Nameless was Fosfor’s only friend.

They walked through the crowd and color filled streets of Yel , she remembers every street and shop near the titan alike pillar.

They both lived near Yel's capital’s centre , near the Plaza of Jade Pillar , just a few minutes away from the Library Tower.

Every part of their life was ordinary until that day.

The day when death was born.

………….

She can’t remember anything further or anything later about her past.

Humans can’t cure their curiosity , it is their sin and instinct ; the gift and curse of sentience.

Their sin is also their blessing.

And that sin gave birth to Fosfor.

But it's not time to be nostalgic.

…

Fosfor isn’t a loud fighter , she is serious as a stone on occasion , but most of the time - chatty and careless.

She stares at the Letter-Writer every second , hand gripping dead on her blade’s handle.

The Letter-Writer claps , the neon light stops sparking. Large , metallic and modern light shines above his head , illuminating the dark and grimm space.

Revealing the countless shelves , cage , and glass tanks filled with various things , each of them are labeled in messenger standart , from green to blue to light violet. Breeze and spiky wind howls between them , lamenting and singing a song of mystery.

The light violet is also the most dangerous label.

And the violet labeled tank’s glass reflects Fosfor’s pale face and short , white hair.

Inside the tank is a human in his twenties , body unnaturally wide and muscular , veins that are like epigraphs spread under his skin.

His face is covered in strange , fungus-like matter. On his back grows a giant branch-like silver structure , even if it does not grow like they did before , it is still unease to look at.

Fosfor , seeing what’s in front her , grips even harder onto the sword. Even pulling it out a little , showing the cutting edge of her single edged gravestone colored sword.

‘‘He’s still alive,’’ she says softly , almost to herself.

‘’So fascinating , isn’t it?’’

Fosfor did not reply , she kept looking at it , wondering why the Letter-Writer owns such a terrifying thing.

Unlawfully taken from Royal Road, this story should be reported if seen on Amazon.

Then she sees the date when this man was stored.

It was three years ago , the same year when the three domes of Euth closed itself , not letting anyone legally in and out.

And the same year , folks starts to disappear with trace , no noone was allowed to talk about it , questioning anything about it.

Fosfor thinks that she has discovered a big mess of conspiracy.

‘‘What the heck is wrong with you?’’ Fosfor says as she grabs the collar of Letter-Writer.

‘‘…Curiosity kills cats , unfortunately I am not a cat,’’ he says , trying to take off Fosfor’s hands , but she grabs even harder.

‘‘You have no idea what happened to the last nation with such curiosity,’’ Fosfor said, frowning and taking her hand off.

‘‘Keeping abnormality with a scent of Unknown Existences in the center of the country? Sounds familiar to me,’’ she continued.

‘‘You have mouth , but you won’t scream.’’

‘‘I think we won’t have the chance to make an agreement,’’ says the ‘‘Letter-Writer.’’, looking at Fosfor is like looking at an angry child that just lost their candy.

Fosfor's face squished together , body’s shaking and trembling , her eyebrows touching with each other in her foldful forehead. She tightens her legs , steady as a statue.

‘‘I don’t mind working overtime , Letter-Writer,’’ Fosfor says , preparing to cast her realm-arts.

Seeing her anger , the ‘‘Letter-writer’’ quickly changes the placement of all tanks and shelves; he doesn't want to see his collection’s doom. He dashes away , almost in the frame of the human eye.

Fosfor is familiar with this kind of power , every Barricade can control and command the space that manifests their concept , reshaping , changing the centre of gravitation and even use it as a workshop for weapons and mythical items.

‘‘Which Barricade are you?’’

‘‘No , which Barricade are you copied from?’’ Fosfor speaks to herself.

She pulls out the sword in a moment of blink , the sword reflects the surroundings that have been changed and reforged, the slicing edge reflects the far away ‘‘Letter-Writer’’ , like it is going to show him his near fate.

Barricades can’t be killed , but it doesn’t mean they can’t be neutralized , of course , such logic and rules won’t apply on the scale of Existences.

Fosfor wonders if she could release death onto her enemy , exploiting the set rules.

She pulls out her blade , wind that is from the graveyard and will’o’lasps ascends.

The same moment the blade peeks out , mist and fog that are almost solid appears and surrounds Fosfor.

She sees nothing but grayness , even the light above her head seems so dim.

She hears sounds of chaos that are like whispers and sleep-talk. The voices and echoes bump into each other , accelerating , colliding.

And eventually solidifying into something , due to the mist and fog , Fosfor can’t see that ‘‘something'’.

She sees a flash of white , flying straight to her.

Fosfor’s blade speaks for her , her blade stops the object , or more precisely , it is stuck on her blade. Fosfor can’t feel a thing when it collides with the blade.

It is a thing in cylinder form with color that does not absorb light and simple 90 degree corners. It is somewhat familiar to Fosfor , but she can’t identify the object.

What is it?

A tool?

A weapon?

A food?

She realizes that her mind has raced into the wrong direction , she immediately swings her blade to get rid of the indescribable object off her blade.

The same attack repeats for another minute or two that feels like years , she parries the random and indescribable objects into the dense fog that seems to never end.

Some of them are large as a table and some of them are tiny as a mouse , if the object can’t parry back , she’ll just slice them like slicing a body through its chest to shoulder , like she did a long time ago to stop waves of terrors.

She knows that this can’t go on forever , so she steps into the never ending , forever echoing mist.