Nevermore zero

The world was full of nothing, yet everything. A vast, infinite expanse where reality and illusion intertwined effortlessly. The air was dense with a sense of endless possibility, shimmering with potential chaos and creation alike. Within this formless void stood a man, his figure shrouded in flowing robes that fluttered despite the absence of wind. His robes, thin yet seemingly impervious, concealed every part of him except for a glimpse of his striking purple hair, which was cropped short, giving him an appearance both regal and disconcerting. This man was Drazka, the God of Calamity.

In his slender hands, he cradled an orb that pulsed with a faint, ethereal glow. The orb was more than a mere trinket; it was a window into reality—a miniature theater showing a grotesque performance. It depicted scenes of chaos, turmoil, and suffering unfolding in the kingdom of Noctis. The visuals were vivid: blood staining the cobblestones of villages, flames licking the walls of once-proud castles, and the anguished cries of the innocent and guilty alike. The kingdom was embroiled in a massacre, and Drazka's lips curled into a wicked grin. The devastation was beautiful in its own horrific way, and it amused him to no end.

But his amusement was short-lived. A shift in the atmosphere drew his attention away from the orb. A presence—no, two—approached. The fabric of existence rippled as if in anticipation, and Drazka turned to see them. To his left stood a tall figure with hair that burned like a wildfire, alive with the frenzied heat of an untamable inferno. His eyes, smoldering embers of molten gold, were alight with both malice and purpose. This was Azeloth, the God of Chaos. Beside him, half-veiled in shadows, was a woman draped in layers of dark fabric. Her presence exuded a chilling stillness, and her eyes glowed with a quiet, merciless authority. This was Neriva, the Goddess of Death.

Drazka's grin widened. He tilted his head, eyes gleaming with mischief as he gestured towards the orb. "Ahh, brother, sister. Care to join me in this amusing little play?" His voice was smooth, a whisper that felt like a knife sliding against silk.

Neriva's eyes narrowed. She stepped closer, the edges of her cloak seeming to dissolve into the void around her. Her voice was cold and curt. "Drazka, do you know where that boy is?"

Drazka's grin faltered for a split second, but he quickly recovered. With a nonchalant wave of his hand, he shrugged. "My apologies, Neriva, but I lost him while I was... obtaining a snack." He spoke the last words with exaggerated innocence, clearly enjoying the irritation he stirred.

Azeloth's eyes flared. His patience was as thin as a sheet of glass, always ready to shatter. "Tch," he muttered, the sound a mixture of disgust and frustration. "How can you lose the one boy who isn't supposed to—"

Before he could finish his accusation, the void trembled violently. A pulse of energy surged through the formless space, and for a moment, everything stilled. Time itself seemed to hesitate, like a breath caught in a throat. All three gods instinctively turned their eyes toward the orb, which now shone brighter, the image within sharpening into clarity.

There, amidst the carnage of Noctis, stood a figure cloaked in shadows. His form was barely distinguishable from the darkness, but the faintest glimmers of light reflected off his outline, giving him shape and presence. The figure appeared to be a boy, his posture rigid, his eyes hidden in the gloom. A silent storm of energy swirled around him, an ominous force teetering on the brink of eruption.

Neriva's voice was barely a whisper, but it cut through the silence like a blade. "Geez, what happened to him?" Her eyes, filled with curiosity and an edge of dread, locked onto the figure in the orb.

Drazka tilted his head, observing the boy with renewed interest. The grin returned to his lips, but this time, it was tempered with something else—perhaps caution, perhaps respect. "So this is the boy," he mused, his voice soft. "The one who will slay us all unless we tip the scales in his favor."

Azeloth's jaw tightened, and his eyes blazed even brighter. The air around him shimmered with barely contained fury. "Fate," he spat the word as though it was poison. "He is the one who controls fate itself."

The three gods, embodiments of calamity, chaos, and death, felt the weight of inevitability pressing down on them. The boy in the orb was not just a pawn in their cosmic game; he was a fulcrum, a pivotal force that could reshape their existence. And for once, their amusement waned, replaced by a shared understanding of the peril that awaited them.

All three spoke in unison, their voices a haunting harmony that resonated through the void: "The one who controls fate itself."

The boy's presence within the orb seemed to pulse with a life of its own. As if hearing their words, his shadowy form shifted. His head lifted slightly, and though his face remained obscured, a sense of purpose radiated from him. He was a force beyond their usual manipulations, a variable they could neither predict nor fully control.

Drazka's grin faded into a contemplative frown. For a god who thrived on calamity, unpredictability was usually a source of delight. But this boy was different. He was not a source of chaos for amusement; he was chaos that could unravel the very threads of divinity.

Neriva's fingers flexed, her hands hidden within the folds of her cloak. "We have to act carefully," she said, her voice low. "If he truly holds the power of fate, then our own destruction is not merely a possibility—it is a certainty unless we intervene."

Azeloth's flames crackled, but he nodded, his eyes still fixed on the orb. "Then let us put the odds in our favor. We cannot eliminate him... but perhaps we can shape him."

