A/N: It's best if you do not skip the chapters before this, trust me on this.

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Zhang, Zor Empire. As/A Year: 3084.

Milen Geyr

The throb in his ear bashed against the sides of his skull, as the invasion from the woman's high pitched scream attacked it, pummeling his chest even more. From where he stood, he was buried in the sands of burning fire that towered into the sky, roaring and dancing around him like leaves in a cage twisting to the bellowing wind. Though he couldn't feel its scorch, he could tell they existed. The flames only grew, and as it did, so was his fattening heart crashing incessantly into the cages of his ribs, growing even larger and squeezing brusquely in, with the quick bliss of the swift impatient seconds running still.

Although his eyes were shut, he could still feel the presence of a myeiora-an aura. It was a familiar one he'd known for many nights now: warm yet with a gripping cold touch; voice breaking and words terse. Confinement oozed from it, wrapping him in a tight coil.

It spoke, he heard, and now he could see. Memories. Its not his. He could tell.

It was somber, and heavy with plight. The kind that leaves the eyes draped in black and overflowing veins of red.

There were swords, pain, screams; paintings of bright scarlet and sorrow. A premonition he knew not how to handle. So unlikely for someone like him to see visions, as he wasn't an Alnkra, or blessed with the flare for the sorcery of sight. But this was more than a vision, it was real; she was real and calling to him.

Her hands were stretched out for his, and the faster he ran for it, he farther it got. He couldn't reach her...she was too far gone. Lost. Stolen by fate and malice. Not dead. Lost.

He kept cursing himself for being late, and too frail to save her. Terror engraved it's petrifying claws over the gazes of his eyes, as he watched the same malicious dark clouds of choking scent and sheer madness, hovering over her like vultures encircling a rotting carcass. It extended slim shadowy arms that rushed at her legs, arms, waist and the back of her neck. It grabbed her, and pulled her into the sky, dragging her away until it vanished.

Her screams left an aftermath of reverberation, rippling through the canals of his ears.

He watched her evanesce as the cloud gobbled her into nothingness, and so did her myeiora. And like the last beat on a drum, everything stopped and the scene began to fade away.

It ended.

Blurry eyes, prickling sores of injuries, warm soft skin rubbing against his, the dream riled in terror, and urges to pee, ordered him awake. Sweat dripped, rolling between his scarred muscles, using the spaces between his abs as a pathway down as they dropped.

He sat up; his face coated with beads of perspiration, he looked into his palms. They were trembling violently. He folded them, but the quiver never ceased. It wasn't long before he took notice to his entire body, quaking ceaselessly. These tremors were scars from the unholy impacts from the demons that haunted his dreams and fed it mares.

Stealing a second, he closed his eyes, held his breath and sat still to calm the jetting nerves running wild within his flesh. He unfettered the mold of gas deep in his lungs, with it were most of his quivering, and he sprung up.

His flaccid testicles glued tautly to the side of his left leg as he leapt out of bed, and they began to dangle after he peeled it off, before making his way to the only door of his abode. The lightness within his skull, and the pain thoroughly probing the deep crannies of the back of his head, made him stagger and sway while motioning to the door.

Other than being embalmed by a dense mass of towering trees, he lodged in trailer right in the middle of the hovering canopies of leaves and multiple spotlights from the sun.

Old and rusted were the first details that caught the eyes on the very first view. Originally abandoned, he had transformed this very aged trailer into something habitable. With a quick glance of the exterior, the notches and fading white paint slowly revealing the silver tin within, and the decaying black lineation running over the corners and edges of the trailer, were palpable. One could feel the deflated gray leather tire silently sulking over its metal wheel bulging like a ledge, fairly golden and brown, with dirt patches sticking to its circular corner, brooding over its lack of use as the weight of the trailer was mounted on the wheels while the tire was mostly flat at the part next to the green marshy ground.

