The Lady of Ash didn't allow herself to feel the anger that echoed in her soul. Witnessing an elf call upon the power she so desperately craved stirred a powerful fury within her – but also an even stronger fear.
"When you're caught within a Genius Realm," Ciro had once told her, "you become subject to their rules." The Emperor kindly helped her to her feet, flashing her a friendly smile that she was undeserving off. "Do not give your opponent the opportunity to entrap you. Otherwise, you may as well have strolled into a Lord's Realm like a fool."
"I will never," Ernanda promised. "But if I am facing a Genius in combat, how can I prevent the worst from coming to pass?"
Ciro's response came in the form of a wicked grin and two short words.
–KILL THEM! thought the Lady of Ash, BEFORE THEY FINISH CONSTRUCTING THEIR REALM!
She readied her scythe, taking just a moment to analyze Solara of Gama.
It was immediately clear that the elf's Genius Realm was unlike any that Ernanda had witnessed before. Most others of its kind were translucent, near-invisible spheres. Instead, this Realm was hued with a cannibalistic white that seemed to devour the colors around it, refusing to be shaded darker by even the sun. Every one of its exposed sides was comprised of equally blinding white, as if the very shadows could not touch it.
It isn't complete, Ernanda observed. The half-sphere has started emerging from the ground, but she's too slow – it's not fully closed. Her Realm shouldn't be active yet–!
There was a blur of motion.
In one single move, the Lady of Ash decapitated the elf.
Ernanda's heart soared with joy as the head of a so-called Genius was separated from its neck. How dare you act so arrogantly towards your superiors, criminal!
Arrogance was a sin the Hangwoman could not forgive, as it and modesty were both guilty of the same evil – lying about one's place in the world. She knew hers, and so should everyone else.
Which was why she didn't assume the fight was over just yet.
By my count, Solara of Gama should have one more Resurrection use, Ernanda thought. And she can delay her return for nearly a minute. Can't let her catch me off-guard with it. Even if she comes back, it shall be a fruitless endeavor. Rising from the dead won't mean a thing if her Canvas remains as Stained as it was before...and it will.
Although the wretched creature could heal from any injury upon returning to life, the same could not be said of her Canvas – else she would have no limit to using her Talent. And now that she's failed at constructing her Genius Realm...she has nothing left.
So fast were the Hangwoman's thoughts, and so swift her scythe, that she considered all of this before Solara's head had even touched the ground.
It was precisely because of this speed that Ernanda failed to react when the white Genius sphere continued to envelop them both. She figured that the Elf's Canvas hadn't realized its own body was dead yet. Surely, it would stop expanding within a second or two.
But it didn't.
HAVE TO ESCAPE– Ernanda managed to think, though that was all she managed to think. In spite of its dead Genius, the white Sphere's expansion suddenly picked up speed, enveloping the two in a white void of nothing.
Solara's Realm was now fully constructed.
Ernanda was only fast enough to uselessly slice at the Realm's Walls, cursing as her struggles came up empty. "Are you proud of yourself, baseborn whore?" With a screaming fury, The Lady of Ash turned to face Solara's corpse. "You'll still die no matter what ability your Talent–"
It was here that she realized that there was no sign of the elf. In that featureless white void, the Lady of Ash was alone. Completely alone.
She didn't let it lull her into a false sense of security. Ernanda gripped her scythe ever tighter, ready for the trap to spring.
This is your Genius Realm – even if it's smaller than a Lord's Realm, the rules are different. It's like your own twisted universe where you make the laws. Can't assume that you're really gone just because I can't see you. You're hiding somewhere. I know it. I can feel it.
"You think I'll let my guard down?" Ernanda barked out. "Attack me if you must, but do not insult me, knife-eared wench spawned from the gutters! I know that you're waiting for me to show an opening before unleashing your Talent!"
Her scythe decisively cut through the air. "And that will not happen. I can wait for as long as you want."
Ernanda had been trained as a soldier and awoken as a Hangwoman. She had the discipline to remain still and the power to force her body to obey. Her attention would not wander, no matter how much time passed.
