In the endless void of space, where silence should rule and no echoes should ever return, the sound of clashing blades roared across infinity. Each strike sparked light that rivaled newborn stars, only to vanish again into the darkness , a cosmic storm of steel and flame. Through that endless night rang cries of desperation, a testament to a battle that had devoured centuries.
There, suspended among collapsing galaxies and drifting stardust, stood a lone warrior.
He was young, though his eyes carried lifetimes of burden — Caribbean-blue, as deep and clear as an ocean before the storm. His hair, pure white, fluttered like a torn banner in the void. A black cloak framed his wounded figure, and in his hands, twin blades darker than the abyss itself, drinking the faint light around them.
Around him blazed flames of impossible color — crimson tinged with blue, raging hotter than a thousand suns, yet dancing at his command. They did not burn him. They were his. Bound to his will.
Before him hovered a being of dreadful majesty, its form shining with a blinding, sacred radiance that refused to be fully seen, obstructing his face and body, as if the very cosmos averted its gaze from such a presence. Its holiness was a mask for something far more monstrous.
Timothy Von Ashford "Soulfire" stood ragged, torn, as if he had fought for endless eternities. Blood spilled from wounds that refused to heal, bones ached from the weight of hopelessness, but still he refused to fall. The holy being, untouched and perfect, looked upon him with a kind of cruel delight, savoring the dance.
"It is futile," the being announced, its smile hidden by radiance, voice echoing like a choir of twisted angels. "You will never amount to anything in this vast multiverse, great Soulfire. Or should I say… Timothy Von Ashford."
Timothy's heart faltered. Is this truly the end? he wondered, as the memories returned, flooding him with regret and pain — faces of friends, lovers, dreams once so bright, all swallowed by the cost of this impossible war.
My love… I'm sorry. I could not protect you.
"Die, great hero!" the holy being roared, laughter a madman's symphony. "Let your legend turn to ash!"
Timothy's battered hands trembled. His vision blurred. His legs threatened to collapse. It was too much. The war. The sacrifice. The loneliness.
But somewhere, in the deepest part of himself, a voice called out. Not yet.
His flames shuddered, then burned higher, reaching beyond stars, beyond the measure of existence itself.
"Oh yeah…" he whispered, a tear streaking down his bloody cheek, "…how did it all begin?"
In that moment, as if answering him, a light beyond imagining exploded through the battlefield, white and absolute, swallowing both hunter and hunted alike.