The Trailer wasn't connected to a bus, the only two tires were closer to the left end, causing the trailer's right end to lilt down as it rested on the ground, balanced. Stacked wood to a height were braced at the entrance, serving as an extended landing platform-a staircase of sorts.

The internal weren't poles apart from the outer. There were peeling black and white wallpaper, a fan poster of what should be a celebrity from before the ascension, and a kitchenette. Mentally, the trailer is envisioned to be cleaved into two halves with the door adjoining as the center-its current owner liked this balance. "It's keeps the yin-yang energy in harmony" he usually chanted to defend his wieldy directed OCD.

Eagerness were braided into his wobble lazy legs. His eyes were still heavy, but it was either he and his sack of weariness outside immediately, or the floor would be soiled in the mess he had locked tight within the pink walls of his bladder.

He needed to take a leak, but he couldn't do it inside.

Fresh warm breeze from the brook nearby lurched by his ears and invaded his face the instant the door swung open. The sky was mostly blue, but there were still traces of black clouds that held more acid than rain-a parting gift engraved from the last age, after the fourth world war.

He leapt, ignoring the woods bundled into stairs, and landed in front of laying pieces of chopped up logs. He watched the projected amber liquid burrow into the soil, foaming and letting free its pungent alcoholic stench as it bored into the earth. He shook his crotch, scratched his naked butt, and journeyed back to his trailer.

Irritated, he shot his foot to kick the empty liquor bottles blocking his path, made visible from the sun's ray the moment he opened the door. He watched one spin then roll and tumble, until it was stopped by the leg of a table. Unamused, he drew his eyes away from the bottle, and walked over to the mattress laying squirmingly on the floor, and lazily stared down at the two companies he had over the night: two whores, a red head and a blonde, pairs which he loaned from the local brothel-girls he would have to blindfold again when he'd be returning them to their pimp, to get his change.

He had hoped that watching the two ladies sleep in their nudes, would get him somewhat excited, yet it didn't. Only that it was a snare of intricately woven shades of boredom. The back of their necks immediately caught his eyes, as he stared at the barcodes of thin lines bundled together while imagining the tiny chip embedded behind it. After rubbing the back of his, even knowing that he lacked both the same codes and devices imprinted inside the girls' skin, he scoffed then yawned, as he looked away from them.

Nothing fun has happened to him in nearly four years. The only exciting thing he might've had these past weeks, would be the timely sex and booze.

Good sex always helped clear his mind, as much as alcohol does.

"Have they given up already?" Mockingly, his mind sneered as he imagined those times when he had to slit throats and slice through bones just to stay alive and running.

"I'm beginning to bore myself again!"
He spoke softly, before letting through a wide yawn, as he used the moment to scratch the itching brown furriness heaped round his lips and below the jaw, stretching across the sides of his face to the head. After a thorough scratch, in the same likelihood, his hands scampered about his chest as though in search of one musc of gold, which he ended before running his fingers through his raven black dreadlocks that shaded his lightly dark skin tone, with a sigh leaping over his lips.

He then bent over to pick the pants he had on the night before, sniffed the under leg area-it reeked of smoke, scotch, and over due sweat-and had his legs into it. The strap of the leather belt anchoring about his waist, nearly choked off blood to his torso, the moment he tugged it tighter as he clenched the belt's head over his groin.

Curious, he had his hands over his mouth, exhaled the warm breath from his throat, and sniffed it. The attacked from his morning breath first made him flinch, which he quickly shrugged off, and went on with adjusting the waistline of his trouser.

The left halve of the trailer housed a mattress, clothes and other junks he could find, while the other was a kitchenette, an old table, and his weapons.

Walking over to the right end of the trailer where sat the lazy-looking rickety old looking table with a coarse honey-brown surface, and a limping leg supported by a slightly smaller wood right underneath. His eyes carefully went over the items on it: a disembodied Glock 17 9mm pistol, a weapon with the rare antique class of the past age -near extinct; an army knife with one smooth razor sharp edge, and the other cut into tiny bundles of teeth; dozens of hand carved steel shurikens and silver bullets packed in black leather purses each; a pair of black leather gloves, a hunting rifle. Ñjir his katana (a relic) rested, sheathed, against the side of the table.

