Just darkness and nothing else. It was not cold, nor was it warm. He stood, even though there was no floor to stand on. There was no breeze, even if the walls had just moments ago dissipated. There was no silence, even when there was nothing. He could hear it. It beat in his own chest; it flowed in his own veins, the sound of blood gushing from within.

A pulse. As if he had pressed both hands against his own ears. His own breath, one that began as slow and steady, one that was without a hint of panic or fear, quickened, and so did the pulse. Darkness and nothing else.

It flashed white again and again until a person could be seen, lighting a streetlight in the middle of the dark. Slowly, the world returned, and it formed around the person—a city now all too familiar to him. The person who had brought light to this world looked terrible; their eyes were sunken, and they were way too skinny for such a tall person.

They began to cough, and from their pockets came out an old tissue, one that was dark red. They coughed into it, and afterward, they looked at it for a while, grimacing as they returned it back to their pocket. Then they carried on, wobbling to a small alleyway, disappearing from Kanrel's sight.

He went after them, running past the only light source in sight, and turned right to the alleyway, only to find the person collapsed next to the wall, their face pale, their breath barely there, and their once green eyes visibly foggy. Soon, they stopped breathing, and from their lips, a dark liquid began dripping down. Blood.

Death. Just like that, right before his eyes, a person had died, and he could do nothing about it. He was not able to reach them before they died; he was unable to make contact with them; to ask, what had caused it.

He took a step back, prepared to leave, but could he just leave a body here? He tried to form a code and a fire to burn the corpse left behind. But the magic was not there for him to use. It was locked somewhere; somewhere he could not touch it, thus he could not use it.

He turned to leave, to return to the light that the person had produced before their untimely death. Only to be face-to-face with two people, both of whom had a varying degree of scales on their faces. One of them was quite small, but their eyes were callous and without worry, as they looked straight at the body that lay against the wall. The other just seemed bored, and they were the first to speak, “It was clear that he would die soon; they all die so quickly.”

The short one scoffed, “Yes, but the city needs its lights; so this is but a small price to pay for the comfort we all receive.” They stepped past Kanrel as if he were not there.

The other followed suit and soon kneeled over the body, examining it closely. “I’ve seen it so many times now, yet every time I wonder how it must have felt... You know… depletion…”

The short one shrugged, “Probably empty... Perhaps cold… This one seemed to cough blood as well. I find it curious that some of them do and others don't. Maybe there are different conditions that affect the symptoms of depletion.”

“For example, this one had much less magic than those who don’t cough blood before their death."

The other one shook their head and said, “I doubt it really matters, only that we might be able to figure out the ones that deplete first—makes collection much easier if nothing else.”

“Perhaps… Now let’s carry the poor bastard away from here, lest prying eyes take interest in our work.” The short one said, and with the help of the other, they lifted the corpse and began to carry it away.

Kanrel didn’t hesitate much and kept close to them, to see and find out where this person was to be taken and to find out who they were and who they worked for.

In the darkness of the city, one only illuminated by the occasional streetlights in the District of Iron; they walked among the grand buildings and the cramped streets, alleyways that often felt like they would end up in a dead end, only there to be continuation for it—another cramped alleyway, at times a larger street. There were no other people around, but that was no surprise, for it must have been the dead of the night, and those who lived and worked in the District of Iron had no time for late-night outings or drinking till the next morning.

Work was what was most important for most; without work, you have no money; without money, you have no food; without food, you starve; and starvation was for the poor. None wanted to be poor, yet more people were poor to a degree than anything else.

Along the way, the couple had some small talk, and through this, Kanrel learned of their names: Ragen Ornful, the shorter person, and Georg Cascadun. They mostly talked about life; Georg was married and had some marital issues with their significant other; and Ragen was a self-titled “solo for life,” who kept repeating throughout their conversation that marriages always ended as such.

