"Light became stone, priests — statues,
and only the charred giant in the center
held the sword that stopped the world."
—The Heir of Oblivion stepped through the mist, comprehended the nature of the Veil, and broke its defenses with fire. He saved the Spark of Life, holding it at the cost of his own body. His feat is measured not by strength, but by the choice that preserved hope where it seemed impossible. His legacy remained as a sign: salvation matters more than loss.
Assessment: Absolute
Reward: Mist of Oblivion
—Congratulations, contender, you have received your Gift.
—Heir… remember yourself, — whispered the fallen gods to him.
★
The Plain of Frozen Rays
The plain was not dead — it did not carry the sense of final silence, the emptiness that comes after the complete disappearance of all living things. It seemed frozen, as if time itself had once reached its limit, stumbled at an invisible boundary, and could not take the next step. Everything that should have swayed in the wind, grown, crumbled, or faded was frozen in the state in which that moment caught it, preserving not life, but merely its form.
The grass beneath one's feet was stone, but not foreign or unnatural at first glance. It still retained familiar shapes: thin stems, curves, even barely perceptible veins on the leaves, as if sap had once flowed through them. Yet when stepped upon, the illusion shattered — under the weight of each step it broke with a dry, unpleasant screech, and sharp fragments sank into the soles, making each movement painfully tangible. There was a strange feeling that the very earth itself resisted, unwilling to release those daring to move forward.
Stone flowers bent as if in motion, frozen in the last instant before a gust of wind that never came. Their petals stretched out as though they still expected that motion, but time, having stopped, would not allow it to complete.
From the ground rose beams of light that may once have been something else. Now they no longer shone — they stood, stone-like, dense, devoid of any transparency, reaching upward in the state in which they had been interrupted. Some were thin, almost like spears aimed at the sky; others rose as wide, massive columns, reminiscent of pillars supporting something impossible to discern. Their surfaces were rough, uneven, scarred with veins and cracks, and upon closer inspection, it seemed that energy had once flowed within them, now frozen along with the light itself.
They did not merely rise from the earth — they seemed an attempt at motion that had been interrupted. Like a splash that never fell back, like an impulse left incomplete.
At first glance, it could seem that these stone rays held the sky up, propping it with their heavy forms, as if without them it would have long since collapsed. But linger a moment longer, and that feeling began to shift: it seemed the sky itself was not held up, but simply unwilling to fall, as if caught in the same stop, losing the ability to move forward.
The air here felt heavy, though not from dust or density itself, but from what filled it. This sensation did not arise immediately: at first, everything seemed almost silent, as if the plain had truly frozen alongside time. Yet when one allowed the ears to adjust and began to discern details, it became clear that silence had never existed here.
Sound was everywhere, but not as a single entity. It consisted of layers upon layers, so tightly overlaid that at first they seemed barely perceptible. Gradually, distinct elements emerged: cries still tinged with life and despair; dull, wet sounds of tearing flesh, devoid of expression but no less heavy; sharp impacts of metal on metal, repeated with stubborn regularity; and deeper, weighty collisions that seemed to echo through the earth itself.
These sounds did not merge into a single flow, nor form a harmony like ordinary battle noise. Each remained separate, perceptible, and that was what made them unbearable. They did not dissipate, did not vanish, but persisted, layering and intensifying each other, creating the sensation of constant pressure. It was as if the plain itself would not let the sound escape, forcing it to exist longer than possible.
In the center of the plain stood giants, and at first glance one might take them for people gathered in a dense crowd. They occupied a significant part of the space, forming a living mass where rows and outlines of troops could be discerned, but from a distance, it seemed merely an orderly assembly of figures united by a common purpose.
Yet as one approached, this impression began to crumble. The difference became evident gradually, as the eye caught details: the unusual height of shoulders, the length of arms, proportions that did not match human ones. Each towered three or sometimes four meters, a presence that pressed upon the surrounding space.
Still, their formation did not collapse. The crowd was not chaotic: it was divided into groups, each holding its shape, direction, and place in the larger structure. Even when rows thinned or individual figures fell, the order persisted, as if the disappearance of one element did not affect the whole. Intervals between them remained exact, movements synchronized, creating the impression of a single organism rather than many separate beings, each performing a precise role.
Their movements reinforced this sense. There was no fuss, no superfluous gesture or hesitation. Every step, every turn, every strike was executed with near-mechanical precision, yet not lifelessly. It was not blind automatism but extreme necessity.
Armor covered their bodies almost entirely, hiding anything human beneath. It did not shine or reflect light; rather, it absorbed it, making them appear even heavier and more solid. Its surface looked as if it had been carved or excavated from a single piece of unknown metal, shaped with masterful precision. There were no decorations, only strict lines, smooth transitions, and subtle textures reminiscent of stone that somehow gained the ability to move.
This combination — human form enlarged to impossible size, strict formation, and heavy, almost living armor — made them truly formidable.
Over time, distinctions became clear. Despite uniform formation and discipline, each carried something unique. Some had skin turning stone-like, almost invulnerable; others exuded a force formless until manifested. Some wielded heavy, material weapons designed for direct strikes, while others seemed conduits for something greater.