Drazka's eyes gleamed once more, his amusement returning, tempered now by the cold logic of survival. "Yes," he whispered. "Let the play continue. But this time, let us write a few lines of the script ourselves."

The orb shimmered, the boy's figure fading back into shadow. The gods knew the game had changed. And for the first time in eons, they were no longer the undisputed masters of the board.

***

The figure's skin was blacker than the void, a swirling emptiness that seemed to absorb light itself. His form was human-like, yet profoundly wrong. His single, crimson eye glowed with a chilling intensity, and his mouth—a gaping maw—stretched unnaturally, winding around his face like a grotesque grin. It was a mouth made not for words but for devouring.

The streets of the once-thriving kingdom of Noctis were drowned in crimson. The air reeked of iron and despair, and the cobblestones were slick with the blood of the fallen. Corpses lay twisted where they had fallen, their lifeless eyes still wide with terror. The boy's hands, black as midnight, were slick and dripping with fresh blood. In his right hand, he clutched a severed leg, the flesh torn jagged where his teeth had sunk into it. He lifted it to his mouth, his horrific maw opening wider than seemed possible. With a sickening crunch, he bit down, the sound echoing eerily in the empty streets.

His one eye flickered up, focusing on the sound of armored footsteps approaching. The knights of Noctis had arrived. Their polished armor, etched with symbols of honor and protection, glinted in the dim light. At the forefront stood their leader, a figure clad in silver and black, a stark contrast to the carnage around him. His presence was imposing, his armor bearing the scars of countless battles. His face was stern, his eyes cold with purpose. This was Nox, the captain of the elite knights of Noctis. He embodied justice, and he was here to deliver it.

Nox's sword, a weapon forged with the purest steel and enchanted with protective runes, was already drawn. He pointed it at the monstrous boy before him, the blade unwavering despite the gruesome scene.

"I, Nox, the leader of the elite knights of Noctis, am here to deliver justice for the innocent lives you've slain," Nox declared, his voice steady and strong. "State your name, boy."

The figure tilted his head slightly, the single eye narrowing as if searching the recesses of his mind. The question seemed to hang in the air, unresolved. After a pause, his mouth stretched into something that could be mistaken for a smile, albeit a terrifying one.

"I... don't know," the boy said, his voice a guttural whisper, devoid of warmth or remorse. "I don't recall anything... just that I'm hungry..."

The response was chilling in its simplicity. The knights behind Nox shifted uneasily, their gauntlets tightening around their weapons. This was no ordinary foe; they knew it in their bones.

Nox's jaw clenched as he studied the boy. The creature's very existence was a blasphemy, a corruption of life itself. His sense of duty swelled in his chest, firm and unyielding. If the boy was lost to darkness, then Nox would be the one to light the pyre that would burn it away.

"No name, huh?" Nox said, his voice edged with contempt. "Since I'll be the one to deliver justice, I'll call you 'The Eye.' It's simple, yet it gets to the point."

The boy's single eye widened, and his mouth curled into a grin that seemed to stretch impossibly far. The nickname amused him, a small absurdity in a world full of blood and chaos.

"A bit silly," The Eye replied, his voice now laced with a dark amusement, "but I'll take it."

As if in response to the challenge before him, his hands began to shift. The black void of his flesh shimmered and elongated. His fingers melted and stretched, forming jagged, curved blades where hands had been. The swords that now replaced his limbs pulsed with malevolence, the edges sharp enough to split stone.

The Eye stood taller now, a silhouette of death against the crimson-drenched street. He was not just a boy. He was a Black Smile, one of the most dangerous creatures in existence. The Black Smiles were anomalies, nightmares given flesh, beings that devoured souls as effortlessly as they devoured bodies. Most were born of unspeakable tragedies, remnants of pain and suffering that twisted reality itself. And now, one stood before them, hunger gnawing at his core, ready to unleash devastation.

Nox's heart pounded, but his face remained stoic. He knew what they faced, and fear would not weaken his resolve. He turned his head slightly, addressing his knights without looking away from The Eye.

"Everyone, be on your guard," Nox commanded. His voice carried the weight of a thousand battles, a steadying force against the rising tide of terror. His men adjusted their stances, shields raised, swords ready. They knew the odds were against them, but retreat was not an option. Not while innocent lives hung in the balance.

The Eye tilted his head again, his single eye gleaming with cruel anticipation. The air grew heavier, charged with the promise of violence. His blades gleamed darkly, reflecting the despair of the moment.

"Justice?" The Eye whispered, his grin never faltering. "Let's see how it tastes."

With a sudden, blinding burst of speed, The Eye lunged forward. His blades flashed, carving through the air with a sound like a razor slicing silk. The clash of steel against the black void of his blades sent shockwaves through the street. The battle had begun.

Nox met The Eye's onslaught with a roar, his sword parrying each strike with practiced precision. But each swing of The Eye's blades seemed to grow more vicious, more relentless. The air was filled with the sound of clashing steel, grunts of effort, and the cries of those who fell.