Soon they stopped at an alleyway that had multiple storage facilities adjacent to it; many locked doors populated the walls that formed the alleyway. The couple placed the body next to one of the doors. And Ragen for their pocket; from there, with a muffled rattling sound that soon became clear, a keychain was brought out.

They carefully browsed through the keys until they found the correct one. “They really should upgrade the locks here; such a bother to keep carrying a dozen keys with you everywhere," Ragen muttered as he opened the door; it opened with a loud creak of the hinges.

“I heard that magical locks are more affordable these days... It makes you think about the working conditions of those who produce them; it must be hell.” Georg said, “But as you said before, it's a small price to pay for such comfort.”

Ragen scoffed, grabbed the corpse by its pits, and began dragging it in. “Put on the lights, will you?”

Georg went ahead and entered, with Kanrel following closely behind. Georg pressed something that was on the wall, and soon the rather massive storage room lit up, and Kanrel could now lay his eyes on a view that produced more questions than it gave.

There were barrels made out of metal everywhere; most were open and their lids stacked neatly on the ground; only a few of them had lids on top of them; there was a smell in the air, one that reminded him of something—something that he had smelled before.

The corpse was dragged in, and the doors were soon closed with another loud creak of the hinges. The body was then dragged to a barrel that was open, and with the help of Georg, they lifted it in, and soon smoke began to rise from the barrel.

Ragen quickly shut the barrel, placing a lid on top of it; they took from their other pocket a tissue with which they covered their nose and mouth; Georg did the same, and it was no wonder, for the smoke, either way, got out, but just less of it at a time, and the smell it produced almost made Kanrel puke. He lifted his shirt over his nose and took a few steps back.

Jared, flames, and his charred corpse polluted his mind; the smell that it had produced; cooked flesh; the smell of a dead human burned. It had become clear what this room was, what these barrels were used for, and what the job of the couple who had brought the body here was.

“I wonder when they’ll come pick up the full barrels. I never quite manage to see when they come to pick them up, nor do I have an idea of where they might take them." Georg said. Their voice was slightly muffled because of the tissue they held.

“I don’t think you want to know, and I don’t want to know either." Ragen scoffed. Somewhere beneath their tissue, a diabolic smile must have been present, as they soon said, “You know... The meat I’ve had for dinner for the past couple of days has tasted weird.

Georg glared at their co-worker. “Stop.” They just said as Ragen laughed diabolically, they went for the door, and Georg followed suit, but Kanrel remained. The doors opened and soon closed again; the light was out, and only he was left in the darkness. Left waiting for the aforementioned collector, those who were supposed to come and take the full barrels with them...

He didn’t go and turn on the lights; instead, he waited in the darkness. His mind going through the things that he had learned just now and before. Death was truly unfair, and life remained more unfair. Life was unjust.

What a ridiculous outcome! To work until death. Death? Truly, this world and this city are without things like justice and fairness. As if such things truly existed, other than as ideas that people chose to abide by when it suits them... And because of the selective nature of the Sharan, when faced with things that were certainly unjust, the two that he had just now followed seemed detached, callous, and uncaring for the person who had died before them. Perhaps toward the many that had become "depleted"...

Everything was built upon ideals; a city and its people live around them; they are built upon them. And to manage building a society that cares not for the ideals it has been built upon, it can only first falter, then fall, only to burn into ashes in the end. Such was the future that was promised for N’Sharan; such was the future that the Magi saw and then allowed to happen.

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N’Sharan… the city of our desires, our dreams, and our hopes, a city to hold it all in; all that produces corruption and apathy; so detached from reality are its rulers, the gods who do nothing to fix it or save it.

Destiny… What a ridiculous concept made by people to be used as an excuse for their own inability to do good—to change an outcome they have seen that they have helped to produce. A word used as an excuse to blame it instead of yourself for the mistakes that you have committed.

Kanrel scoffed in his lonesomeness. Who was he to criticize such a system and such an outcome? He was no more than another fool who couldn’t do anything about it, nor the many unrighteous things in the world—not just this world, but the reality from which he came.