He pulled the only chair around closer, sat and rested his back first to let his weight settle, before leaning over to pick up the dismantled Glock pieces, which he began assembling. He held firmly the grip with his index finger placed lightly against the trigger. He drew out the pistol's magazine, filled in the missing bullets, cocked it, closed his imperfect right eye and aimed at the wall.

"Perfect!" He said under breath. Brought down the gun and began cleaning its muzzle. He placed it back on the table, after blowing away what looked like dust on its surface.

He stood, taking hold of the pair of gloves and dropping them on his shoulder, he bent down to look under the table where he pulled out a box with clanking sounds beaming from within, and took it out of the trailer.

He made his way through and over the pile of bottle and timber stacked all over the ground, and finally got to the side of the trailer with a motorcycle leaning against the walls of his abode. From where it rested, he moved the motorcycle to the front of the trailer, and squatted in and attempted to tinker it in a fix.

As he twisted the screw to set it loosed, a warm tingling rolled and swelled on the back of his neck, running heavily over his arms and down his back; he felt the myeiora of a stranger. He could sense it along with their menace, disappearing between the trees like the wind rustling through leaves.

He slowly placed the screw on the floor, and scattered his eyes, trailing the movement of his dangerous visitor. Looking with the sides of his eyes, he found them and swiftly jerked to his toes, and continued tracing them to sides, as his eyes were focused on the axis.

"I can smell you there," he paused and inhaled deeply "the jabbing stench of the corpse you will soon become, if you don't show your fucking self-"
He halted his threats to watch the knife thrown at him, cutting through the wind while it approached him. To him, the motion of the knife was as slow as the flapping fin of a whale.

He calculated his next move: catch it and throw it back, or dodge it altogether? He took a step back, bent his head to the left side, and watched the knife fly toward the tree behind him.

A person popped before him. They were clad in a black full body tights, laced with a belt of shuriken holsters. From the distance, through their hooded cowl, Milen could see their pale green eyes-their only visible feature. He also noticed their collection of daggers, sheathed at different areas on their person.

Something awry struck Milen about his assailant, forcing him to scoff, which led his lips twisting into a smirk that brimmed over his face.

His brows caved in as he watched his assailant pull out another dagger, flip it into the air, and grab it by the hilt. He could see the purple glow of energy pulsing through their arms, running down and bolstering their wrist and fingers, and its quick flash that flowed into the dagger, causing it to glow dully purple. The assassin then singled their range of attack on their target, and jetted the dagger at him.

"An artifact?" Milen's heart skipped noticing how extravagant his assailant was, which was later replaced with scorn.

Milen's feet glued, nerves steady, and mind set on a plan, he smirked again to mock his opponent, or rile them a bit. It did not work. His opponent was too confident of a hit, which he noticed from how their eyes buzzed with confidence.

A/N and Glossary:

1. Myeiora: Aura. The natural energy emitted. The denser the myeiora, the more powerful the individual. Normal mortals possess a distinct myeiora than magic users and martial artists.

2. Alnkra: Witches known for their unique ability to peer into future events

3. Gold Musc: Money/ the currency here is known as Musc. They range from Bronze, Silver, Gold, and Obsidian. One hundred bronze is a silver. Ten silvers are a piece of gold. And a thousand gold is an obsidian.

4. Relics are extremely rare weapons and tools imbued with magical properties. More advanced relics have a few druidic runes inscribed in it: the greater the number of runes on it, more effective the tool is in combination with its already imbued magic essence.

5. Artifacts are different from relics. They are either magic conductors or cannisters used to temporarily hold magic. Unlike relics, artifacts can be used as conduits for different properties of magic, depending on the attribute of the artifact to either contain the magic type or quantity of magic.