Terryfing stillness filled the woods, silence so complete and deep it seemed forced onto the world. The trees were forbidden from rustling their leafs. The birds immobilized so as not to flap their wings, silenced so as not to chirp.

The skies and the sun themselves seem to avert their gaze over that stretch of land. Dim, murky light barely passed through the gathering clouds, signlaing an upcoming storm.

Through this silent abyss slithered a grotesque apparition, its form cloaked in undulating distortion that emitted a haunting, otherworldly hum, warping reality with each pulsating wave that emanated from its depths.

Wherever it tread, life withered and decayed, succumbing to the consuming touch of the Void, leaving behind a trail of desolation and destruction. Every step etched scars into the earth, scars that would never fade, marked indelibly by the touch of the End.

Driven by a primal urge, it moved forward with a lurching gait, guided by instincts long forgotten, drawn inexorably toward a source.

Step.

Step.

Its ragged form swayed, a marionette of madness.

Blood dripped from torn cheeks, mingling with tears of shame, regret, and unbridled lunacy, staining the earth with the mark of its suffering.

Drip.

Drip.

Drip.

With each convulsive twitch of its fingers, the very fabric of the Void trembled, writhing in agony as it struggled against the encroaching madness that threatened to consume it whole, yet bound by the indomitable pulse of the Primordial Heart, defiant in its resilience.

A lone tree stood as a barrier in its path, but with a casual sweep of its bone prosthetic arm, adorned with shimmering crystals and talons as black as the abyss, the obstacle crumbled to dust, obliterated by sheer force.

Undeterred, it pressed onward, a Child of Despair.

An Avatar of Sorrow.

Step.

Step.

Step.

His body lay in disarray, ravaged by his last encounter with the young Atlantean, a battle that nearly cost him his life. The flames of self-immolation had consumed him, scorching him from within and without, leaving him broken and battered. His fractured leg still refused to heal, a constant reminder of his mortality. His throat struggled to close the gaping wound that had been his esophagus, a painful reminder of the violence he had endured.

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New teeth pushed forth, displacing the old, a sensation that threatened to drive him to the brink of madness. But amidst the chaos, it was but a minor torment, a drop in the ocean of suffering that consumed him.

The shallow depths of his agony resided in his physical form, but the true depths lay within his mind, a churning sea of torment and despair. How tortured he was, how damaged, how utterly miserable.

Within the tumultuous currents of trauma that gripped his psyche, he was a prisoner of his own pain, drowning in a sea of despair. The very fabric of reality seemed to warp and contort in response to the turmoil within him, magical energies twisting and whining in agony as the rules of thaumaturgy were torn asunder with each passing moment.

Regret weighed heavy upon him, a crushing burden that threatened to consume him whole. Memories haunted him, fragments of past atrocities that clawed at his sanity.

The murder of Klaus, the Filthy Bastard, loomed large in his mind. The image of the lifeless body, brain leaking from a cracked skull, blood mingling with rainwater on the pavement, haunted his every waking moment. The cold, empty eyes of Klaus's victim stared accusingly at him, a silent condemnation of his sins.

He allowed her to die.

The screams of Klaus, the pitiful pleas for mercy, echoed in his ears, intermingling with the warm cascade of blood that had coated his face. Each memory was a dagger in his heart, each act of violence a stain upon his soul, a relentless reminder of the darkness that lurked within him.

The memories of his mentor, Monsoon, flooded his mind with images of his final moments, a harrowing scene of betrayal and brutality. He could still feel the shame and anguish that had consumed him as Klaus's father tore into his flesh, devouring him alive and extinguishing the last flicker of love that remained within him. Last piece of his love was taken from him, he was left alone in his final moment.

Luke shuddered as reality began to fracture around him, the barrier between the Real and Beyond the Veil wearing thin with each passing moment.

With unsteady steps, he pressed forward, the dense canopy above thinning, the clouds parting, and the fog dissipating, allowing shafts of light to pierce the darkness that had cloaked the forest for so long.

Emerging from the confines of the enchanted woods, he found himself standing on the edge of a vast expanse of fields, overlooking a familiar district of town. Something stirred within him as the tall stalks of crops brushed against his legs, awakening a long-dormant part of his soul.

Leaving behind the Guardian Oaks and Tall Pines, he ventured onward, each step breathing life back into the once-silent forest. The vibrant green of the crops swayed in the breeze, a welcome sight amidst the desolation he left in his wake.

His mind came alight with fire and thunder, more and more with each step. The sun pierced the clouds, raining down sunlight onto the plants and him, bathing him in warmth, piercing, shudder enducing warmth.

Magical energies crackled and surged around him, his very presence imbuing the earth with newfound power, transforming it in ways beyond comprehension.

Mutating it.

Changeing it.

With each step upon the cool pavement, Luke felt a tremor reverberate through his arms, causing his prosthetic to groan and his real hand to quiver. The sound echoed through the air like a mournful tolling bell, rupturing the fog of confusion that had ensnared his mind and allowing a glimmer of awareness to seep through.

Though still only partially conscious, he recognized this place all too well. Without a word, he made his way toward the looming high-rise buildings that lined the horizon like a labyrinth.

Crossing the bustling four-lane street that encircled the district, he moved with purpose, his steps quickening with each passing moment. The cars and their drivers phantoms from over the Veil passed through him, not eliciting any reaction. Deeper into the concrete jungle he ventured, the familiar surroundings stirring memories long buried beneath the surface of his consciousness.

Sparks of recollection ignited within him as he passed by the same dilapidated shops and rust-covered cars that had been fixtures of this place for years. Turning a corner, he approached a towering building that seemed to stretch endlessly into the horizon, its post-Soviet architecture a haunting reminder of a bygone era.

"1" The crooked sign declared to the world, marking the entrance to his home, the gateway to his past. It was here, in this place of faded memories and shattered dreams, that it all began.