Azrael found himself on the dusty ground for the fourth time since he had challenged Mors in frustration. The battle wasn’t half as fast paced as the one last night. That didn’t mean much for Azrael though. It just meant that the old man was going easier on him.

“Why?” Azrael asked, groaning as he rose.

“Why what?”

“Why are you going easy on me?”

Mors just lifted his eyebrow and opened his mouth to say something, before seemingly reconsidering.

“I am fighting you, am I not?”

“You are.”

“And have you landed a blow on me yet?”

Azrael’s silence was all the answer Mors needed.

“Since you do not find it easy to land a blow on me, I do not believe I have been going easy on you.”

Azrael remained silent, having risen and dusted himself off. He didn’t even look at Mors as he raised his stone blade towards the man.

“Again”

“Why?”

“AGAIN!”

Azrael charged, his daggers moving at extreme speeds, only to pierce empty space. Mors had swayed to the side, barely moving, yet avoiding both incoming blades. His own stick rapped Azrael gently on the head.

Azrael whirled around, his daggers once more flashing, as he pushed himself to the limits of his speed. Blades passed through air and once more the stick came down.

“Foolishness is trying the same thing over and over again and expecting a different result.” Mors said calmly “You fight without a plan, without a goal. Do you know what they call a fight with no plan, with no aim, with no goal? A brawl.”

He fixed his gaze on Azrael.

“Who are you and why do you fight?”

Azrael could only stare in disbelief. The words that had sounded so profound earlier, now only sounded like the ramblings of an NPC with a broken script. It was the fourth time he’d heard it today.

After being kidnapped from his own home, sent to the other side of the known world, sucked into some sort of alternate realm and beaten black and blue by an old man who was apparently the only broken NPC in the game, this was the final straw.

“I’M AZRAEL, LORD OF THE END FOREST! I WAS CAIN, THE MAD MAGE, THE CRAZED CRAFTER, I WAS THE DARKLORD, THE SLAUGHTERER OF THE BATTLEFIELD. I HAVE MADE ITEMS THAT BROKE WORLDS! I HAVE GIVEN GMS NIGHTMARES. I HAVE SENT THOUSANDS TO THEIR GRAVE WITH A WAVE OF MY HAND AND HAVE FOUGHT HORRORS AND ARMIES THAT YOU COULD ONLY DREAM OF AND I SURVIVED.”

Azrael was panting by now, his voice hoarse.

“Who are you?” Azrael asked weakly “To tell me what to do? To humiliate me? To question me? What right do you have?

For a long time the two of them stood there, one panting, one calm and composed. Eventually though Mors broke the silence, his words quite.

“There once was a man” he said, his voice not directed at anyone “who was gifted with the sword. He was a farm boy, of humble birth. He knew that his life would start and end like his father’s and like his father’s father before him, in the fields.

Yet, by some twist of fate he saved a wounded knight and as thanks was taught the way of the sword. The boy was fit and the boy was strong. Upon seeing the boy’s potential, the knight offered him a choice. The boy accepted, leaving his mother, his father, his village and his lover.

They begged him to stay, but he didn’t listen, because for once he was special, different, and he was proud. Perhaps too proud. As the years progressed he surpassed all his peers and eventually his instructors.

A call for help came from his village, but in his pride he dismissed them. He would not let them drag him down. The village was wiped out.

In grief he threw himself into his training, seeking to fill the hole in his heart. His station rose, from mere soldier to imperial knight captain and eventually a general. Upon his sword he swore his oath to the kingdom, to protect it with his life. He led soldiers into battle, brothers in arms and he gained a title, ‘The Silver Sword’. He was still proud though, chasing glory. His bothers paid the price, falling for his mistakes. One by one they fell, until he was truly left alone.

Bitter he left, abandoning his oath, his kingdom. Then, it all ended. The gods heeded his prayers for an end. It was not salvation though, but an eternal punishment. The world went white and the next thing he knew all that was left was a sea of clouds, endless, inescapable. It was his punishment from the gods, to have lost everything and bear that weight for eternity. The heights that he wished for, were his and hi alone, amongst the clouds.

He could neither die, nor leave. For his pride he lost his family, his home, his heritage, his village, his lover, his brothers and his kingdom. He was swayed by the words of others, he let them fill his head. In the end he could save nothing. All was lost, save his sword. He never touched a blade since.”

Mors just stood there silently, looking up at the clear blue sky, the vast endless roof of his prison. The way the sun fell on his face highlighted his many wrinkles, making him suddenly look old, old and tired. Neither of them spoke.

