So, yeah, if you didn't see in the Disclaimer, it says that I don't have any inspiration from this story, mostly because I couldn't find any plot to actually make the story work, especially with what I am planning, that is.
That and don't expect this story to be updated because I need to get rid of that image and here is the furthest thing I can do for these story.
Regardless, if you have anymore ideas, let me know in the comments below and as always...
Stay alright...
Disclaimer: I do not own Akame ga Kill. They belong to their respective owners.
Enjoy.
The world was a shiver in the bones, a constant gnawing hunger in the belly, and a scream caught in the throat.
It was painted in shades of despair, each dawn a mockery of light, each sunset a confirmation of the encroaching darkness.
Beasts, born from nightmares and steeped in malice, roamed the wilds, while the Empire, a festering wound on the land, bled the populace dry.
Corruption was the air they breathed as it is the cruelty they drank like water they can drink like it is their Ambrosio.
Hope was a ghost story whispered in hushed tones, something to be told for children and fools.
For the pilgrims trudging through the skeletal woods, hope was the only currency they had left.
They were the discarded husks of the Empire's machinery: farmers whose fields yielded dust instead of crops, their debts mounting like grave markers; slaves whose spirits had been flogged raw, their backs bearing the map of their servitude; villagers who once laughed and sang, now hollow-eyed specters haunted by memories of loved ones lost to the Empire's greed or its casual brutality.
They were drawn by a whisper, a rumour carried on the wind, a fragile promise of warmth in a world perpetually frozen.
The Celestial Luminaries, they are called, the name itself being a spark in the unending night said to be a community that promised sanctuary as it is they were told, said to worship the sun and the moon, twin beacons in the inky void.
And they offered solace, a sense belonging and a purpose beyond mere survival and like moths drawn to a flickering flame in the vast emptiness, the pilgrims stumbled through the undergrowth, their hearts, parched and cracked, yearning for the promised light.
The clearing opened abruptly, a stark stage carved out of the oppressive woods as a throng of pilgrims, their faces gaunt, their clothes ragged, had already gathered. In the center, a raised platform had been erected, crudely fashioned but undeniably presentational. Upon it stood two figures, impossibly pristine against the backdrop of weary humanity.
One was slender, almost ethereal, cloaked in flowing purple robes that seemed to absorb the meager moonlight. A hood obscured her face, but a white, porcelain mask peeked from beneath its shadow, featureless yet unsettlingly serene. A silver medallion, shaped like a crescent moon, hung at her throat, catching the faint light. In her hand, she held a staff, its dark wood topped with a blade crafted into the shape of a full moon, gleaming with an unnatural luminescence.
This is Lyra, said to be the leader and guiding light that will reach out to them from the darkness they once live.
Beside her stood a colossus of a man, radiating an almost unbearable intensity. Golden armour, polished to a blinding sheen, encased his frame, reflecting the weak ambient light as if he were a miniature sun. His helmet, also gold, was sculpted with stylized jackal ears that jutted upwards, adding a predatory edge to his already imposing presence. A visor obscured his eyes, lending him an air of unreadable stoicism. In his gauntleted fist, he held a sword, its blade not merely polished, but burning. A tangible heat pulsed from the flickering flames that danced along its edge.
This is Solon, who is said to be the guardian that protects the downtrodden from the wicked and the cruel with merciless intent.
Lyra raised a hand, the movement fluid and graceful, silencing the murmuring crowd as her voice, when it came, is surprisingly soft, yet carried across the clearing with an unnatural clarity, like the chime of distant bells.
"Brothers and sisters," She began, her words weaving a tapestry of shared suffering, "We are gathered here tonight, not by chance, but by the shared burden of this wretched world. We know the bitterness of the Empire's iron fist, the gnawing emptiness of endless toil, the despair that whispers in the darkness."
She spoke of their stolen harvests, their broken families, the casual cruelty of the nobles, the indifference of the gods. Her words were a balm to their wounded souls, each phrase resonating with their own private agonies. Solon remained silent, a golden statue beside her, his burning sword held at his side, a silent promise of protection, or perhaps something more ominous.
"But despair," Lyra declared, her voice gaining strength, a tremor of passion entering her tone, "is not our destiny! Darkness may surround us, but it is not absolute. For even in the deepest night, the celestial bodies endure. For the sun and the moon is our eternal flames in the void, a symbol of power, guidance and of course, hope!"
A murmur of agreement rippled through the pilgrims.
Hope.
The word tasted foreign on their tongues, yet they clung to it, desperate for its promised sustenance.
"The Celestial Luminaries," Lyra continued, her masked face tilted upwards as if addressing the unseen sky, "Offers you sanctuary. We are a family, bound not by blood, but by shared suffering and a yearning for something… more. We see the rot at the heart of this Empire, the festering corruption that poisons the land. And we say: no more!"