The Hangwoman readied herself, anticipating the attack that was to come. She was already devising dozens of possible countermeasures, standing patiently as she waited.
And waited.
And waited.
It was only when fifteen minutes had passed – and a voice rang in the void – that she started to suspect that something was wrong..
THE UNIVERSE BEGINS NOW.
The voice came from nowhere and everywhere. It bounced off the Sphere's walls, it echoed at her, it emerged from within her gut, it exploded from inside her skull and outside her ears.
It sounded like a man. It sounded like a woman.
It sounded young. It sounded old.
It sounded like every voice there was. It sounded like every voice there had been. It sounded like every voice that there would be.
What...is this? Ernanda lowered her Scythe hesitantly. Could it be that she's not waiting to attack me?
First, she dismissed the notion. It would be an inconceivable act of cowardice to wield a power like the Genius Realm yet refuse to engage in battle.
Second, she accepted it as the truth . Solara was a blasphemer who questioned the Emperor's divinity. Bravery was not a quality their kind was known for.
"So that's your plan?" Ernanda laughed in disbelief. "You realized you couldn't beat me, so you ensnared me in this little Realm of yours?"
Without so much as a breath in-between, her laughter switched from amused to disgusted. "Pathetic. You think you've got me trapped, elf? As if these Walls can hold me!"
The Lady of Ash cleared her Canvas and painted it on her weapon. A strong enough Talent can shatter a Realm. There's a reason why even Lords fear the Emperor. Valente himself destroyed a Puppet's Realm in order to vanquish their mountain heretics.
And in the improbable case that Solara's Talent was Ranked higher than her own, Ernanda still possessed a unique ability. Her Talent of Hanging manifested as the passage of time. That which she touched grew old and turned to ashes within seconds.
Even a Realm's Walls would eventually collapse before her power.
It was because of this peculiarity that she was among Ciro's favorites. This was the foundational core of her pride – the full extent of her abilities, without modesty or exaggeration.
And it was exactly why she felt so unsettled when the Genius Realm failed to shatter.
"Die!" Ernanda screeched. "Fall apart! Begone!"
She attempted to collapse it with her Talent – nothing. The sands of time appeared unable to harm the Sphere enveloping her.
Next, like any other high ranking Hangman would, she tried breaking through with pure violence. Ernada swung her scythe desperately, imagining that each strike was decapitating the elf all over again.
Which seemed to show more results...on the surface. Although at times it felt like the white walls had nearly cracked, Ernanda was too experienced a warrior to fall for that illusion. The threat of breaking meant her Rank was close to being high enough, but not quite.
Solara was likely one or two Ranks below her, but shattering a fully-constructed Realm generally required being several Ranks above it.
I probably just need one more Rank, Ernanda thought, with no small measure of annoyance. How many Orbs do I have?
3,940,781.89. The amount needed for her next Rank was…
3,940,781.93.
I'm...four Orbs short. She cursed the misfortune. Are you seriously going to keep me out of this fight because I am only four miserable Orbs short? That's the price of a goddamn loaf of bread!
Ernanda sat down and sank her head into her hands, the depth of her mistakes gradually dawning on her. She had ignored directed orders and gotten herself trapped in the enemy's Realm – behind enemy lines.
Valente would never let her hear the end of it. Ugh. I can already hear his lecture.
The thought of having to face him after this, the shame and disgrace of being caught by such an inferior opponent...well, it was enough that she was almost thankful the Realm was still up. It gave her time to collect herself.
"I can't believe I screwed up this badly," she muttered to herself. "So be it, then. Once I'm out of here, I'll kill the Elf, and His Holy Highness will forgive me."
A touch of sudden fear ran through her. What if Ciro didn't forgive her?
"He, he forgave Valente," she argued. "And his mistake was far worse than mine. Valente killed innocents, allowed the Pretender to escape – started this damned war, if you think about it! And Emperor Ciro showed his magnanimity by granting mercy. He won't hold this small mistake against me."
