Only when it is frozen, can you feel the warmth.
Only when it is silent, can you hear the whispers.
Only when the raven crows its vesper bell, can you find the lighted beacon.

Any lambency had evidently fled; departed in a malcontent abode to the tenebrous opacity. Therein, gazing over the architecture—or, scrutinized, the contours of which—was a nirvana of nothingness. Plasmic rust boiled in the stone, reddening on ascent from the sepia undergrowth that crept through the decaying pavement—to the scarlet heights; an alabaster toned decay, bloody and ripe in the brick. The ancient city—remnant and lost—wormed itself, serpentine, into a sombre spiral, its culmination blanketed beyond the sky.

Deep within the abandoned metropolis—a walking contradiction stood. It was mere happenstance that someone would so much as come across the fabled ruin of a civilization, let alone inhabit it.

Yawning, the chestnut-rouged migrant rose in the dusk, scarcely discernable, despite a vivid sapphire lantern pulsing from the end of a unique weapon. Arched over the man leant a stone minaret, its balconies meandering a shadow, which framed the wandering mercenary. As he rose, his weaponry spat a lavish of splendour around the crimson battle-zealot; the fighter—Heishuro was his name, Heishuro Maruchi—rose and stepped out of the shadow, to find the radiant stars dancing through the skies.

“Wow…” He tried to think it, but he couldn’t prevent the sentiment escaping vocally. “That’s just…” Stopping mid-sentence, Heishuro noticed the lambent current vivid in the air. The plethora of light overflowed the eclipsed capacity, depositing sparkling lighted alluvium along the way as it drained through a nearby passageway. Not exactly cat and mouse, but I need to follow it, the fighter mused.

Ten minutes later, Maruchi’s enthusiasm had dulled. The light had long overrun his sight, yet he persevered down the alabaster-bricked avenue. Fortunately, the fallout dust that dropped from the light could guide his way.

When in such a dismal place—a sober, melancholy place, some feel like life is being sucked out of them; some feel overcome with depression; some feel right at home.

Heishuro didn’t feel anything; he was emotionless. He’d have been scared of that, but he couldn’t feel any fear. It was a strange feeling—or lack of which—that coincided with the martial artist at this moment—and not in a good way. He felt as if something were missing from his soul; he clutched his stomach upon the thought.

The movement of his arm snapped him back to reality, as he realised he has stopped walking, and was gradually getting wet from the ongoing downpour that had begun during his ‘emotional time’ as he liked to call it. In truth, it was more like a deep daydream.

As he regained his stride, he noticed a glare of light flash before him—not unlike one from a television screen. Turning to the source, he noticed a milky window, almost dripping into the building it held insight to. The window signalled the end of the alleyway, it was a dead end from here, so he had nowhere to go. Raising an arm to his brow for a shadow to the glow, Maruchi stared through into the seemingly ancient cathedral, as it would seem.

He had to cover his mouth with both hands to catch his gasp before it left him.

Inside were dozens—neigh, hundreds of what could be described as anything other than daemons. Chalk-white faces, as emotionless as they were devoid of colour; they stalked each other like assassins, though they didn’t seem hostile towards each other. Most of them were huddled over a stump, of some sort. Their pure white bodies curved down as if they were kissing something. As one of them moved, the fighter’s vision included this ‘something’, or ‘someone’.

Blood. It was everywhere, all over the monsters; all over the remains of the body; all over the floors. Heishuro screamed; he didn’t yell a manly yell; he didn’t groan a painful groan; he screamed as an emotion finally returned to him; fear. Yet, that was perhaps the most foolish thing he could have done, for the daemons weren’t without hearing.

Every single one of the vampiric abominations heard the fighter. Every single one turned to him. Every single one advanced. His eyes widening in horror, he began to walk backward, eventually stumbling into a run. Behind him, he heard a window breaking—not the most comforting of sounds whilst being chased by dark agents, as Maruchi toyed with the idea that they could be servants of Satan.

To his despair, the martial artist had to come to an abrupt stop. In front of him were just as many daemons as that which came up behind him, circling him in terror.

Looking down at Xuriken, he knew he had to fight his way out of this. That thought was—strangely—a comforting one; he knew it was all down to a skill of his that he was actually good at; battle.

Taking a deep breath, he let his nunchaku strengthen him; flow through him; calming him. He knew he should have been fearful; he knew this wasn’t exciting; but in amongst this, all he could think was, ‘everybody was kung-fu fighting!’

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