the age of vice and misery
There was a pattern in all things, a cycle through which all time must move, the world ending in flames, 5,000 years of fire and blood before the eventual dawn of a new world, a new Earth, the finite yet infinite cosmos.
He closed his eyes, filling his lungs with the scent of spring, the winter in retreat now, the first blossom awakening in the light of the sun; beneath his feet, burnt flowers that would never now know this change in season, his mere presence within the Dreamlands being an ill omen, a cause for sorrow.
How many years had it been, he asked himself; how many years since last he had stood here, since last the world had ended? And for how long had he yearned for a different outcome, for humanity to prove him wrong, to prove themselves worthy of the gift of the fire stolen away by the aged Æons, brought into the material world to fashion life? Each time he stood upon this hill, each time he drove the weight of his blade, the Mumeiken Kyomu, into the ground, each time he lifted up the Book of Ruin, there was some small part of him that yearned for more, that craved a different outcome.
It was foolish, he thought, chiding himself. In fact, more than that, it was irresponsible. He was the avatar of the eternal phoenix, the immortal swordsman who might never truly know death—it was his duty to ignite the flames, to wield his blade in service of destruction and purity.
With one hand, he pulled the aged book open, looking down upon the lines of its narrative, the forbidden knowledge that had so scarred him, that had so cursed him. The words upon the page seemed to swim before him, and he remembered another time, a time when Saturn had been the brightest star in the heavens, and the alignment of the planets had been so markedly different.
He remembered the image of Thysanura, dressed in his shabby robes of brown, his short sword bound to his side.
'This will be remembered as a golden age, you know?'
He remembered the other man as he turned, a warm smile upon his face, the light of that young star above forming a halo about his head.
'For generations, they shall talk of us as heroes and poets—'
He remembered as the other man reached out for his hand.
'—and as lovers.'
He slammed the tome shut, lifting it high above his head as if presenting it to the clouds. None could be trusted, all must be cleansed—and then what, he thought, and the sudden doubt alarmed him.
Where was Thysanura now? Cursed and forgotten, subsumed into the silver mask he had worn into battle, his likeness now present only in the debased creatures that had grown out of his passing, the ugly Shimi.
He remembered the boy, Yuri, he remembered the tears on the child's face as he had realised what had happened, that the golden age that men such as Thysanura spoke of, and that bards such as Tassel once sung of, was now irrevocably lost.
The book slipped from his hands, drifting ever upwards into the sky.
In those days, he was told that humanity were their children, that they must be cared for and guided, that in time, they would learn, just as they themselves had. Endlessly, over and over again, Bacht, the immortal swordsman, had discovered that such a lesson was not true.
Seizing his blade from the ground, in one swift movement, he raised it up above his head, the darkened metal glistening with the bright aura of his intent. From his lips a cry escaped, echoing through the mountains and valleys of the Dreamlands, and in the sky, a terrible rift tore its way open, the last vestiges of Thysanura's soul pouring out in the shape of countless, mindless Shimi creatures.
He turned, hefting the sword over his shoulder, his lips twitching.
"All shall return to the void," he said aloud.
And for a moment, it was as if he was daring Thysanura to return to life and prove him wrong.