Her foot scraped against the cobbled floor, each step a grueling effort. The air burned her lungs as she gasped, her breath hitching between ragged coughs. A tremor ran through her frail body, shaking her to the core. It was cold, far colder than it should have been. She was so tired. Too old for this. Blood poured from a jagged wound on her right thigh, painting the stones behind her with a bright, glistening red. Every step left a smear, her dragging feet only adding to the trail of struggle. A broken spear hung limply in her grip. A deep cut marred her cheek, and her torso bore countless shallow wounds, each a reminder of the battle she had no right to survive. And yet, she moved forward.


    One step at a time, alone, through a sea of corpses scattered across the grand hall, leading her way toward the high altar that loomed at the far end.


    She glanced around, her gaze sweeping over the carnage. Everyone was gone, lifeless, broken, reduced to stillness. Was she truly the only one left standing? How could that be? She was neither impressive nor exceptional, not by any measure she held of herself. Among so many who had been greater, stronger, more capable, why was she the only one to survive? How had she endured when they had fallen, overwhelmed by unfair odds, against such monsters?


    [Level 63] > [57].


    Numbness seeped into her body, dragging her down like an anchor. She felt weaker with every heartbeat, her strength draining as though stolen by the last blade that had struck her. Was the blade poisoned? Had she been poisoned? Or was it just the blood loss? She didn’t care enough to wonder further. Her wounds bled freely, but she made no effort to stop them. This was where she would die. The thought brought no fear, no regret, only a quiet acceptance, as unremarkable as watching the sun sink behind the horizon.


    At the altar’s base, she paused, swaying like a reed in the wind. Her legs felt as though they might buckle at any moment, but still, she lifted one foot. Then another. The climb began.


    The ascent was agonizing. Each step demanded everything she had left, her breaths shallow and rasping, her limbs leaden. The weight of her own body became an unbearable burden, and yet she pressed on, pulled by a compulsion she didn’t fully understand.


    Corpses littered the steps, their number growing with every painful stride. Bodies slumped and piled against one another, frozen in their final, desperate push toward the summit. Their faces blurred together, lifeless masks she didn’t recognize. Only their uniforms gave her pause, reminders of countless battles fought and lost, of those who had fallen alongside her, just to get to this point.


    She hesitated, her gaze lingering on the tangle of bodies. Was she searching for something? A familiar face among the dead? A small, impossible hope flickered within her, that someone from her unit had made it this far. That she wasn’t the only one. Would it have mattered? Would it have eased the crushing loneliness of this climb?


    The hope faded, leaving only the sound of her shallow breaths and the heavy thud of her feet against the stone. One step. Then another.


    And still, the summit waited.


    By the time she reached the top, her body was a trembling wreck. her back was hunched from exhaustion, and her broken spear dragged against the ground, more crutch than weapon.


    Still, she pressed forward.


    Ahead, at the far end of the altar, stood a lone statue. Once regal, now ravaged by time and violence. Its lower torso was fractured and scarred, leaving only fragments of its chest. One arm remained, extended outward, its hand open with palm raised, as though in eternal offering. Suspended above it, a glowing crystal hovered, a shard of radiance in the gloom. It pulsed softly, mesmerizing, a symbol of everything this conflict had cost.


    A harsh cough broke through the silence, followed by a rattling wheeze.


    She froze. The sound wasn’t hers.


    Her eyes flickered, scanning the space, and then she saw him. Slumped at the base of the statue, barely more than a shattered husk of a man. She did not expect what she initially assumed to be a corpse to still be alive. His left leg ended abruptly in a jagged stump just below the knee, crudely bandaged in blood-soaked cloth. A sword jutted from his chest. His right arm was gone entirely, torn from his shoulder in a mess of shredded armor and flesh.


    Yet he lived.


    He watched her approach, his gaze sharp and unyielding. Those eyes burned, fierce with a determination that mocked his ruined body.


    She moved closer, slow and unsteady, her breath shallow, her muscles threatening to betray her.


    The man wore plate armor, its foreign design still remained strange to her despite years of exposure. At his side lay a partly crushed helmet, the jagged remains of its once-pristine surface glinting faintly in the dim light. His surcoat bore the sigil of the Divine Cult, a knight of Nyros, the God of Beginning.


    She stopped just short of him, her gaze fixed downward on her enemy. He stared up at her, his face twitching, the anger mounting in his eyes. That’s when she saw it, the crest of the Guardian Knot emblazoned into his helmet, the embellishments on his armor excessive and ornate, overlapping streaks of gold in religious inscriptions. She knew of only one kind of people who wore such armor.


    "Realmwalker," she hissed, the word laced with disdain. Her expression, dark and unreadable a moment ago, now twisted into something sharper, colder. "So, it’s just us now. The last ones. Why is your filth so damn hard to kill?"Unauthorized use: this story is on Amazon without permission from the author. Report any sightings.


    He didn’t respond, didn’t make an effort to speak. His right hand clutched a crumpled piece of paper to his chest, shaking violently, as though it held his last shred of life. The world around them seemed to grow colder with each passing second. She struck his hand with the broken shaft, her movement swift and brutal, and snatched the paper from his trembling fingers.


    "Gi-give it... back," he managed to croak, his voice hoarse with desperation, his hand reaching for her, grasping at the air as if it could will the paper back into his grip.


    She held it up, the bloodstained sheet catching light, courtesy of a ceiling riddled with holes. The writing on it was foreign to her, strange and intricate, more symbols than letters. The paper was stiffer than any she had ever felt, despite being so thin. No... this wasn’t paper at all. She turned it over, her mind paused as something else was revealed.


