Darkness clung to Xayne's mind like molasses, sticky and slow.
His thoughts staggered, nausea rolling through him like waves crashing against jagged stone. He felt unmoored, detached, like the world had turned inside out and left him somewhere in the void. For a while, there was nothing but haze—his body numb, his senses dulled.
Then, gradually, pain crept back in. A dull throb in his ribs. A sharp sting in his back. His muscles ached as if he'd been hurled through a wall, which, recalling the last few moments before his blackout, wasn't far from the truth.
"Shit... what..." he muttered, or at least thought he did. His voice didn't reach his ears.
The last memory came back like a hammer to the skull—the descending shadow, the crushing force of its landing, the way he'd been flung like a ragdoll into the statue, bones groaning under the sheer impact. He should have died. He was certain he had.
And yet—he felt pain. That alone meant he was alive. Somehow.
Who knew I was this durable? Definitely not me.
His eyes fluttered open, braced for screams and the cacophony of destruction. Instead, he was greeted with... silence.
And light.
The sky above was a tapestry of stars, endless and bright, swirling gently with threads of ethereal mist that painted galaxies across the firmament. He was lying in golden grass, its blades tall and soft like silk, rustling lightly in an unseen breeze.
The air was crisp, cool but not cold, scented faintly with lavender and something metallic like ozone. Hills of the same golden grass rolled around him, dotted with delicate crystalline trees whose translucent leaves shimmered in pale hues of blue and rose.
Far off, a silver river coursed lazily through the land, reflecting constellations in its mirrorlike surface.
It was beautiful. Surreal.
Too surreal.
Xayne groaned as he tried to push himself up but barely managed a half-rise before slumping back. His body was still wrecked, muscles unresponsive. But one thing had not left him.
The book.
He was still clutching the golden Tome like his life depended on it. The glow from it was fainter now, like a heartbeat instead of a beacon. He stared at it, then scanned the horizon.
"What the hell is this place..." he muttered.
And then he noticed the figure.
Standing a few meters away, bathed in the soft star-glow, was a man. Tall, clothed in a simple plain black shirt and pants that shimmered with each subtle movement. His back was turned revealing the golden sun on the shirt's back, hands clasped behind him, eyes fixed upward to the celestial dome above.
There was an air about him—not just calm, but ancient. Purposeful.
"Hey!" Xayne barked, his voice finally breaking free. "Where the hell are we? What the fuck is going on?"
The man didn't respond immediately. Xayne was about to yell again when he finally spoke, voice like smooth stone.
"So, you're what's left."
Xayne blinked. "What? What the hell does that mean?"
The man went on, as if lost in his own musings. "To think their end would come so soon... Unexpected. I should have prepared for such a development, yet here I am."
"What the fuck are you on about? Prepared? Who even are you?"
Still, the figure ignored him.
"Had I known they would fall to extinction this swiftly, I would have taken greater measures. Greater safeguards."
That word.
Extinction.
Xayne's pulse spiked. "Wait. Wait, what do you mean extinction? What the hell are you talking about?!"
Finally, the man went still. Silent. Then:
"What else would I be speaking of? The Axiar."
A cold slither crept down Xayne's spine. His breathing slowed. He stared at the man, heart thudding.
"What do you know about them?" he asked, voice tight with a blend of anger and dread. "How do you know that?"
He knew it was a pretty stupid question, after all nearly everyone in the Eight Realms knew about the demise of the Axiar.
But for some reason, he felt that this question was the best one to pick.
"What don't I know about them?" the man replied.
And then, with a single smooth pivot, he turned around.
The sight stole the air from Xayne's lungs.
The man's face was nearly the same as his own.
"After all," the figure said, calm as ever, "I am the one who created them."
And Xayne, for once in his life, was speechless.
He stared at the man before him, the shock of his words not yet settling in. His mind reeled.
He looked at the man's face, at first convinced it was identical to his own, but now that he examined closer, the differences stood out sharply.
The man's face was unmarred, smooth and refined, absent of the scars that ran along Xayne's own. A full, neatly cut beard adorned his jawline—something that gave him a regal and composed presence.
His long, dark hair was braided in thick cords like a Viking warlord, stark against Xayne's slightly shorter and unkept style. He looked older—perhaps in his early forties—and yet somehow timeless, a presence etched into the fabric of the world.
But what unsettled Xayne most were his eyes. Vibrant gold, like twin suns in a twilight sky, they burned with something ancient and absolute.
Apart from those traits, it was like looking into a mirror twisted through time. A mirror showing a version of himself that had walked a far different path.
And that was what bothered him most.
His throat dry, body aching, Xayne fought against the weakness clinging to him. His muscles screamed but he forced himself to his knees. Sweat dripped from his brow as he hissed through clenched teeth from the pain, glaring at the figure.
"Are you... The Original Paragon?" he rasped.
For a moment, silence. The man said nothing, golden eyes simply watching.
Xayne's voice rose slightly, pushing past the resistance of his limbs, the tension of the unreal golden field around them. "Answer me! Are you the one who started this shit?!"
At last, the man spoke, his tone flat. "That is the title the people of Mythiax gave me."
Xayne's heart skipped. That wasn't denial.
"So you're agreeing. That is who you are."