But Valente is his favorite, a treacherous voice said in her head. You know he'll never care for you as much as he cares for him. He has far less use for you...in many different ways.
"His Highness will come!" Ernanda shouted aloud. Shame filled her as she realized the treacherous, faithless thoughts that she'd let sneak into her mind. "I will not doubt His Highness! No, not ever!"
And so, five hours passed.
The Hangwoman was beyond panic – she was baffled. Even if the Emperor was furious with her, he'd want to execute her himself, wouldn't he?
And of course, even that was impossible. He would never abandon her, let alone want to kill her, just...well, just that he would do the latter before the former.
The fact he hadn't shown at all started to fill her with concern for a possibility. A possibility that she tried and failed not to think of.
What...what if the Pretender won the war, and I'm a prisoner?
Ernanda didn't want to believe it, but her present circumstances were difficult to interpret otherwise.. If the Pretender had won, he could have ordered the elf to keep her entrapped in the Genius Realm. It was the only prison that could keep her, after all, and even that would only last until she freed herself.
"The first thing I'll do when I've escaped is find four miserable Orbs and increase my Rank," she grunted, "so that this Elf can never waste my time like this again!"
Her freedom would come soon, naturally. The Emperor would pay any price to retrieve one of his Hangmen. And...and even if he wouldn't...though of course, of course he would...the Elf will have to undo her Realm at some point. She surely must be near her limit.
Maybe, the Hangwoman thought, there would be a chance to kill the Elf as soon as her Realm was undone. Ernanda could claim that she didn't know of any peace negotiations – it should be a sufficient enough excuse.
The thought was comforting. It brought a smile to her face.
Just you wait, Solara of Gama.
And so, three days passed.
How?
How could it be that no one had rescued her yet?
"LET ME GO!" Her screams were meant for no one, she knew, but they came out regardless. "I SURRENDER! I AM YOUR PRISONER!"
After many desperate pleas and just as many useless attacks against the Realm that would never fucking shatter, Ernanda made a grievous lapse of judgement. During her experimentations with the Realm, she stumbled upon a truth that she'd wished to avoid.
She wasn't hungry.
Nor was she thirsty.
Even sleep felt unnecessary. She only knew how much time had passed because her sharpened Hangman senses kept track – regardless of her wishes.
It was also the reason why her Talent hadn't succeeded in turning the Genius Realm's Sphere to ash.
"Time...time doesn't flow here," she realized. Somewhat. That was true to an extent, but the essence of the Elf's Genius Realm lay elsewhere.
The Palace of Eternal Life, the Elf had called it.
Death did not exist here.
This was a universe before death, before life, before time.
"I'll never get hungry. I'll never get thirsty. And my Talent, that which accelerates death...cannot accelerate zero. A thousand times nothing will not ever reach 'one', no matter how many times I try it."
This thought inspired her with hope rather than despair.
If this deathless land flowed without time, there were two options. Either time flowed so differently outside that the battle against the Pretender was still ongoing, or time flowed exactly the same.
One option meant her Emperor hadn't given up on her. The other meant that even if His Highness was having difficulty reaching her, she wouldn't die of starvation or thirst.
I can wait and show him my loyalty, the Lady of Ash thought, a nervous smile touching her face. This horrible experience will be a lesson not to be so careless in the future. Nothing more. And His Highness will be oh-so-delighted when he realizes that – even after days inside here – my loyalty never once faltered!
And so, three months passed.
Ernanda cried, blaming herself.
It must've been because of the time she offered herself up as a prisoner to the Pretender. His Highness was justifiably furious at her for it. This was her punishment.
"Forgive me," she cried. "Forgive me, and grant me freedom, please! His Highness! Ciro! Save me!"
There was no answer. No soothing voice of absolution. No furious scream of condemnation.
Only the stark whiteness of the void reflected back at her.
And so, five months passed.
The Lady of Ash was now intimately familiar with the 91.3 square feet that comprised the Genius Realm. Enough so to be absolutely certain of those measurements.