“Sometimes” said Mors, his voice bitter “it’s better to hold something tight and never let it go. Unless you want to lose it all.”

“How do I choose” Azrael asked his own tired seeping out of his bones. All the emotions he’d bottled up had spilled out, leaving him empty and exhausted.

“Sometimes you have to look inside, deep inside.”

With that he left Azrael alone on the dusty field and vanished through the curtains of his house. Azrael stared blankly at the swaying curtains for a moment longer before retreating back to his own abode, a small outhouse beside Mors’ humble shack. With a weary sigh he dropped ono his sleeping mat and stared at the roof.

Who was he?

Again, that question.

What did he want?

Compared to the previous question that seemed too superficial. Just because he wanted something it didn’t mean he could have it. Complaining about the weather wouldn’t make it change. It wasn’t within his power.

Azrael sat up and clenched his teeth. No. He would have that power. He would make it. In the hopes of an answer he pushed himself up and entered [Meditation], before falling deeper, into his soul. He didn’t call Sera. It felt wrong to break the silence.

Inside his soul realm his soul glowed brightly. Rays of light shone from his divine spark, illuminating skill crystals in an otherworldly light. His soul mist, serene, swirled in impossible forms. His soul was more… him. It was more him than the last time he’d been here. It wasn’t the play of light that changed the feeling. There was something more. As if his soul was, had, something more. It felt alive. Then he saw it.

Even as he peered through his soul mist, down towards the spark, it moved again. A black shadow against the light of the spark. He looked at it and it looked back.

Azrael found himself jolted out of his soul space. It happened as soon as their eyes met, if you could even call them that. The thing was almost formless, a shadow against the light. Though it had no defining features he could have sworn that their eyes met, that it had looked back at him. He shivered, before slipping back in.

His spark was scoured clean, all the new skills that had been developing, but not yet reached the first level at the soul mist, had been devoured, absorbed by the shadow. He searched for it, seeking it, but it was gone. A feeling of dread overtook him. He left the soul space just as a maw of darkness snapped shut where he had been.

Azrael vomited, a cold sweat soaking his clothes. It had been close, too close. He hadn’t even noticed the shadow, the beast, until its jaws were nearly upon him.

He calmed his panicked breathing, drawing in deep breaths to steady his heart. The beast was awake again, though this time was different. Before it had been a part of him, a quite voice in his mind, a whisper shackled by mental chains. Before it had always reacted on instinct and emotion. Now though? It seemed awake, free, intelligent.

Shakily he settled into [Meditation] letting the familiar rhythm help calm him. He didn’t dare to go deeper into his soul though. He could still feel it though, it was… The beast pinned him down, locking him in place. Caught unawares, he didn’t have a chance to fight back.

The beast sniffed him, searching for something. Azrael forcefully kept himself in [Meditation], fearful of possible consequences. He knew what happened to people who lost to their inner demons in cultivation stories.

The beast nudged him, forming… no strengthening a link. Its thoughts were violent like a bloody storm. He felt its anger, its rage. It desired to fight, to kill, to dominate, to crush, to destroy, to… he felt himself drowning in the feelings, the boundaries between their personalities blurring. All the bits of him that he’d pushed away and locked away slowly rose up as his mental barriers broke down. Like a wave it rushed at him, but he pushed past that, swimming through it in the hopes of escaping.

He felt its will, tenacious, unyielding. He felt its bond to him, loyal, in the same way a shadow never left the body. Though it fought him they were one. They both knew that. The strength of the feelings overwhelmed him though, threatening to erase his existence, his half of the bond. Still, amongst that rush, he saw something, something in the dark abyss of emotions.

He touched its mind. It was cool, sharp and clear. Deadly. It turned its gaze onto him, but before their eyes met he burst out of [Meditation].

Gasping he lay on the floor. His body shivered, not because he was afraid, but because he understood. He understood the beast. How could he not? They were one.

The shadows moved and he looked up, the midnight silhouette of the shadow wolf alpha looking down at him with his own golden eyes. It looked at him like a tame dog, trust radiating out of its gaze. He was not fooled however, the bloodlust it contained still transmitted to him through their link.

He looked at it and understood it for what it was. What it truly was. The beast wasn’t some terrible monster. It was worse, much worse.

The game had taken all the emotions that he’d denied, that he’d supressed and thrown away, and had given it form.

The beast wasn’t some dark monster from the most bloodthirsty pit of hell, but his own inner demon, the shape of everything he denied.