    A painting. No, not just a painting. A miniature world captured on the small slip, vivid and lifelike, as though the image were a living thing trapped within the glossy surface. The strokes of color seemed to breathe, to pulse with a strange energy. She ran her thumb over the smooth surface, expecting to feel the grain of paint, the ridges of ink, but there was none of that. The surface was unnervingly smooth, almost unreal.


    The scene before her depicted the same dying man lying beneath her now, but younger, standing next to a girl and two older figures, whom she could only assume were his parents. They were all smiling, frozen in a moment of happiness that felt so distant, so foreign, like a memory long buried. A family portrait, perhaps.


    "Give it," he pleaded, the desperation in his voice now unmistakable. His earlier temper was gone, replaced by raw, unfiltered fear. His eyes, once fierce with defiance, were now wide with terror, searching for something he couldn’t grasp.


    “Did this come from your world? From before you came here?” she asked, dangling the object between her fingers. The faint glow of the hall’s cursed light reflected off the delicate, worn edges of the image.


    His breath hitched as his trembling hands stretched toward the photograph, just beyond his reach. Tears welled in his eyes, threatening to spill, but he couldn’t move, pinned in place by a body that no longer moved. Leaning heavily against a statue that held him upright, he could do nothing but sit there, arms outstretched in futile yearning, grief consuming him whole.


    “Give me your name,” she said, her voice as cold as the temple’s stone. “And I’ll give this artwork back to you.”


    “Seojin,” he whispered hoarsely, the word spilling from him like a confession. “I’m... Seojin.”


    Her head tilted, her expression unreadable. Then she smiled, faintly, "Odd name.” Without warning, she tore the photograph in half, the sound of ripping paper cutting through the silence like a blade.


    “No,” Seojin''s voice cracked, wide eyed, but she was already discarding the torn halves like scraps of trash. The photograph fluttered to the floor.


    She released her ruined spear, letting it clatter to the stone. “I am Elise, the Dragon Spear,” she declared, now drawing a dagger from her belt. “Burn my name into your soul, realmwalker, for I will be your last.”


    A scream tore from Seojin’s throat, not of fear or anguish, but of unbridled fury. The last remnant of his home, the fragile piece of his sanity, destroyed before his eyes. This cursed hall, this godforsaken temple, everything about this world. He did not choose this hell. He never asked for this. He committed no wrong! And at the center of it all stood the woman he now loathed with every fiber of his being. He cursed her. Her existence. Her name.


    Elise moved, swift and merciless. “Die!” she roared, the dagger flashing as it found its mark. The blade plunged deep into his neck, silencing his fury in an instant. Blood spilled, staining the stone floor beneath them, and his body collapsed in a lifeless heap.


    The hall returned to silence, save for Elise’s labored breaths. She wiped the blade clean with a flick of her wrist, her expression betraying no regret.


    [Level 57] > [53].


    She barely had the strength to stand, using the statue the dead realmwalker leaned against for support. The faint glow of the crystal flickering in her blurred vision. Her focus snapped back to the artifact.


    This is what it was all for? She stared at the levitating crystal in disbelief. This is the reason for the war? For the invasion? Seventy-two outerworlders, united in purpose. Three nations wiped from existence. Thousands—no, more—dead. All for this fucking relic?


    In a flash of rage, she yanked the crystal from where it rested, her fingers tightening around it with a force that felt almost desperate. She squeezed it, as if her raw will could reduce it to ash.


    [Level 53] > [48].


    This was it. Her body was failing. Every breath felt like it might be her last. Anger was the only emotion left she could afford to muster. But the relic had to be destroyed. If her life had any purpose, it would be to deprive the world of this. To spit in the face of the cult one last time. Anything that could taint the realmwalkers and everything they stood for. Revenge. Revenge...


    [Level 48] > [Error].


    With the last of her fading strength, she raised her dagger, the weight of it strangely light in her trembling hand. She brought it down on the crystal with all the fury left in her.


    And then, the world went dark.


    From the heights above, a dying god watched in silence, its fumes ragged, its form fading. The last vestiges of its strength faltered, but still, it laughed, its voice a soft, bitter echo in the vast expanse. How amusing. How utterly fitting. Its sibling would bear witness to this final, slight embarrassment, this moment of humiliation on the eve of victory. And in that moment, something inside it stirred, an old, forgotten resolve.


    It was decided then.


    This god would not go quietly into the void. It would not allow its sibling to claim victory so easily, it would not be consumed with such breeze, not while it still had the power to resist. This mortal, this unlikely vessel, would receive its first and final blessing. The last of its essence, its strength, its fire. If it was to die here, it would be only right to leave something behind. A gift, a curse, a defiance. This mortal would bear the weight of its struggle, just as the god had borne its own, defying its twin since the dawn of existence.


    A gift, born of whim. A fate, forged by chance. A mortal, chosen not by design, but by desire. With no choice in the matter but to accept, no way to turn back.


    Do as you will, the god thought. Do as you will with the last of my essence, oh, unfortunate creation. Struggle… for the mercy of a natural death will be denied to you.


    It smiled, not that it had a mouth, but a vision. A thought of pleasure. A smile full of obstinate, full of something ancient and defiant, as the god’s light began to fade into the dark, eternal void.


    [Elise Kenjigawa].


    [Title Acquired: Inheritor].


    [Skills Acquired: ???’s Blessing, Manifest Dominion, Chant of Conquest, Universal Speech].


    [Rebirth: Absolute. Effect: Immediate].