Unia: Echo of Harmony

The Fall of the Old Order: The Descent of a Celestial. Act 1

Everyone froze, struck by a blend of alarm and curiosity, unable to tear their gazes away from the being. It, having emerged from the depths of the ruptured sky, commanded attention, captivating and terrifying in equal measure.

The Celestial apparition moved with the quiet authority of a mistress inspecting her domain, its silent appraisal sweeping over the massacre site, pausing only to observe the wretched forms that littered the ground—both dead and dying.

Then, with a slow and deliberate turn, its enigmatic stare settled on Ruy. Though still distant, the man could feel its eyes piercing through him, burrowing deep into the soul. The conqueror had killed many non-humans, faced beasts that evoked terror with a single glance, and always trusted his instincts, which had spared him countless times. But now, those instincts were silent—not a single spark of warning ignited, as if he was confronted with something his limited mind could not comprehend.

This phantasm, with its graceful movements and otherworldly presence, was unlike anything he had ever encountered. There was nothing familiar in its stride, no recognizable pattern in its slightest gestures. It was the unknown incarnate, a mystery that clawed at his sanity, spawning dread in the recesses of his soul.

Something ancient and primal, buried deep within the core of his being, whispered to him to flee, to vanish into the shadows and never look back. Yet one instinct roared louder than the rest, rushing through his veins as surely as ale—the instinct of war. It was the rhythm of his existence, the pulse that had driven every decision, every action.

The oppressive silence was shattered by the sudden clamor of swords and axes, their metal ringing out like a funeral toll as they were raised against the unknown. The warlord's command echoed through the night, and his warriors, a tightly wound spring ready to unleash its fury, closed in around their enemy with lethal precision. The air vibrated with a taut mixture of fear and anticipation, every heart beating in sync with the merciless rhythm of war, as blades gleamed, poised ready to slash at the foe.

At the signal, a shrill, piercing cry, men charged forward with a fury born of desperation, their collective roar thickening the air. They were the veterans forged in the flames of countless conflicts, their weapons, baptized in blood, ready to carve victory from the flesh of foes. Yet, as the metal in their hands struck the creature, what should have been the beginning of a butchery dissolved into a futility that drained hope from their hearts.

The iron that had tasted the tears of countless foes bent as if forged from wax; their edges curling uselessly under the pressure. Axe blades, sharp enough to cleave through skulls with ease, shattered with a deafening crack, leaving no mark on the entity's unyielding form. Arrows, once fierce and true, ricocheted off its body as if striking a stone wall.

These soldiers, unbeatable until this moment, now found themselves standing before an entity truly invincible, something that rendered the tools of destruction in their grasp useless and well-honed skills meaningless.

Among them, a battle-hardened warrior, a giant of a man, known for his raw strength and notorious love of drink, was the embodiment of destruction—a living incarnation of human savagery. They had all seen him, in a drunken frenzy, split a stone in two with a single blow. Yet now, this man fell to his knees, helplessly clutching the lonely hilt, his eyes wide with disbelief.

The air, thick with the remnants of meaningless struggles, now reduced to a suffocating stillness, broken only by the soft crunch of grass and leaves beneath the feet of the vanquished men, who now, with bowed heads and trembling limbs, yielded a path to the unstoppable force that approached. Unyielding, it moved with a slow, deliberate grace, each step imbued with a quiet power that demanded reverence. The creature's gaze, utterly indifferent to the presence of others, remained locked onto Ruy, as it closed the distance between them, intent on fulfilling a purpose known only to itself. Nothing seemed to matter but the path it carved, a path leading inevitably to the man frozen in its sights.

Ruy froze, body betraying him as cold sweat trickled down his spine. Each step the mysterious figure took made his heart pound harder, a relentless drumbeat that echoed in his ears, drowning out all other sound. Dread, like icy claws, gripped his insides, squeezing the air from his lungs.

But then, suddenly, that chill of dread was replaced by a searing heat, awakening something ancient, something primal within him.

The initial paralyzing terror began to transform, twisting into something else—pure, all-consuming rage, devoid of reason, leaving only the instinct to bare teeth and tense sinews to the breaking point. Ruy's hands, once trembling with fear, now gripped the sword with a strength that whitened his knuckles.

With a snarl that bared his teeth like a cornered beast, the man hurled himself toward the creature, muscles clenched with tension, his entire being narrowing to a single purpose—kill the foe, destroy it as he had destroyed all before. Every muscle pulsed with the memory of countless victories, each step echoing the blood-soaked paths already walked.

In a heartbeat, he closed in on the foe, circling it with the swift, fluid precision of a predator hunting its prey. His movements, honed by years of carnage, were quicksilver—darting left, then right, seeking any opening, any sign of vulnerability. Yet, no matter the angle or speed of approach, the opponent remained unguarded, its form seemingly inviting the bite of steel in his hand with a maddening indifference.

Humiliation, sharp and unfamiliar, began to fester within the warrior. With a snarl curling his lips, Fuerte lashed out with the first lunge—a swift, sharp thrust aimed at the throat of the unnatural spawn before him. The blade cut through the air with a high-pitched whistle, the sound resonant and pure as it sliced toward its target. But instead of plunging into flesh, the strike rebounded with a jarring clang; the shock of it sent vibrations up his arm, causing the man to recoil.

For the briefest moment, confusion clouded his thoughts, but the relentless drumbeat of war pushed him forward once more, driving him ahead, to resume this deadly dance, circling and slashing, cutting and retreating.

Ruy moved with astonishing speed, a blur of motion, each attack sharper and fiercer than the last. His resolve sought every vulnerable point—the chest, the ribs, the arms—but each blow glanced off the creature's body as if it were hitting an impenetrable wall, each swing only serving to wear down his own strength. Breaths came in ragged gasps, each one merging with the relentless clang of metal, yet the only blood drawn was his own, seeping from the blisters that tore open on his palms.

In a final, desperate bid for victory, the blade tore from the bloodied hand, slicing through the air toward the being's visage, with Fuerte close behind, pursuing the weapon like a shadow, swift and relentless, a primal roar tearing from his throat.

The sword struck true but shattered upon impact, its fragments scattering like glass against stone. In a single fluid motion, a backup dagger slipped from its sheath into the waiting hand, a familiar extension of the warrior's will. Ruy feinted low, his body coiling with deceptive intent as though aiming for the impenetrable monolith's legs. But with a swift, dexterous twist, the short sword's tip redirected toward the ethereal adversary's pupil—a precise, ruthless attempt to pierce the soft, vulnerable core that could end this battle once and for all.

Yet, instead of meeting the softness of flesh, the metal harmlessly skidded upward along the wide-open eyeball, stopping uselessly against the unyielding eyelid. The thing blinked, not in response to pain or even surprise, but merely out of natural necessity, its eye closing around the weapon with indifferent slowness. A faint creak filled the air as the tip of the blade slid helplessly beneath the eyelid, becoming wedged between the skin and the cornea, as if deliberately trapped.

The creature's piercing, chilling stare bore into Ruy once more, momentarily draining every ounce of courage and will from the man who had once embodied terror itself. The dagger—now grotesquely dangling from the creature's eyelid—quivered awkwardly, as if it too recognized the futility of its assault. A slight curl formed at the corners of the anomaly's expression, revealing the barest flicker of irritation crossing its otherwise serene face. It looked at the man as one might regard a buzzing fly—annoying but utterly harmless, the only difference being that everyone around knew that force before him could end Ruy's existence at any moment.