He could not stop murder or evil. He could not save all, and at best only a few, and only if they wanted to be saved, only if he was there to save them. What can one man do about the evils of the world?

Surely goodness can win over evil only if everyone decides to do good and be good. Otherwise, those who wish to abuse and use, to take, and never give, will rule the world. What can anyone do? Ah…

Was this not what the visions wanted to show him? That the ending of this city was the only justice that it could have? That its violent ending would become the antidote for the corrupt system and its corrupt leaders? A war to be rid of the old, to burn it all, for the people to fight, to die by their swords and spears, just to vow that after, there’d be no more need for wars.

Just for them to build another city, another kingdom, one with new ideals—those that, in the end, aren’t much different from those that were before—so that it could all start again—the cycle of empires.

A war to birth peace. But will it? Will it ever be so simple? Won’t it all fail again? Won't the wrong people find their way above others so that they can abuse the system they helped create? Corruption would be born anew, it would return, and it would slowly rot it all from the inside.

Another beautiful, ripe apple, one soon rotten to the core.

Was there ever any hope for N’Sharan? Were the Sharan truly destined to become extinct? And by whom, by their own hands, their own magics, and their own rulers—the Angels, which he solemnly believed in, which he loved and worshipped...

Kanrel grimaced at himself and the thoughts that he now held—this doubt that grew with each experience and with each vision that was shown to him. They all sowed him with doubt; they all made him question what he believed in and what they all believed in. Everything that they had ever done, in the name of the Angels; everything...

Were the gods he believed in evil? Were they not benevolent, gracious, and just?

Kanrel almost spat; he almost cursed out loud; he almost gave in to his fury; for a moment, he had wished death for those gods that he so solemnly had prayed to.

But it was stopped, not by himself nor by his belief, but by a sudden light that began in the middle of the room and soon expanded to each corner of it. The room was now lit; the light was bright and beautiful, and it was all around. And from the center of it all, a lonesome figure became reality, as if their body became true, one molecule of their existence at a time. A figure who was covered with scales, a figure who had a deep yearning in their eyes, a bothered expression for a creature almost eternal.

With a relaxed movement of their right hand, the full barrels floated to them. They entered the center of the light produced by the creature, who, with now saddened eyes, accepted them. They soon voiced their thoughts out loud: “Perished, the lights in their eyes; they enter darkness, they enter death."

“What have we done to become what we are?” They asked none but themselves. In a sudden moment, the light intensified; it became almost physical; it was so bright that Kanrel could not see the barrels anymore; he could see nothing; the light had blinded him; it had made everything dark, even in its majestic brightness.

Then a wave of darkness flashed for a moment, the light dimmed, and before Kanrel, the barrels had lost their form; they did not exist anymore, not as they once had. Perhaps they were dust now, as were the bodies that had laid within.

The Angel still remained; their bothered eyes scanned their surroundings, soon finding Kanrel, who stood before them, no longer blinded by their light.

“An intruder? A face I cannot remember." The Angel sounded confused and was soon furious. “You must perish; our sins must not see the light of day." And with a raised hand that crumbled into a fist, Kanrel burned. He burned, and it hurt so much. He burned, and the brightness of the world became dark again.

He burned, and he was unable to die. He burned, and his screams filled the world, and for perhaps eternity, only his screams could be heard. Until it stopped, and his body collapsed into the darkness, becoming cold with it once more...

In the formless darkness, he lay. In the formless darkness, the only sounds that were heard were those that came from him. And even if he did lay, he could not be sure that he truly was lying down. He could be sitting down; he might even be floating, but there was no sensation as such, only the cold of the nothingness that had accepted him. There was no sensation to indicate that he was standing, sitting, or floating. Not anymore. The sensation that was before had dissipated.

