty, and the unspoken fear of failure. She wondered what might happen when the weight he carried became too heavy, when that purpose wavered. Would he still stand so tall?
The Wanderer had an air of restlessness, a wildness that set him apart from the others. He moved like he had no home, as if never truly bound to any place or person. His gaze was sharp, always darting, searching—wanting to be aware of everything, to comprehend everything, all because of his fears and the reason he even wandered in the first place.
There was a mystery to him, a hint in the way he lingered just out of reach, as if he belonged to the road more than to any one person. His armour, she thought, was made of his awareness and frustrations. He was reckless yet also logical when it comes down to it. But beneath that, she sensed a deep-rooted conflict, a desire for something he would never admit. How long would he last when he was forced to confront his own past?
The Preacher, there was a quiet strength in this one, an unwavering faith that radiated from him like a shield. He carried his beliefs as naturally as he breathed, his words loud, his mind patient, as if he were speaking not only to his companions but to something greater. His presence was soothing, steady, a reminder of something ancient and enduring even in a world of shadows.
But she knew faith could be a fragile thing, especially when tested by horrors beyond comprehension. She had no interest in regards to faith, but she wondered if his quiet confidence would eventually falter, when he is shown that no matter how much faith and hope he had, it was all for naught. She looked forward to the moment when that resolve would be truly put to the test.
The Dragon, this one was all fun and energy, and a rising force of nature in human form. She moved with an uninhibited boldness, an edge of unpredictability that set her apart from the others. Her laughter was playful, loud, and unapologetic, her spirit vibrant even in the shadows. It was clear that she was used to charging headlong into situations, relishing the thrill of action, the challenge of danger.
But she sensed something beneath her bravado, a flicker of insecurity hidden behind her fearless front. The girl’s desperation for connection was undeniable, hence her overly friendly character, and that could lead to ruin. How would she react when faced with a hopeless situation, when darkness was all that she had?
The Princess was a perfect embodiment of her lineage: fierce, proud, and forged by centuries of expectation, a living symbol of the Lenore family’s unbroken legacy. She carried herself with a poise that masked an intense drive to prove her worth, a determination as sharp as her blade and as searing as her pyromancy. Her beauty—silver hair, ruby-red eyes, an immaculate face—was the outward reflection of that inner fire.
She wore her heritage like armour, yet the Apostle could see the fragility in that confidence, the desperation beneath her flawless composure. She was a lioness through and through, and she relished the thought of forcing her to confront the brittle edges of her pride. Would the princess rise above her heritage when stripped of her illusions, or would her fire burn out when faced with a challenge beyond anything she’d ever known?
And then there was her—the one that the Sage had guided, the Chosen Person. This one bore a heaviness unlike any of the others, a weight that went beyond duty or faith. She was marked by loss, haunted by the echoes of past failures, carrying the scars of a pain she once refused to share. There was a strange fragility to her, a sense of isolation that lingered even when she stood among her companions.
But beneath that sadness, she could sense a quiet, simmering strength, a determination forged in the fires of grief. This one was not like the others; she had tasted darkness and survived it. She wondered how far that strength would carry her, whether it would hold up under the crushing of despair…or if it would break her at last.
Those were the thoughts that she mulled over. She didn't have all the answers, nor the method to test such questions, but she will try. After all, the others would do the same if they were in her place.
“...such a gift~!”
The Apostle of Bloodlust allowed herself a moment to savour the image of each one, to map out the weaknesses hidden within their strengths. They were a fascinating array of personalities, each carrying their own vulnerabilities, their own burdens. She almost pitied them…almost.
Her eyes glinted beneath her hood, and a slow smile curved her lips. Each one of them was unique, but all shared a common flaw—they had hope, faith, and the potential to stand against her. And she would take great pleasure in shattering every last piece of it. This shall not be a mere fight, this shall be something more.
The hunt had begun.