Requiem of the Awakened

The sky bled silver when Malik stepped into the Rift.

Not metaphorically.

The clouds literally wept strands of liquid light, swirling around the ancient gateway as the veil between worlds peeled back like wet parchment.

Naomi stood at the edge of the portal, arms crossed, fire simmering in her veins.

"This is suicide," she said, not for the first time.

Malik adjusted the straps on his armor, voice calm. "It's necessary."

"You're chasing a scream across dimensions, Malik."

"No," he corrected. "I'm answering it."

Anacaona said nothing. She simply stood at his flank, spear lowered but ready. Elaris perched on a broken pillar behind them, arms folded, eyes narrowed at the distorted portal.

Even Obsidian growled—a sound of discomfort, not fear.

Because where Malik was going… no summon wanted to follow.

The Fourth Summon was trapped somewhere inside the Sepulcher Plane—a pocket realm fractured off from the Echo Stream itself.

It wasn't listed on Guild maps.

Because no one came back from it.

But Malik didn't need maps.

He had memory.

And that was more dangerous than any blade.

He stepped through the Rift.

And immediately, the world changed.

Sky gone.

Ground gone.

Only pressure. Thick. Endless. Choking.

The Sepulcher was not a place.

It was a wound.

And Malik had just walked into it.

There was no sense of up or down. No light. No texture. Just motion.

Whispers slid across his ears—some in words he recognized from ancient necromantic tongues, others in guttural languages not spoken since the first vaults of the Echo Stream collapsed.

"Back again.""The one who turned away.""The traitor returns."

Malik ignored them.

Every breath felt like breathing through ash.

Every step came with resistance, like walking through a memory that didn't want to be remembered.

But still he moved forward.

Toward the scream.

At some unknown interval, the darkness gave way to shape.

Not light.

Just less absence.

And in the center of that hollow reality was a figure.

Bound.

Not by ropes or manacles, but by echo-tethers wound through bone and memory.

They stretched from the corners of the realm, pulling at its limbs like marionette strings.

A mouth opened—but no words came.

Just that scream.

Malik dropped to one knee, head pounding.

The scream wasn't sound—it was concept.

Agony made manifest. Betrayal soaked into time itself.

And at the center of it all was the Fourth.

It had a form, but no face. Wings, but no flight. Hands, but no freedom.

Chains covered its body—some wrapped by force, others willingly accepted.

Each bore a name etched into the links. Malik recognized only two: Iskareth and Varn.

Old enemies. Old friends. Maybe both.

The Fourth turned its head slowly.

Saw him.

And the plane reacted.

A pulse went out. Not like an attack.

Like a heartbeat.

And the moment it hit Malik, the world slammed back into motion.

Suddenly the floor was solid. Air was dense. Time returned.

And so did the enemy.

Three figures stepped from the ether.

Not Guild. Not Unknown.

Testers.

Entities built by the plane itself to defend the prison. Echo-avatars constructed from Malik's worst battles.

Each wore his face.

But they weren't him.

They were who he could've been—had he made different choices.

The First wielded flame. Arrogant. Blazing. Driven by fury.The Second cloaked himself in divine Echo. Righteous. Cold. Merciless.The Third held nothing—just eyes black with void, and a smile that promised oblivion.

Malik rose.

Rolled his shoulders.

Cracked his neck.

Then reached for the memories.

He didn't summon.

Didn't need to.

Instead, he stepped forward and met the First's charge with a brutal parry, grabbing the flaming blade mid-arc and slamming his elbow into the echo-flesh's throat.

The being gasped.

Malik didn't hesitate.

He seized its face and whispered, "I chose control."

The figure shattered.

The Second came at him with judgment—a cascade of radiant bindings meant to paralyze soul and body alike.

Malik side-stepped, caught the light, and redirected it through a spiral glyph formed with nothing but his fingertips.

The energy twisted.

Imploded.

He pointed.

"You would've ruled like a tyrant."

The Second screamed and vanished.

The Third simply waited.

Silent.

Smiling.

Malik stared at it, then said, "I buried you a long time ago."

The smile widened.

"Did you?" it whispered.

Malik stepped forward anyway.

"Even if I didn't," he said, "I'll do it again."

He raised both hands.

The plane bent.

The Third dissolved, its grin the last to go.

Silence.

Then—applause.

Slow. Mocking.

But real.

The Fourth was watching now.

Chains groaned.

One link fell off, disintegrating into spark and ash.

Malik took a step forward.

The Fourth did the same.

"Do you know me?" Malik asked.

The Fourth tilted its head.

"Yes."

"Will you fight me?"

A pause.

Then: "Will you earn me?"

Malik closed his eyes.

"I will."

The ground beneath them cracked.

A circle formed.

Not a summoning ring—but a binding duel.

The Fourth's wings unfurled, spectral and screaming, the chains still holding them taut.

Malik's aura flared—not with flame or shadow, but pure memory.

He saw it all at once.

The Fourth wasn't just a summon.

It was a fragment.

A piece of him.

His own ambition. His own rage. His refusal to kneel after death.

He wasn't taming it.

He was integrating it.

And it wouldn't happen quietly.

The battle began without sound.

No clash. No shout. Just impact.

Blows that shattered concepts, not bones.

A strike that inverted gravity.

A counter that silenced time.

For every move Malik made, the Fourth responded with equal force—and the memories that came with it.

Malik faltered.

For a moment, he remembered what it meant to fail.

To be sealed.

To die in betrayal.

But he also remembered why he fought.

He let go of fear.

Let go of guilt.

He reached deep, past the layers of cultivated restraint, and found the core of who he had been.

A sovereign not because of power—but because of choice.

And that's when he stopped fighting.

And started accepting.

The Fourth screamed.

This time, not in pain.

In release.

Chains exploded outward.

The realm quaked.

The walls peeled back.

And suddenly Malik stood in the same space—but alone.

No Fourth.

Just a mark on his palm.

A scythe.

Half-bound in fire.

Half-wrapped in ice.

He opened his eyes.

The Sepulcher was gone.

Naomi was in front of him, her face pale.

Anacaona was mid-step toward him, weapons drawn.

Elaris crouched, uncertain.

"Are you…" Naomi started.

Malik raised his hand.

The mark glowed.

"I have it," he said.

Elaris's expression hardened. "Did it accept you?"

"No," Malik said.

"I accepted me."

Across the world, a rift opened over the Dead Marshes.

From it, a being stepped out.

Tall. Crowned. Faceless.

It knelt.

Whispered.

"He awakens."