The wounded man looked at him. The man could feel his gaze, even though he had no eyes.

After a bit of silence on both parts, the wounded man spoke.

"I have a deal for you."

The man frowned. What was that weird man thinking?

"What type of deal?"

The wounded man coughed, a rattling sound like sand shifting in a hollow chest.

"I can give you a weapon. A cursed being like myself isn't much of a delicacy for the bastards of these lands, so I don't need it anymore. But you'll have to promise me something."

"Promise what?" the man asked, suspicion tightening his voice.

"You have to find the one who did this to me. The one who taught me this power. Curse him! A hundred years of solitude for learning this curse!"

The man said nothing at first, only studying the broken figure before him. Finally, he spoke.

"What did he do to you? What do you want me to do?"

The wounded man's lips curled into something like a bitter smile.

"He was the one that taught us the art of Realm Weaving. A traveling nomad, blessed with immortality. And in his supposed kindness, he gave us power." His voice cracked with resentment. "Look at me. Had I not had power, I could be in the sand with everyone else."

He let out a wheezing chuckle, but it held no humor.

"I want you to find him. And in whatever way you can, make him suffer. I'm sure the bastard is still alive somewhere."

The man contemplated the possibilities.

"What makes you think I'll be able to do that? Or what guarantees you that I will fulfill my promise?"

The wounded man exhaled sharply, a breath that almost resembled a scoff.

"You don't strike me as someone who walks away from opportunity," he said, voice hoarse yet certain. "Power in these lands is the only thing that lets you keep breathing. It can also be your doom though."

He reached into the folds of his ruined robes and pulled something free—a dagger. Its surface was blackened, the blade cracked as if it had been struck by lightning but refused to break entirely. The hilt was wrapped in faded leather. It emited a faint white glow when the wounded man touched it. It was warm.

"This is the last thing I have left," the wounded man murmured, turning the dagger in his fingers. "It's not just a weapon, it's what remains of me."

The man narrowed his eyes.

"And if I take it?"

The wounded man smiled—a cracked, dry, knowing smile.

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"Then you will carry my burden."

A pause. The air grew thick, heavy with unseen weight.

The man reached out.

And took the dagger.

It was warm in his hands. It felt comforting on a way, but too hot to grant relief. It seemed as of it had a great, boiling rage inside it.

The man took a step back, watching as the broken figure slumped against the stone, his breath like a death rattle. The empty space where the upper part of the face should have been seemed darker now, as though the absence itself was deepening, stretching beyond flesh and bone.

The wounded man was being absorbed somehow. But before he disappeared, he gave him a final warning.

"Be careful if you find him. The man who wronged me is dangerous, but he's probably far away. The dagger will know though. And it will guide you. "

The wounded man breathed in, and smiled. It was probably the first true smile he had done on a long time.

"Free at last"

The man looked. There was nothing left except the wall. He shivered, but he was slowly getting used to the unnatural occurences. He drew the dagger into its hilt and looked at the city to plan his next move.

Something about this place gnawed at his mind. The silence had weight, pressing in on him, making his own thoughts feel louder than they should be. The city was not abandoned. No, it was merely waiting.

He turned away from the wounded man's resting place and pressed forward, deeper into the maze of crumbling buildings.

Paths that should have led straight curved subtly, alleys stretched longer the moment he stepped into them. The ruined city pulsed with something unseen, an intelligence lurking beneath its shattered stones.

Then, a whisper.

At first, he thought it was the wind, but the voice was too deliberate, too close. It slithered into his ear as if spoken directly beside him.

A name... do you have one?

He stopped dead, pulse hammering. The air had thickened, humid despite the dry ruins. He turned his head, scanning his surroundings. Nothing.

Do you have one? the voice repeated, teasing, curious.

He clenched his jaw. He had no answer to give. He had woken in a cocoon of flesh, nameless, alone, and now...

A breath of warm air brushed against his neck. He spun around. There was nothing there.

A sharp creak echoed from above. His gaze snapped upward.

Atop a broken archway, something crouched.

It was humanoid in shape but wrong in every way. Limbs too long, fingers ending in delicate, curling tips like the legs of an insect. Its face was a smooth expanse of pale flesh, devoid of features except for a single slit where a mouth should be adorned with small sharp teeth. The creature's body shifted, twitching in small, rapid movements, like it was adjusting to his presence.

The whisper had not come from its mouth, yet he knew it had spoken.

You walk where others are forgotten. Why?

His throat was dry. He took a slow step back, fingers curling around the hilt of the knife at his side.

"I don't know," he admitted.

The creature cocked its head. A crackling sound came from its throat, something close to a laugh.

Then you will learn.

It leapt.

The man threw himself backward as the thing landed where he had stood, its limbs bending unnaturally to absorb the impact. Dust exploded into the air. The creature moved with a predator's grace, not attacking immediately but circling the man, its posture almost playful.

Your kind comes and goes through this place. Some stay longer than they should.

He drew his knife, keeping his breathing steady. "And what happens to those who stay?"

The creature twitched, its faceless head tilting.

They become a memory of the past.

The ground beneath his feet shuddered. The air grew heavier, like the weight of a thousand unseen eyes pressing against his skin. A realization struck him then—this city was not merely ruins. It was aware. And it did not like to be forgotten.

The creature lunged.

The man reacted on instinct, dodging to the side as the thing's elongated fingers swiped through empty air. He slashed out with his knife, aiming for its torso. The blade met flesh—

—And passed through as if slicing through smoke.

The creature let out a sound, not of pain, but amusement.

You are not ready.

Its form flickered, dissolving into the surrounding dust, vanishing as quickly as it had appeared.

The man staggered backward, his chest rising and falling in ragged breaths. The city was silent once more, as if nothing had happened.

But he knew better now.

The city was not dead.