No inch of that featureless, shadowless, and unshaded white void looked different from any other. Yet she had designated each corner with a specific purpose regardless, marking them with torn cloth from her robes – because what did she need that for now?
Ernanda even went so far as to name them according to how far they were from the center of the room. It was easy enough when she knew the Realm's radius was 5.37, and had all the time in the world.
One corner she designated as her sleeping space. Routine is important. It will keep me sane. To the left of that, at 12.5 to 40.2, was the exercise corner. Continuing clockwise was the largest area, the living room, where she engaged in the highlight of her day:
Friendly discussions with her roommate.
Scythe, of course, had his own room – albeit smaller than hers.
Ernada had started it as a self-deprecating joke. At first she'd needed to imagine its responses, the exercise serving to occupy her thoughts when little else would.
But the human mind adapts quite well to its own madness. She soon found great comfort in speaking to Scythe. Envisioning its responses became easier with every passing week.
Until its voice no longer came from her.
"Food's burnt," Scythe said to her over dinner one day. "I'm cooking tomorrow."
"Ah well, I suppose I can wait," she remarked. They didn't actually have food, nor did they get hungry, but Scythe had convinced her that mimicking the act would bring her peace. And bless him for it. "Ciro will rescue us soon. What's the first thing you want to do when we're out of here, my friend?"
"Kill the Elf," he grunted, in a metallic voice. Scythe had always been taller than her, but now that she sat across from him – while he was forced to stand – he practically towered over her. "But you have to know...Ciro isn't going to rescue us. No one is, mind you, but especially not him."
"Don't say that!" Ernanda shouted, looking around as if afraid that someone had heard him. "We're loyal to him, and he's loyal to us. It's...it's how it is. That's our place in the world!"
Scythe said nothing this time, merely staring at her with open judgment and pity. It nearly drove her to apologize right then and there.
She hated when he stayed quiet.
And so, seven months passed.
Ernanda was inconsolable. She was crying, and Scythe couldn't make her feel better. His warnings that tears were beneath her – that they stripped her of her dignity as a Hangwoman – were unable to keep her from breaking down.
"Anyone...I beg you...Elf, Pretender, Ciro...help me. Help me."
When her tears were the loudest, she couldn't even hear Scythe's voice anymore.
Hell, not even her own.
And so, two years and five months passed.
Stolen from its original source, this story is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.
Ernanda had fallen smoothly into her daily routine. Now her smiles were frequent and bright.
She'd started sleeping on a pillow made of her leftover clothes, which was comfortable compared to how the white void felt against her neck. Well, she couldn't really sleep, but she pretended to.
Having time to wind down and relax...that's just sleep, isn't it?
She also made sure to exercise regularly. It kept her active and prevented her muscles from atrophying. If she were ever to be freed, she wanted to be in good condition for her celebration or punishment.
But her favorite part of the day came at what she deemed nighttime. Until recently, her mind had been skirting the cliff of madness, her boredom infecting her like a fungus. There was hardly anything to do, anything to think about – not even so much as a book to read!
Fortunately, that was when Scythe proved to be a fantastic storyteller.
"I can spin a new tale for you every day," he promised. "I'll keep you happy, entertained...and sane. That's what friends do for each other."
He told her many, many stories, each better than the last.
One of her favorites was of a young girl. The girl's entire family had been unfairly jailed by a town lord, condemned to hang for treason.
Scythe spoke vividly of what happened thereafter: the dashing young prince who rescued her from the gallows, cutting ropes with his own blade and promising her, "You will suffer alone no longer. Rather, you shall inflict suffering upon those knaves alongside me."
The Prince extended a gentle hand to the hesitant girl, smiling handsomely as he pulled her up to her feet and close to his chest. "Let us exact revenge together."
The girl awoke to powers she could never have dreamed of. Her Prince guided her hand and steadied her nerves, until at least she had achieved vengeance for her fallen family.
Shortly thereafter, the woman left for the capital city with the handsome Prince, pledging her life to her savior. She sharpened her skills and began attending church for the first time since childhood – this time praying not to invisible, silent gods, but instead to the divine being that had actually answered her prayers.
