Chapter 2: The Void

Hentz awoke to nothingness.

The world around him was an endless expanse of darkness, so thick and oppressive that it felt like a tangible weight pressing against his body—if he even had a body anymore. He couldn’t see, couldn’t hear, couldn’t even feel the familiar rhythm of his heartbeat. The last thing he remembered was the sharp, cold betrayal of Eryk’s blade piercing his heart, and the hollow words of his comrades echoing in his ears.

He tried to move, but there was no sensation, no resistance, nothing to push against. His mind, however, was still sharp, painfully aware of his surroundings—or lack thereof.

"Is this… death?" he thought, his voice a silent whisper in the void. "Is this what waits for us? Nothingness? No peace, no afterlife? Just… this?"

A surge of bitterness welled up inside him, though it felt muted, distant. "The gods," he muttered inwardly, his thoughts venomous. "They saw my struggle. They watched me give everything… and this is their answer? To leave me here? Alone?"

Time lost meaning in the void. Was it minutes? Hours? Days? It felt like an eternity. At first, Hentz raged against his fate, his thoughts spiraling into a tempest of fury and despair. He cursed his so-called friends, cursed the Empire, cursed the gods themselves for abandoning him.

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But as the moments—or eons—stretched on, his anger waned, replaced by a hollow resignation.

"This is purgatory, isn’t it?" he mused. "The place between life and death. A punishment… for what? For being too strong? For doing what had to be done? For trusting them?"

He tried to laugh, but there was no sound, only the echo of his thoughts reverberating through the endless dark.

"I fought… for them," he thought, his voice trembling. "I bled for them. And in the end, they called me a monster."

The memory of Amara’s face flashed before him—her cold, unyielding gaze, her silence as the blade struck. That silence hurt more than any wound.

He floated, helpless, his thoughts slowly turning inward. "Maybe they were right," he thought bitterly. "Maybe I was a monster. A tool, a weapon. And now… even that is gone."

Time passed. Or maybe it didn’t. He couldn’t tell anymore. He stopped trying to fight, stopped trying to move. What was the point?

"Maybe this is what I deserve," he admitted silently, the bitterness in his thoughts giving way to exhaustion. "Maybe I was a fool to believe in honor, in loyalty. In them."

As he drifted, the void seemed to press in closer, its silence more deafening than ever. He felt himself unraveling, his memories slipping away like grains of sand through his fingers. He tried to hold onto them—his childhood, his training, the countless battles—but they were fading, piece by piece.

"Am I… disappearing?" he wondered.

For the first time, he felt something akin to fear. Not of death, not of pain, but of becoming nothing.

"No," he thought, his resolve flickering. "No, I won’t… I won’t vanish. I won’t let them win. Not like this."

He tried to fight again, summoning every ounce of strength, every shred of defiance left within him. He pushed, clawed, screamed silently into the void. But it was like trying to move a mountain with a whisper.

"It’s no use," he finally admitted, his thoughts heavy with despair. "There’s… nothing here. No one. No gods. Just me. Drifting… forever."

And so, Hentz Liebert, the youngest Sword Master in the history of the Empire, who had fought for honor, for justice, and for those he loved, surrendered to the void.

As he let himself drift, a single thought lingered in his mind:

"If this is truly my end… then I hope they remember me. Not as a monster, but as the man who gave everything… for them."

With that, he closed his eyes—or whatever semblance of eyes he had left—and let the darkness take him.