In the heart of the forest, where shadows move silently, and every sound merges with the echo of the trees, she walks—challenged by time, by death, weighed down by every moment of pain she has endured.
The earth beneath her feet seems to watch, every breeze whispers threats.
Iscara knows that each step brings her closer to an unavoidable confrontation, a confrontation that will reveal the power of the Paradox and make her feel the suffering within her body and soul. No room for weakness, no room for mercy… here begins The Death Melody
Chapter Seven: The Death Melody
Iscara staggered with each step, every movement weighed down as if the earth itself tried to swallow her. Her body was exhausted, every muscle aching, every breath escaping like a muffled scream, every heartbeat echoing in her skull like endless war drums. Her mind still could not comprehend what had happened; the scene of Aurielyn's death haunted her with every step, every image, every scream, as if the blood spilled on the ground burned her memory.
Shadows in the forest moved strangely, as if the trees themselves were watching her; every branch, every leaf seemed alert, and every breeze whispered words only her heart could hear. Suddenly, emerging from the shadows, they appeared: four figures known as the Black Crows, the strongest squad of the Men of Light. Their eyes were cold, their swords gleaming under the shafts of sunlight filtering through the trees, every movement exuding power and danger, standing before her as if they were part of the forest itself.
The conflict erupted immediately. Iscara drew her Meteoric Sword, her hands trembling from exhaustion, her body tense, her heart pounding violently, her awareness sharp as a blade. She did not attack outright, only defended, countered; every motion calculated, every step measured—but she knew she was weak against four opponents at once.
Suddenly, one of the Crows struck with a swift movement, his sword slicing her foot. She screamed in pain, tears mixing with blood, the ground trembling beneath her. Yet, without hesitation, she retaliated: with the power of the Paradox, she severed his leg instantly. Blood splattered, the metallic scent filled the air, and her scream reverberated through the forest.
The other Crows seized the opportunity, driving their swords into her chest and abdomen; each strike nearly brought her down, each stab leaving a deep mark. Iscara felt the pressure intensify, the physical pain small compared to what weighed upon her heart.
In a critical moment, she whispered with a cold, defiant voice:
"Immortality or death."
She poured her entire will into the power of immortality. Her body healed instantly; her severed foot rejoined as if nothing had happened, and the Crows' swords turned against them. Every strike, every stab, every motion reflected back with the force of the Paradox.
One by one, the Black Crows fell before her. Their screams, their terror as their attacks were reflected upon them—everything became a mirror: the pain they sought to inflict returned. The first fell to the ground, his sword lodged in his chest after the Paradox strike. The second tried to attack but stumbled, crying out as his blow rebounded, breaking his leg, collapsing unconscious. The third was thrown to the ground, each strike returning upon him, his body battered, unable to move. The fourth attempted to retreat, but every action he took reflected back, until he knelt, powerless.
"Immortality or death" was not just words—it was a lethal reality. All four Crows had fallen, one after another, before Iscara. Blood stained the ground, their screams mingled with the echoing forest, yet her heart remained steadfast. Still, she began to feel the side effects of immortality: another month of her life drained, fatigue growing, her nerves stretched taut—but she reassured herself that the Paradox itself caused no direct harm.
Then the catastrophe began: hallucinations. Faces of victims, moments of their death, the pain they endured, their screams—all poured into her consciousness as if she were living each death herself. She screamed hysterically, laughed coldly, unsure whether to cry or to laugh; everything intertwined, every feeling tangled.
The forest around her became alive: trees swayed with the echoes of screams, leaves fell like blood, the ground trembled beneath every step, the air heavy, every breath carving another wound into her chest.
She raised her violin, her hands trembling from exhaustion and wounds, but she began to play. Every string cried out in agony, every note resonated terror through the forest, the sound wrapping around the trees, the enemies, rendering everything silent except the echo of the Death Melody.
*"Now darkness falls
So that all dreams may perish
In this time
There is no place for the weak
It gathers the scattered
Awake from slumber
Not thrown to trial
And I have no choice
Excuses are ended
Am I permitted to rest?
Will my broken-winged heart ever heal?
Death pursues me
In my waking and in my dreams
Terror reigns in the eyes
And in madness…
It tore my wings apart!
Is this torment eternal?
A chance I wished for
To live once more
My only desire
That my blood not be spilled!
My breaths battle the frost
Is there a spring in view…
Its fragrance wafting?
My thoughts are clad in ruin
Turned to dust… it speaks
Of my secrets and wounds!"*
Then, an eerie silence. Everything around her froze—the forest, the shadows, the air—everything waiting. She lifted her head, her voice cold and unwavering, saying:
"I have stared at death for long and did not flinch, and all fear my wrath as I draw near."
Iscara stood at the edge of the shadows, her breath ragged, her eyes tracing every movement, every whisper in the air echoing a truth never seen before.
She felt something new, something connecting her to the world in a way she had never experienced, as if every gaze she cast carried the weight of secrets yet unknown.
A cold smile touched her lips, and the surrounding darkness fell silent, as if the forest itself awaited the revelation.
She realized, in a mysterious way… that there were eyes that see what others cannot, and that every step ahead would reveal a fragment of the truth—but it would not come without cost.