In this darkness, one only has things that are within. Thoughts and feelings. Despair for what is to exist. What is it like to live this life that he has been given? To experience these visions, none of which were pleasant in any way.

Darkness. Could there not be anything else at all? Not another light produced by an Angel? A piercing light, something that would bring hope into existence. Something that would wake him from this darkness and lay him to rest in a house of warmth and joy. One that would free him from his own mind, from this world, from this prison, from these visions. He wanted to be free. To feel again, as he once might have. To never have made the decisions that had brought him here.

Someone to give him what he had lost and return it all to him. To become human once more.

Hope. Where lay hope? Where has hope gone? Where had it traveled, and why had it left him? When would it return, if ever?

Light… Return!

But it did not return. Instead, a whisper touched him, and within it produced a thought: death.

Was this death? Had he died? Had he so soon departed? Where was the end of thought? Why was he still allowed to suffer, to produce thoughts, to still yearn for those he loved, and to be filled with despair and torment for what he now lacked? If this was death, then this surely was the punishment for those who committed sin; for those who had murdered...

Hope. Why can't I feel it? Why can't I touch you? Why?

In the shadow of light, there is just darkness. And darkness is what covers all; it is what dominates all of existence. The stars are so dim, and the sun will never truly defeat the darkness of the world. Everything came from it, and everything will return to it. Everything was born from darkness, and the existence of light was just the lack of darkness.

There was no hope. There was no lasting light. There was no justice. There was no fairness. There was just nothing. It would all end up being nothing. Nothing.

Why must he be the one to go through all these cruel experiences? Why could it not be someone else? Anyone else?

“Stop, please make it stop!” He tried to scream into the darkness, but the darkness would not allow his voice to carry; it would not allow his voice to be heard; it would not allow for his anguish to have another form than that which was within.

He should give up. But then he’d be not much better than the Nine Magi, and in this darkness, there wasn’t anything that he could do. There was no continuation of the dream or the visions that were forced upon him. There was just this, which was nothing. This, which was most definitely death…

He tried to move, to kick, to hit, and to headbutt within the nothingness, but nothing would happen. He was motionless, just part of the darkness and nothing else.

He tried to cry, but there were no tears to be shed for this waste of what had become his life, for this experience was no different from death. And what of his family—his friends or those who he had lived within the village? Would they remember him? Would they miss him? Would they cry for him? He would not return. If this was death, then there was nothing that would come after. There was nothing that would exist ever again—just these thoughts that would float around in his mind, these thoughts that would not leave him, of which he could never get rid of, which would plague him evermore.

Hope? Was there truly no hope? Was there nothing at all? Just this?

Nothing.

...

Must you be so melodramatic? The Voice asked, their tone filled with amusement—a tone that had taken much pleasure in the blight of another.

Kanrel had no words to give, nothing good to say, and nothing else but terrible things to say to this unemphatic voice, this bastard, which was the source of his current pains—this voice that was nothing more than a bastard.

To be quite frank with you, I had not expected the Sharan of Light and Darkness to be able to see you, but they were always the one who saw more clearly than most. The Voice said and soon chuckled.

Kanrel remained silent.

Kanrel Iduldian, are you perhaps dissatisfied with me?

He remained silent.

The Voice chuckled once more and said soon after, “I have not had the chance to speak to another soul in perhaps eons—I cannot lie that I take much pleasure in this; so you must forgive my seemingly callous nature; I tend to forget that you aren’t as I am…

But then again, those who are as I am could never break my loneliness as you have. The Voice muttered.

Kanrel let out a long sigh. He closed his eyes, still in the darkness, and soon opened them again, only to find himself in a familiar room. His room; one that had his bed, one that had his desk, his cabinet, his wardrobe, his books, and his clothes. Everything that was his...

The room was the room in which he had lived his childhood. And if that were correct, this room was in his mother’s house, the Iduldian residence located in Lo’Gran, the capital of the known world.

A room where he had not slept in over a decade...