Their blades could flare without heat, destroying all they touched as if fire existed only to annihilate. Around some, the air trembled subtly, and wounds that should have been fatal closed as if the body rejected finality. Others carried presence in a heavier, denser way, as if the ground itself thickened beneath them.
These differences did not weaken unity; they complemented it. Each was not just a warrior in formation, but a vessel of a distinct gift, manifested in body, movement, and weapon. The army was not merely many, but a collection of perfected forces woven into one whole.
When one fell, there was no fragility, no sudden break of motion, no weakness typical of a living body collapsing. It was like a landslide — heavy, inevitable, unstoppable.
The body first seemed to lose balance for a fraction of a second, then fell with full mass, unslowed, unsoftened. There was no instinct to save itself, no attempt to brace or tuck — only a direct, heavy downward drive, as if all accumulated weight finally prevailed.
When it struck the ground, the sound was dense, muffled, as if stone met stone. The spikes beneath it broke and crumbled, fragments scattering, sliding across the plain. The impact was deep, penetrating, as if the earth itself yielded, accepting the weight.
The plain responded subtly, with a barely noticeable tremor.
Above stretched the sky, and it was not empty, despite the heaviness below. It remained alive, moving in a deliberate, controlled way, each figure occupying its place in a system, not in chaotic flurry.
Angels were numerous, yet never felt like a crowd. Even from afar, it was clear they formed a formation, transferred to the air. Their trajectories intersected, diverged, and converged again, creating a complex, precise pattern, with no wasted gesture or random deviation. Their actions complemented one another, as if each were part of a single system accustomed to such battles.
Their movements bore experience that could not be gained quickly. These were not merely warriors capable of flight — they were masters, for whom the air was natural, not an obstacle. They did not fight height, nor compensate for it, but used it, orchestrating attacks as if space itself obeyed their understanding.
Their wings had been white, at least once. Now blood had dried on the feathers, darkened, cracked, and fell as fine dust with each beat. Some feathers were broken, others torn, yet this did not impede precision or speed. Even damaged wings did not hinder control, as if they had long learned to fight without ideal conditions.
Some held higher positions for full field oversight, unleashing attacks downward, not rushed but without delay. Arrows, stone spikes, streams of fire formed midair in fractions of seconds, as if space and energy bent to their will. These projectiles never flew blindly — each found its target, piercing armor, ripping flesh, disrupting giant formations.
Others moved differently, diving with precise timing and direction. Their descent was not a desperate plunge but calculated, perfected by instinct. They did not attack blindly, nor rely on pure force. First came an imperceptible adjustment, a slight change in angle. Then came the identification of a weak point, invisible to most but clear to the trained eye. Only then followed the strike.
It was precise, flawless, with no wasted motion. Everything occurred swiftly, but unhurriedly, as if time flowed differently for them, allowing judgment, decision, and action to fit in a single instant. This made them dangerous not only due to strength but because of battle understanding manifest in every movement.
Yet despite their skill, they fell, inevitably, just as the rows of giants below thinned. Sometimes this happened abruptly, nearly imperceptibly: a figure maintaining formation one second lost support the next, as if an invisible thread snapped, beginning a fall with no chance to regain it. This "invisible thread" was no accident — it was cut.
From below, the giants shot arrows from the dense ranks.
They did not scatter randomly nor vanish in air. Each was released with calculation, accounting for height, speed, and trajectory. Heavy, long, nearly human-sized, they pierced space as confidently as flesh. Upon striking, the angel froze momentarily in midair, before descending. Sometimes momentum remained, wings moving by inertia, but rhythm was broken, trajectory ruined. Flight, once a precise line, became a short, broken arc before ceasing entirely.
Wings faltered, motions lost cohesion, and even accumulated skill could not overcome the instant when the body ceased obeying. Fall became inevitable, and in it, there was no chance — only completion of a precise, calculated strike from below.
When reaching the ground, bodies could not endure impact. Airborne lightness, enabling precise movement, became a weakness upon collision with stone plain. Bones broke, flesh tore, white feathers scattered with blood and stone dust, losing shape and color. Gradually, bodies accumulated, forming uneven, chaotic piles, where individual figures were hard to discern — only wings, armor fragments, and dark spots merging into stone.
Sometimes falls were not accidental. Giants, despite their weight, intervened in midair. Movements became unexpectedly fast and precise: massive hands reached upward, seizing a wing or leg at the brief moment of vulnerability.
After that, everything ended almost instantly. There was no prolonged struggle, no attempt to break free. The next movement of the giant was direct, final — a sharp motion, leaving no doubt or effort, only completion. The body tore, and the scene momentarily vanished into silence before the noise filled the space again.
With each passing second, the battlefield continued to shift. This change was neither gradual nor orderly — it happened simultaneously at multiple points, overlaying itself, destroying any chance to see a coherent picture. Where formation held a moment ago, gaps emerged; where a body had fallen, new figures occupied space; empty space filled instantly, and vice versa.
Yet the battle did not feel easier to perceive. It did not simplify over time, nor arrange into a clear sequence, but drew one deeper, forcing confrontation with constant motion, without pause, rest, or clear endpoints. With each moment, the scene grew heavier, not from chaos, but from its absence, from the persistence of order that could not be broken by a single strike or decision.