It was a familiar story to her, somehow, though she could not recall quite where she'd heard it.
Another thing that made it her favorite story was that Scythe often changed up the ending. Sometimes the woman would marry her savior and rule as Empress by his side. Sometimes she would be content to quietly watch over his divine rule.
Occasionally she even suffered a tragic yet noble death. Her sacrifice would inspire people across the Empire for generations to follow, the woman always remembered for her unyielding strength and unflinching loyalty.
Very rarely, however, her friend would offer a...different sort of ending.
"...And then she was trapped for the rest of eternity, abandoned and forgotten even by her fellow Hangmen. Even by her savior."
"No!" Ernanda stood up in protest. "You – stop! Her Handsome Prince would never do that! He saved her! He saved so many others! The day he became Emperor was when hope shone brightest for the world, it was...it was..."
She decided not to speak with Scythe for a bit after that.
She didn't speak to anyone for months after.
And so, seven years passed.
I...I'm sorry.
Ernanda came to the conclusion she had hoped to avoid. It was both a betrayal of the Emperor's trust and an admittance of her weakness. Doing so would rob her of the dignity she had earned by serving His Imperial Highness.
But she'd reached a point where she didn't care about that anymore.
Pride, honor, dignity, strength, weakness, righteousness, evil...they all felt like distant thoughts. I am nearing the end of my sanity. I...I don't even know how I endured this long. Is it my Talent? Is it this place? Don't know...don't know...
Ernanda studied her precious corners of the void, bidding them one last farewell. She remembered the thousands of dinners she'd had with Scythe – the incredible meals he could prepare.
Although they couldn't compare to the stories he wove, those riveting tales of good and evil, right and wrong, love and loss...even if the two of them sometimes forgot important details such as characters, or what they were doing at any given time.
And of course, had it not been for her precious exercise corner, surely she would lack the physical strength to do what needed to be done now.
"You're sure?" Scythe asked, in a hesitant, almost pleading tone. "Maybe we should wait one more day. Perhaps Ciro will come."
She shook her head with a somber air about her. "We've been delaying this for at least a year now. I...I can't do this anymore."
Her outstretched arm trembled. "But I can't do it alone. Please...help me escape."
There was a silence.
"As you wish," said Scythe, extending its wooden handle toward her.
"Thank you," she stuttered out. "For always being there for me...not just here. Even before Ciro. You were the only one who was there for me from the very beginning. Thank you."
"I will always be with you," Scythe promised. "Always."
Despite herself, Ernanda hesitated. "But...won't you be lonely? I can't just abandon you here. You'll–"
"Don't worry about me," he insisted. "It will be fine."
She watched his sharp metal end reflect her smile. Until the two of them were truly happy.
Then she cut off her own head in one stroke.
Less than a second later, it was attached to her body again.
"Huh?" Ernanda touched her neck. She was unharmed. "I...did I feel fear and hesitate at the last second?"
Once more she tried, and once more she was met with the same result. A terrifying thought started creeping into her mind. No. No. It can't be. That – that would be too cruel!
Slowly, she used Scythe to slice an artery rather than cut off her neck entirely. I'm bleeding, she observed, watching as the red flowed freely. I'm dying.
And then she wasn't.
There wasn't even a sign of the blood anymore.
"NO! NO, NO, NO, NO, NO!" Ernanda fell to her knees and cried out to the encompassing white void. "PLEASE LET ME DIE!"
But no matter what prayers she offered – no matter to whom – she was only met with silence.
The Palace of Eternal Life would never let her go.
"Everything will be fine," Scythe tried to console her. "I'll be with you. Always."
And so, 70 years passed.
The Woman had achieved a measure of peace within chaos.
Ernanda – was that her name? It felt alien, now – didn't even dare to stand up anymore. It had been eight years since she'd last exercised, and around two since she'd spoken aloud.
The rare times she wanted company, she would speak to Scythe telepathically...although she didn't know why she could hear his thoughts. Rather odd, that.
