Names hold meaning. They hold power. Legends sweep the minds of the young, and titles conjure strength. With enough profound awe, such power can be wielded beyond the bearer’s definitive might.

Building reputation is as equally important as personal strength or intellect. To all the young who read this, treat your name more carefully than your life. Some creatures feed on such things.

The Eventide Seraphim, The Shattered Mountain, or as I know him, Vicar, rarely uses the weight of his name. As such, it moves mountains, upends seas, and transcends stars. None wish to anger he who peers alone into the night sky.

As for me… well… I can’t quite compare to that old man.

I’m just a monster who is all grown up.

* The concluding words of God’s Abomination in his Codex Of War.

A young man stood before the gateway to the Inferose as the last to enter its clutches. It was a shattered fixture in reality, something one could simply step through, though the world on the other side lived obscured from his gaze. He stared at it with poorly concealed interest while another limped toward him. The limping figure’s mind had already forgotten who he left behind.

Eight glanced over at the approaching human. With a scoff, he nodded to the man’s injuries, “They did quite a number on you, huh? No Rewind this time?”

Dante returned the derision with some of his own, “What about you? Why didn’t you fight? Were you truly under the Inferose’s illusions? Are you?”

The two shared a gaze mere feet away from the gateway. Eight grinned softly, a devious smile that couldn’t remain hidden in any realm.

The Anomaly admitted his deceit candidly, “Yeah. Why would I join such a foolish fight? You aren’t my friend. Just a tool. The damn dimension pulled Claudius in. I felt the movement and was busy trying to replicate it. Why waste my energy fighting that Dirge?”

Eight spoke as if he had calculated the entire battle that would come about. He was one of three Seafarers who could see through the illusions without issue, without an ounce of strain. Even the young man wasn’t privy to why, but he wasn’t one to complain about his boons.

Dante glared at the Cryo, both standing before the gateway. It was almost as if Eight had waited for Dante. Or was it something more sinister?

The human wasn’t sure. All he knew was that Eight was beyond arrogant. He had the power to back up the confidence, but he wasn’t the strongest on the planet. Not even close.

“That’s fair, I suppose. Claudius seems quite skilled. Too good to be your Judge,” Dante declared to the Anomaly.

Without hesitation, Eight agreed, “Yup. A good man, that’s for damn sure. Better than both of us,” the Anomaly looked at Dante with a hidden meaning. Then, he added, “But that’s why I joined him. Every light has its shadow. The Judge needs someone to do his dirty work.”

Dante retreated slightly, feeling a cold vibration originate from the Cryo. Even now, the kid was lying. By lifting his palm, the human immediately prepared for a battle, saying, “And what’s that dirty work?”

Eight’s lips stretched wide, far more expansive than any creature should. He bent low, the droplets within his body beginning to rage. The Anomaly was honest in his words, “To kill that which would doom him. You, Dante Penance. I wasn’t sure until now. You... You have potential just as anomalous as me.”

A lifted eyebrow met the false accusation, but before either could strike, the earth shook, reminding both where they were.

Second by second, the ghosts of Geist neared them, only seconds away. They flew over the plains without noise, phasing straight through the illusions that once held back Dante’s crew. The wraiths were not all there was, however.

In the distance, a colossal battle raged, bringing both to shivering footing. Even the air rebounded, swirling their hair and the surrounding dirt, making it hard to see. Beyond the weather phenomena, however, Dante heard a distant groan of pain, that of a woman.

Instantly, his mood soured. Only three women on the planet could be heard from so far. One was Thanaris, another was Wain, and the last was Praetor Sun herself. The only one he would like to get hurt was Wain, for Elize Sunwin was at least somewhat likely to not kill him while Thanaris was on his side.

A one-in-three. And based on Wain’s cowardice... Dante did not believe it to be her.

Beyond his faraway worries, more creatures loomed only moments away than the misty figures. The remaining Anathemas prowled the edges, still locked into the illusions, but they were nearing.

However, there were more than just two groups. Dante heard the crackle of a gun and instinctively twisted away from his woes, only to see a burst of blood emerge from the teenager across from him.

Eight somersaulted backward, bouncing again and again before reclaiming his momentum, and landed on all fours with his briefcase in hand. Blood dripped from the man’s throat as his innards, from the bottom of his chin to the top of his ribs, revealed themselves to the open air with a scarlet bouquet.

Dante gasped as he saw sparking electricity erupt from where Eight’s carotid should be. Close-knit wires, interwoven with flesh and veins, interlaced the inside of Eight’s body. Until now, the Cryo had only taken superficial injuries, never bleeding much more than an ounce.

Yet now, the young man shifted his gaze toward his own throat. Blood spurted from the fatal wound along with bolts of blue electricity, and, raising his hand to the spot, he stared incredulously at his own body.

None could believe what he was, less so himself.

The eyes beholding their own flesh unfocused as if staring thousands of miles into the horizon, even as footsteps approached. Dante turned, finding a hooded and cloaked figure staring at him. Instantly, his nerves and instincts shot up in alarm.

Stolen from its rightful author, this tale is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.