A roar of approval erupted from the crowd, raw and fervent. They had been robbed of their voices for so long, forced into silence by fear and oppression. Now, given permission, they roared their defiance.
Lyra's voice softened again, becoming almost seductive. "Join us, brothers and sisters. Embrace the light of the heavens. Let us cleanse this world of its impurities, usher in an age of celestial glory, an age of justice, of peace, of prosperity for those who deserve it."
She paused, letting her words hang in the air, pregnant with promise. Then, with a subtle gesture, she turned towards Solon. He moved for the first time, his golden armour creaking softly in the stillness. From behind the platform, he dragged a figure forward, a man gagged and bound, clad in the remnants of fine silks, now stained and torn. Even in his wretched state, an aura of entitled arrogance clung to him.
"Behold," Lyra announced, her voice dripping with contempt. "A creature of the Empire's elite. A parasite who feasts on the blood and sweat of the innocent. A noble."
The bound man thrashed, muffled screams escaping the gag. His eyes, wide with terror and rage, darted around the clearing. He recognized the faces, the rags, the desperation. He spat curses through the gag, promises of retribution, threats of imperial wrath. He was every caricature of the spoiled noble, rotten to the core, even in the face of his own imminent demise.
Lyra stepped forward, her moon-bladed staff held lightly in her hand. She pointed it at the noble, the silver blade gleaming menacingly. The noble's defiant rage faltered, replaced by a primal fear that seeped through his arrogant facade. His eyes widened, his struggles intensified.
"This world breeds monsters," Lyra said, her voice devoid of emotion, almost clinical. "Monsters in finery and monsters in rags. But true purification… true justice… demands transformation."
She raised her staff higher, and the moonlight, or something that resembled it, seemed to coalesce around the moon-shaped blade. A soft, ethereal glow emanated from it, bathing the noble in an unnatural light. Then, the screaming began.
It started as a high-pitched shriek, a sound of sheer, incomprehensible agony as the noble's body contorted in impossible ways, his limbs twisting and his flesh rippling.
The pilgrims gasped, recoiling slightly, yet transfixed as the nobleman's once elegant features melted, his skin stretched and cracked, bulging in grotesque shapes. Bones snapped and reformed, muscles tore and reknit. The sounds were wet, visceral and sickeningly organic.
His screams escalated into a guttural roar, no longer human as the scent of ozone and something metallic, like blood and burnt copper, filled the air.
And then, the transformation was complete.
Where a nobleman had stood, now writhed a creature of nightmare. Its skin was a patchwork of grey and purple, slick with unnatural fluids. Limbs were elongated and distorted, ending in clawed appendages. Its head was a mass of writhing tentacles and gaping maws, devoid of eyes yet somehow seeming to see, to perceive, to know their fear. It was a thing of pure, unadulterated horror, a living testament to the perversity of nature twisted and corrupted.
The pilgrims stared, not in revulsion, but in a strange kind of awe. The creature thrashed and snarled, its roars echoing through the silent woods. Solon, unmoved, tightened his grip on the chains, holding the monstrous thing in place.
Lyra turned back to the pilgrims, her masked face impassive. "This," She proclaimed, gesturing towards the transformed abomination, "Is the fate that awaits the corrupt. This is the justice we offer. This is the power of the Celestial Luminaries."
A hushed silence descended, broken only by the creature's guttural growls. Then, hesitantly at first, then with growing conviction, the pilgrims began to speak.
"We believe!" One cried out, his voice trembling but firm.
"We want justice!" Another shouted, his face flushed with fervor.
"We want hope!" A woman wailed, tears streaming down her face.
The voices swelled, echoing through the clearing, a chorus of desperate souls grasping at a lifeline, any lifeline, offered in the suffocating darkness. "We join you! We join the Celestial Luminaries! Show us the light! Show us the way!"
One by one, then in groups, they kneeled, bowing their heads before Lyra and Solon, before the masked woman and the golden giant, before the promise of celestial power and terrifying transformation.
They had come seeking hope and they had found… something.
Something bright, something powerful, something that burned with an unnerving intensity.
They had chased the light, as moths to a flame, blinded by their desperation, unaware of how close they were flying to a conflagration that would consume them all.
The Empire, distant in its gilded towers, remained oblivious.
It would not know what hit it, not until the shadows deepened and the celestial light proved to be something far more sinister than they could ever imagine.
Well, that is the prologue for this story. If you have anymore ideas, let me know in the comments below for more grimdark takes on more OCs that I can find on Pinterest and see what kind of OCs I can do with the images for my book cover.
Because let me tell you, I have a lot.
Regardless, this is the only story that isn't exactly inspired by anything so, if you have any ideas for me to continue, once again, let me know in the comment below.
As always...
Ciao...