It took an unexplained sound to force her to move.
"What was that? Who – who was that?" The Woman slowly looked around, her head turning like a creaky gate that hadn't been opened in ages. "I wasn't expecting anyone today!"
She did have visitors on occasion. Not often, but sometimes Valen(was that his name?) would show up to mock her for something she didn't understand. Other times someone she thought to be herself (she couldn't be certain) would be the mocking visitor.
This time, to her horror, the source of the sound hadn't come from inside her mind.
It was Scythe.
"S-Scythe, no! Please, no!" The Woman stumbled towards him, her body as fit and healthy as the day the void first greeted her, but her mind unaccustomed to the simple motion of walking. "You – you can't!"
"I'm fine," he grunted back. "Didn't want you to worry. This is nothing."
But she knew he was just playing tough.
His wooden handle had snapped in two. Even in the dryness of the void, Scythe was deteriorating. Wood decayed, and metal turned to rust.
I can't die...time won't affect me. But everything else...
The Woman bitterly thought back to the day she discovered her immortality – and to what Scythe had told her then. You liar. You...you won't be with me forever.
You'll leave me too.
And so, one hundred and eleven years passed.
There were days where she was more lucid than others. She hated those days.
Her only comfort was that they grew rarer and rarer each time.
On this particular day, she was lucid enough to tell that her scythe's handle had completely fallen apart, but not lucid enough to feel too emotional about it. Glad it happened today. At least this way I can shield myself from my imaginary losses.
What else was there to spend her sanity on? Reflecting on her miserable life she'd lost?
The funny thing is that, right now...I'm not even angry at the...was it an elf? Woman? Man? Whichever. I can't even be mad at them anymore. Can't even feel sorry that I disappointed...
Who was it again?
Everything just seems so...minor.
So pointless.
With every day that went by, a tiny piece of her memories vanished into the emptiness.
And so, 249 years passed.
There was no sign of Scythe's wooden handle anymore. Just rusted, brittle steel that threatened to break if she touched it.
Her own clothes – that she'd used as a pillow, and to divide her house into sections – had long since dissolved. Eventually, inevitably, so would Scythe.
"Please," she begged, in a voice hoarse from disuse. "Stay a little longer."
Each year his metal didn't shatter was a small victory, like nursing a dying man. It was almost enough to delude herself into thinking that he would remain by her side forever.
But time was a crueler reaper than she had ever been.
And so, 1398 years passed.
Scythe died that day.
She couldn't even muster the sentiment to cry for it. The other friends that her mind had created already perished long ago, using up all her tears then.
Even so...this loss managed to draw upon the last of her emotion, scraping moisture from a dry well.
Goodbye, my friend, my mentor, my protector, my everything.
Goodbye, myself.
And so, 50 thousand years passed.
Every few thousand years, she would remember that she was still alive, feeling a deep sense of dread that refused to leave.
She wanted to scream, but her throat had long forgotten how.
And so,
1 billion years passed.
She hadn't been conscious for some time now, only aware of things as the haziest of dreams.
But somehow, from within that magical cruel void, and from the corpses of her fallen friends, a microscopic newcomer had come into existence.
Not an invader.
Not a visitor.
Something new born from the old. An infinitesimal form of life.
For the first time in thousands of years, a new thought came to her.
Curious.
And so, three and a half billion years passed.
The microscopic life evolved, but not into what she was accustomed to. Stick figures that were tiny and two-dimensional – yet somehow as alive as any animal – grew from her unmoving leg.
And so, three billion, eight hundred thousand years passed.
Slowly, the stick figures evolved further, though she could not tell into what. The creatures looked thinner than coins and smaller than pebbles, appearing to multiply asexually. They were faceless, some bipedal, and some not.
Eventually they constructed trembling temples on her left knee. Absent of competition, the stick figures flourished.
This continued until another settlement of two-dimensional beings attacked. It seems they had been living behind her back, which she hadn't known at the time.
The two settlements warred, killed, and grieved. She could not understand their language – did not even know if they had one – but she felt their grief nonetheless.