A calm and composed voice echoed along the field while Eight’s lungs exhaled and inhaled rapidly without breathing, “It seems we finally meet, Dante Penance.”

Dante’s hands tremored as he forced his Tide into action, summoning water around his body. It flowed, only nowhere near as swiftly as before. Every muscle in his body ached and begged for rest. Multiple uses of his Stigmata had left his body barren, while the extensive manipulation of Hydro left his mind powerless.

The human knew well that his only option here was to run. He had to escape into the Inferose. Yet he wasn’t sure if he could in time.

The cloaked figure revealed a long shotgun with four concentric barrels beneath his camouflaged poncho while the other hand unsheathed a cleaver from his belt. Dante glanced at his own pistols, unloaded from the previous battle.

He was out of ammo. Who would have thought Hana was so enduring? Dante could only bring so much with him.

And behind him, Anomaly 888 shivered at his own condition. Dante glanced toward Eight, commenting on his condition, hoping for some more time as he inched toward the rift, “Yeah. Did you know he was like that? A Breathing-Metal? And you... who are you?”

The hooded figure kept his face hidden but spoke while leveling his shotgun at Dante, “I am the one who orchestrated the events before your rise. You may call me... hmm... It is Friday, no? You can call me Friday, then. It is the last one you’ll ever see.”

Dante’s eyes widened, and he stumbled back, unable to believe the information. As Friday squeezed the trigger to his weapon, Dante backstepped. Yet flesh remained slower than steel.

Supersonic pellets entered the air, but a body slammed into Dante, preventing his death. Before the human knew it, space distorted, and he was within the Lightsea for a split second.

A moment later, however, he fell to the ground on the opposite side of the Inferose with Eight beside him. Dante furrowed his brows while the boy spoke through gushing blood, “Fuck... The damn rift is messing with my Stigma. Help me get us to the crack! We can fight later!”

Dante scoffed, hating how wishy-washy Eight was, but he didn’t groan or refuse. Hesitation meant death with the enemy before them. While lifting the youth’s body with a heave of effort, the human threw the mangled Anomaly onto his back.

The two faced Friday, a complete unknown, as one unit in the time it took for only one drop of the sand from an hourglass to fall. Eight whispered again into Dante’s ear with an order, “Whether we live or die is up to you, human. Don’t fuck this up.”

Again, Dante exhaled with humor, only to be forced into a sprint while Friday lunged toward him, rushing around the rift to aim his shotgun. Dante and Friday raced against each other, but Dante was unfortunately too slow. He might have kept up at his peak, but with his fatigue, he could not.

Another bullet resounded, and Eight clenched his eyes, brute-forcing a teleport, only to fail with a backlash that left his right eye bleeding in a torrent. He was losing too much blood and was far too close to another dimension to assert his dominion over space.

Without his aid, Dante fell to the ground as his waters failed to halt the lead, and his right knee shredded. The augments within kept it together, but just barely. Worst yet, inky black lingered around where the pellets landed. Friday approached with a snap of his fingers, “And that is how you use a Tide, boy.”

Immediately, the pitch-black substance detonated like an explosive, blowing Dante’s leg right off. The human howled in pain, flooding blood over the now-crimson grasses. Eight leaped from his cover and crawled toward the Inferose, abandoning Dante without reluctance.

He made it a single step before the shotgun twisted toward him.

However, Dante’s fate with a deceased Eight was clear. So, through the haze, he contorted his forefinger and middle finger together. Despite the agony that racked his body, he ignored the bloodshed and forced the Lightsea to obey.

And just this once, Dante saw a phantasmal hand wrap around his, identical in every way yet possessing a foreboding warning, “Get to that damned rift, human.”

A compressed spout of Hydro emerged from Dante’s fingers, plowing right into Friday’s shotgun. As a hole ripped through the weapon’s handle, it fled his grasp. Surprisingly, the gun remained intact as it slammed into the ground tens of feet away.

Dante, however, understood as he saw a beating heart within the weapon’s innards, gradually repairing the damage. It was like Claudius’ Executioner. The realization only solidified his decision even while worry budded regarding Judas within his mind. Dante wasn’t sure if the show of power was from him alone or if Judas had truly aided him.

The being loved to mess with his mind, and it was worsening.

Nonetheless, Dante bought Eight the time to scramble toward the portal. Friday sneered, waving his hand toward the young man as needles of blackened pitch flew from his hand. Before it could reach the Breathing-Metal, a flurry of icy knives met them.

An explosive ring of steam shot out from the collision, and Dante coughed, feeling blood rise into his mouth from his burnt lungs. Despite his wounds, however, he crawled as swiftly as he could with the smoke to obscure him.

Inch by inch, he felt as though he was approaching the Inferose’s entrance. He even sensed some kind of force pull him closer, only to sputter and fail part of the way through its first tug.

Unfortunately, the steam did not last for long. When it dispersed, Dante found Friday holding Anomaly 888 by the throat in the air.

The young man kicked and fought with all his might, conjuring icy knives to stab into the hooded figure. None of the daggers pierced flesh from Friday’s rough poncho and Eight’s lack of force. Missing half his neck and liters of blood had weakened him significantly.