"Yes."
There was no triumph in the confirmation. Just cold affirmation. It made it worse.
Xayne had a thousand words. A thousand curses he wanted to throw. But none came out. Not yet.
He clenched the golden book in his hands tighter, its familiar warmth oddly comforting, anchoring him.
"You died," he said. "Over five hundred years ago. That's what the records say. So what the hell are you doing here? What is this place? And what the hell is going on?!"
The man tilted his head slightly, as though Xayne were a bothersome breeze. "You're quite rude."
"Yeah, well, I don't exactly have a reason to be polite to the one who cursed my entire bloodline and ruined my life."
That earned a reaction. A flicker—barely visible—crossed the man's golden eyes. Not guilt. Not pain. Something else. Interest.
"And why are you angry with me?"
Xayne snarled. "Don't turn this around. Answer the damn question."
There was a pause. Then, as if Xayne had passed a threshold, the man relented.
"Very well. You're here because of my Codex."
Xayne blinked. "What?"
"The book in your hand," he said, nodding to the golden tome. "That is my Codex. The physical manifestation of my legacy as an Unchained. And I am here because the Codex brought forth my remnants. Or more accurately, because it is my right to witness my successor."
Xayne's brows furrowed. Confusion twisted into suspicion.
"What do you mean yours? This book... this is supposed to be my inner existence. My soul turned to form. My key to fully becoming Unchained. How could it be yours?"
"Because it is," the man said simply. "Or rather, it was."
Xayne stared at him, trying to parse the meaning from those simple words.
"You wouldn't understand fully," the man continued, tone still maddeningly even. "And it would take too long to explain. But know this: the Codex you now hold is not born solely of your soul. It is part of a legacy I buried deep within the Axiar. A fragment meant to endure. Meant to awaken when the seals protecting Mythiax finally began to fracture."
He took a step forward, slow, calm.
"You, Xayne, are the last of the Axiar. The final ember in a long-forgotten fire. That makes you my successor. Not by merit. Not by choice. But because you are the only one left."
Xayne's breath caught in his chest.
Successor?
He wasn't ready for that word. Not in the mouth of a man who looked like him. Not spoken by the very person the world called the greatest savior—and he called his greatest enemy.
The Original Paragon.
Xayne's head lowered as he stared down at the golden grass beneath him, his mind a churning storm of emotions.
The silence stretched between them, the air thick with the weight of what had just been revealed. His hands clenched, the Codex held so tightly his knuckles blanched. He didn't speak for a moment. There was nothing to say—not yet.
He slowly raised his head, golden strands of grass brushing against his skin as he looked toward the man who bore his face. The golden eyes—like twin suns—met his own without wavering. They burned not with rage or kindness, but with certainty, a maddening, immortal calm.
"So," Xayne finally said, voice low but firm, "was it your Legacy that made the Liberation Tome declare my destiny white?"
The man blinked slowly, surprise flickering behind his radiant gaze. "They still use that?" he said, almost to himself, as if speaking of an old relic long forgotten. "I didn't expect that old thing to survive this long."
Xayne's voice hardened. "Answer the damn question."
The man turned his attention fully back to Xayne, unbothered. "Yes. My Legacy doesn't just carry the remnants of my power—it holds the trajectory of my entire destiny. So, of course, the Tome reacted that way. I am one of the only ones it would react that way to."
Xayne exhaled sharply through his nose. "So what else does your Legacy include?"
"Everything," the man said, as if that was the most obvious thing in the world. "Everything my successor needs to walk the path I walked. My techniques, my instincts in combat, my mastery of Runes and the Codex, even..." He tilted his head slightly. "Even my capabilities in private."
Xayne scoffed, a short, bitter sound. "Great. Just what I needed."
But his tone darkened again. He narrowed his eyes. "Something like that... it should be priceless. Enough to start wars. So what's the catch?"
The man raised a brow, clearly bemused. "Catch?"
"Yeah. What's the price?" Xayne pressed, his voice rising slightly. "Don't tell me I just get all that for free."
"There is no price," the man answered plainly. "You've inherited everything. All that's required is that you carry out the duty that comes with it."
Xayne stilled. "What duty?"
"To protect the world of Mythiax," the man said, tone completely even, as though stating the weather. "To guard all its races from the threats that crawl from the Outer Realm. From the Conflicts that emerge from that madness."
The words sank into Xayne like a stone dropping into the ocean. He stared at the man, mouth slightly open.
"Repeat that," he said slowly.
"You are now the bearer of my Legacy," the man repeated, "and with that, you've inherited the duty I swore myself to: to protect this world from the Outer Realm and the Conflicts that seep through it."
Rage boiled in Xayne's chest.
"No," he said, low and sharp. "That's your duty."
The man's head tilted slightly. "You have no choice. The Axiar were created to serve this very purpose. That purpose still lives within you. It is who you are."
Xayne gritted his teeth, forcing his shaking body to rise. One knee first. Then with effort, to his feet. The golden Codex glowed dimly in his hand, as if pulsing with his breath.
He stared hard into the eyes of the man who called himself the Original Paragon—his supposed predecessor. His golden eyes blazed with defiance.
"That," Xayne said, voice low and trembling with fury, "is your duty..."