And so, five billion years passed.
The evolving civilization had discovered the secret to three-dimensional travel. Alas, their bodies weren't suited to it. Still they tried and tried, determined to navigate the third dimension, driven by an unfathomable motive to achieve an unknowable goal.
One day, they succeeded.
She watched with curiosity as a pair of stick figures climbed up her torso. They traveled for weeks, their journey taking them across inches of flesh. At long last they stopped in view of her face, speaking to her in a language she did not understand – a language she could not hear.
But from their fragile fear, she understood what they saw her as.
They're worshiping me.
And so, 7.3 billion years passed
She had nearly grown used to their visits by now. The stick creatures would often take pilgrimages to see her.
More often, many of them would die in three-dimensional space.
No matter how much time passed, or what technological advancements they devised, it seemed that their bodies could not survive there for long.
And so, 9 billion years passed
This pilgrimage came with a mild surprise.
The Stick Creatures, more distorted and two-dimensional than ever, approached her once more as they always had. But this time, they approached her with a strange device in hand...and they spoke her language.
That wasn't to say she could understand them. The specifics of language had fled mind her many eons past.
It took millenia of digging through buried memories to remember the words. And when the Stick Creatures at last attempted contact again...she answered.
Hello.
Their group bustled with activity and excitement. Holding up the odd little device, their leader's voice trembled as he spoke.
"Great Being! Oh, Great Being! We speak to you now through a translator. Our people seek your help!"
What do you want?
She still wasn't sure if she'd remembered the words correctly, but their device seemed to compensate. "A time of great crisis is coming. We have evolved greatly over the years, but..."
The leader hesitated. "But our technology has reached its limit."
"We foresee the end," another creature interjected, his voice close to a whisper.
The end?
"This universe...darkness will befall it soon. It will run out of energy. The Death of Heat approaches."
Oh.
Silence reigned. When it became apparent that she had nothing more to say, the leader spoke up again, his tone filling with encroaching dread. "We...we hoped you would know how to stop it."
I do not.
And so, 9 billion and one years passed.
Upon returning to their civilization with ill tidings, the creatures also brought back war and despair.
Soon enough, one by one, the fantastical empires and cities she had witnessed grow...all fell to ash.
With time, a new civilization rose.
It too fell.
Another rose.
I'm so tired.
And another.
It's so dark now.
And another.
I can't even see the white of the void anymore.
More died. More grieved.
Make...it...end...
Then.
The voice that was, the voice that had been, the voice that would be – echoed once again.
LET THIS UNIVERSE DIE!
–
Solara watched with uneasy fear as her Genius Realm shattered, revealing the Lady of Ash inside.
Hurry! the Ghost of Flames told her. Quick, while she's...disoriented...what is...
Words failed them both. They hadn't known what to expect when the Genius Realm ended, but whatever it was...it hadn't been this.
The Lady of Ash was laying still on the ground. Her scythe was gone, as were her clothes, for that matter. Despite that, the woman seemed unconcerned by her state of undress – or by anything else at all. She remained completely motionless, not even bothering to turn her head.
Solara recoiled as she spotted what appeared to be a milky residue growing on the Hangwoman's skin. A kernel of ambiguous terror started forming in the elf's stomach, but she shoved it down, reminding herself that this was war. If whatever happened had sapped Ernanda's will to fight, then that was a good thing.
"Lady of Ash!" she called out. "Do you surrender?"
Nothing.
No response. The Hangwoman didn't even blink.
Her eerie gaze lay thousands of miles – no, billions of years elsewhere.
What...what the hell did your Genius Realm do? The Ghost sounded uncertain if he even wanted his question answered. What was wrong with her?
"I...am unsure. I activated it, she killed me, and I came back a few seconds later. As to what happened inside of my Realm during those few seconds..."
Solara felt a chill go down her spine. "Not even I know."
Neither she nor the Ghost spoke further.
They merely watched as Solara's soldiers carried off a woman with eyes more lifeless than any corpse.