Chapter 2: Ashes and Echoes

Ash fell like dying snow, whispering across the scorched bones of Arcadia.

Kael Raikuro stirred beneath a crust of blackened rubble, breath ragged, his thoughts fractured. The last thing he remembered was the shattering scream of the sky—and the taste of molten steel as the Hellsteel core sank into his chest. Now, silence ruled the world. Not peace. Not calm. Just the stillness after a massacre.

He forced himself upright, the armor shifting with him, whispering with infernal whispers that weren’t entirely his own. The Hellsteel had taken root deep inside him. Grafted to his bones. To his soul.

Initiation complete. Combat interface active.

The voice was not human. Cold. Precise. Somewhere within the suit, something alive pulsed.

Raikuro blinked against the swirling ash. All around, Arcadia was a grave. Towers once ablaze with celestial light lay cracked like eggshells, their luminous cores flickering dimly in ruin. Streets that once bustled with arc-tech and sanctified life were now rivers of soot.

He stumbled toward the nearest spire, a jagged thing now, half-fallen. The Hellsteel responded to his will—boosting his stride, whispering threats in forgotten tongues. Somewhere inside the armor, memories he hadn’t lived flickered like dying stars.

Then came the sound.

A skitter. A chitter. Then the heavy exhale of something that still breathed in this broken place.

Raikuro ducked instinctively. A blur of shadow crashed into the wreckage where he’d just stood. Out of the haze came a creature—part-wolf, part-machine, all demon. Glowing red sigils pulsed along its ribcage like exposed circuitry. It snarled, jaw unfolding in unnatural angles.

He didn’t think—he moved.

The Hellsteel surged. His fist became a blade of obsidian fire, and he slashed. Sparks screamed into the air. The demon reeled, ichor spraying. It lunged again.

But Raikuro was faster now. Stronger. Wrong, something in him whispered.

A second strike cleaved through the thing’s skull, and it collapsed in a heap of twitching limbs and shattered glyphs.

He stood over it, panting. The suit hissed softly, cooling itself with a faint steam venting from the shoulder plates.

Then something new happened.

The demon’s body pulsed once—and unraveled into black mist. The mist spiraled toward Raikuro’s chest, as though drawn by a hidden gravity. It vanished into the Hellsteel core, which flared briefly with crimson light.

Demonic essence absorbed. Arsenal fragment forming…

Pain stabbed through his spine. His mind was split in two for a heartbeat—part him, part the demon. Then the pain receded, and in his right arm, a shape began to forge itself: a curved glaive, not of steel, but of scorched bone and soul-iron.

He dropped to one knee, breathing hard.

“What the hell are you turning me into…?”

No answer. Only the wind, and the distant scream of another demon in the ruins.

The hours passed. Or maybe days. Time no longer obeyed here.

Raikuro moved through the husk of Arcadia like a phantom, fighting to stay alive—and sane. The suit fed him tactical overlays, weapon formations, and a growing list of absorbed soul echoes. Each battle made him faster, more deadly—but less human.

He found no living soul. Only echoes. Only wreckage.

Until he reached the Temple of Aetherion.

Once a beacon of light, now split open like a carcass. Inside, the crystal archives still glowed, flickering in fits and starts. Raikuro approached one—hands trembling—and activated it.

A soft holograph flared.

“Kael… if you’re seeing this… then Arcadia has fallen.”

He froze.

It was her. Lysia.

Her voice trembled, but her eyes were steady. “You have to keep going. The Hellsteel will try to change you. But don’t let it. You’re not a weapon—you’re my husband. You’re Raikuro.”

She reached for something offscreen. “There’s a shard here. A soul fragment. Use it to remember me.”

The crystal dimmed.

Raikuro fell to his knees before the altar, the shard in his hand.

He could feel her there. A warmth, a presence—like sunlight through leaves.

And then the scream returned. No, not his wife’s. Something else. A roar. Nearer now. The sky outside trembled as wings beat down like thunder.

The Demon General was coming.

He rose slowly, the shard tucked away, the glaive in hand. His armor sealed tighter, adapting. Readying. Becoming.

Arcadia was dead.

But Raikuro was not.

Not yet.