“You were tricky, Anomaly 888. Thankfully, I had your report. Otherwise... I would have simply shot at you with my Tide on my bullets. But you’d have sensed that a mile away. Swathes of potential, but few geniuses ever see their peaks. Not everyone is Vicar or Yarnen,” Friday spoke softly as he reached his other hand forward, his weapons already vanished into his clothes.

His fingers delved into Eight’s insides through his opened chasm of a throat. Meanwhile, the boy screamed into the skies, curling his hands and toes from the torture. His legs kicked with panic while his arms tugged at the hand inside him.

While the two stared at each other, a group of wraiths leaped past them, plunging into the boundary of the Inferose. Like entering an illusory film, they vanished five feet from the tear in space without a trace.

Friday didn’t seem affected by the boy’s panic or the wraiths, instead casually speaking through the torment as if deep in thought, “Hmm... He appears to be a true Breathing-Metal, not just a twisted Tekpriest-Cellsong monster. And one with a genuine soul. But... how? The experiments all failed centuries ago. Even the humans couldn’t perfect it.”

To Dante’s dismay, another voice resounded from a device on Friday’s hip. It was cruel, methodical, and demanding as it interrogated the boy, “Where are you from, Anomaly 888? Who made you?“

The three final syllables left the communicator with a wealth of power as if reality itself demanded an answer. This was the unknown voice’s Stigmata. Dante felt called to answer without being the subject of the consciousness.

Eight’s struggling ceased while blood continued to drip from his dangling feet. His eyes stretched down toward Friday, glaring at the man with thousands of miles of hate.

The Cryo spoke through the stranglehold, sputtering with each word, “Go... Fuck... Yourself...”

A sharp laugh came through the communicator as it seemed to crackle, “Haha! Geas doesn’t work on machines... very well. Kill him. The Inferose is the goal, anyway. I’ll be done with Elize and the rest shortly.”

Friday twisted his wrist, and Dante overlooked as Eight’s neck cracked, the remnants of it contorting until his spine jutted out from the back to the open air of his collar. Immediately, Eight’s attitude and arrogance vanished, leaving only an unfeeling corpse.

That half-metal carcass struck the dirt a moment later, joining the scarlet that had stained it.

Dante was stunned. In such a short time, Anomaly 888 was dead. The human’s eyes froze on the boy’s unmoving pupils. But as he stared for a few seconds, he noticed an oddity.

Eight’s irises were rolling. After a brief squint, Dante witnessed something unbelievable. Eight was spelling out something with his eyes, writing quickly with their movements. They said, “Run.”

The fellow wasn’t lifeless yet, but he was close to it. His strange constitution must have kept him alive. Dante wanted to heed his decree, but he couldn’t.

Friday was too strong. Even if he weren’t fatigued, Dante would likely face death at Friday’s hands. So, the man could only talk his way out, “What are you doing? Can I join? Surely you’d want a human among you?”

Desperately, Dante pleaded, all the while crawling toward the rift. Friday saw this. He didn’t care.

His shotgun raised again with a few choice words, “No. We don’t need you.”

Yet before his gun could pull the trigger, a body slammed into him while steam wafted off the figure. Dante’s eyes gaped in astonishment as he saw Saerer, the Anathema he had left behind, shout for him with mangled words, “Goh! Ante!”

The Anathema had done the unthinkable, bringing Dante’s memory back. He had walked away from her against his will. Why? How? How did that happen?

Dante’s mind roiled with fury toward Judas, but he couldn’t shift his attention toward the laughing figure.

Saerer had sprinted through the danger, utterly ignoring the damage the illusions would do to her and her mind. It was as if...

She was prepared to die.

But why? Why would she give her life for him? In her eyes, he must have left her to die.

More gouts of heated steam left her form, filling the air as she howled in anguish, a gunshot resounding. Then, a secondary explosion followed.

Dante had little time. So, he picked himself up with what he could and hobbled with all the speed a cripple could muster. Seconds later, he reached the boundary of the rift, passing right by Eight.

He considered dragging the Cryo with him, but he knew he couldn’t. He was too heavy.

Dante had to leave him.

So he did. The boy wasn’t part of his crew. Dante stretched out his arm toward the Inferose’s entrance as he shambled. Meanwhile, Friday kicked Saerer’s teeth in, knocking her unconscious with the heated, steamy blood of a Dirge hemorrhaging out of her.

Dante stood within the five-foot range of the rift, where Geist’s phantoms had vanished, but he didn’t disappear. Something kept him from stepping through. It was some sort of film, like a barrier over his flesh.

He couldn’t comprehend why.

Friday came closer, dashing toward Dante with incredible speed, something he had only seen from Eight’s teleportation. A cleaver sang for Dante’s neck, yet it never reached his flesh.

The bearer vanished from the warped space before landing his killing blow. Friday had no choice but to use a blade so close to a dimensional rift. Who knew what would happen to a bullet at one?

Nevertheless, it cost him his kill.

Dante exhaled a sigh of relief. His whole body relaxed, and he collapsed. But as he fell from his singular leg, the voice that had always been inside him came from outside, “There we go. Time to stop hiding.”