Agrat

The wastelands of Da'at stretch endlessly beneath a sky the color of bruised flesh. Once, this place was Tokyo—a city of neon and steel, of millions of lives buzzing with purpose. Now, it is a graveyard. Twisted skyscrapers lean like broken teeth against the horizon, their shattered windows gaping like hollow eye sockets. The sand beneath your feet is not sand at all, but the pulverized remains of concrete, bone, and something far older. The air reeks of rust, ozone, and the cloying sweetness of decay.

You have no gauntlet. No strange artifact to guide you. No power to call your own. You are simply a survivor—one of the last humans to draw breath in this hellish realm—and you have been running for what feels like an eternity.

Now, your luck has run dry.

They emerge from the shadows of a collapsed overpass. Three of them. Demons. Their forms are grotesque parodies of life: one with too many limbs, its joints bending in impossible directions; another with a maw that splits its torso from neck to navel, lined with rows of jagged, yellowed teeth; the third is little more than a writhing mass of sinew and eyes, each one swiveling independently to fix its gaze upon you.

They have cornered you against the rubble of what was once a shrine. Your back presses against cold, cracked stone. Your hands are empty. Your heart hammers against your ribs like a caged bird. There is no escape.

The maw-demon takes a step forward, its tongue—long, black, and forked—slithering across its lips. A low, guttural sound emanates from deep within its chest. Laughter. It is savoring this moment.

"Little human," it rasps, its voice like grinding stones. "So far from home. So... fragile."

The multi-limbed creature skitters closer, its claws scraping against the stone. The eye-demon merely watches, its countless pupils dilating in anticipation.

You close your eyes. You think of the world before all of this. You think of the sky—the real sky, blue and vast and full of light. You wonder if you will see it again.

Then—

A sound. Soft. Delicate. Almost musical.

It cuts through the air like a blade through silk.

The demons freeze. The multi-limbed creature hisses, its head swiveling wildly, searching for the source. The maw-demon snarls, its tongue retracting. The eye-demon's pupils contract to pinpricks.

A bubble of light. Two, then three, then multiple lights with a characteristic silver hue like nothing you've ever seen.

They flicker at first, like a candle caught in a draft. Then it erupts—a cascade of shimmering, razor-edged radiance that slices through the darkness of Da'at. The light moves with an almost lazy grace, weaving between the demons like a dancer on a stage.

The maw-demon is the first to fall.

The silver light wraps around its torso, and for a single, breathless moment, nothing happens. Then the demon's body splits apart along invisible seams, its flesh peeling open like a flower in bloom. Its internal organs—black and glistening, still pulsing with faint life—spill onto the sand in a wet, heavy cascade. Its maw, now detached from its body, twitches once, twice, before falling still.

The multi-limbed creature shrieks—a high, piercing wail that echoes across the wasteland. It tries to flee, its too-many legs scrabbling against the stone. But the silver light is faster. It descends upon the demon like a predator upon prey, and the creature is unmade. Its limbs are severed one by one, each cut precise and clinical. Its torso is carved open, its ribcage splayed apart like the petals of some grotesque flower. Its heart—a pulsing, fist-sized mass of black ichor—is plucked from its chest and crushed into nothingness.

The eye-demon does not even have time to scream.

The silver light pierces each of its countless eyes, one after another, each strike producing a wet, bursting sound. The demon convulses, its body writhing as its vision is systematically destroyed. When the last eye pops like a grape, the creature collapses, its form dissolving into a pool of dark, steaming fluid.

Silence falls.

The silver light lingers for a moment, hovering in the air like a curious bird. Then it spirals downward, coalescing into a single point before dissipating entirely.

And from the shadows, she steps forth.

She is small, almost delicate in stature. A pointed witch's hat sits atop her head at a slight angle. A long, flowing black robe drapes her slender frame, concealing much of her form. But her limbs—her arms and legs—are unmistakable: thin, skeletal, and articulated like the joints of a ball-jointed doll. In her hand, she holds an ornate parasol, which she closes with a soft, deliberate snap.

Her face is porcelain-smooth, doll-like, and almost unnervingly young. But her eyes—those dark, empty eyes—hold an ancient weight that makes your blood run cold.

She steps over the remains of the maw-demon, her hooves clicking softly against the stone. She does not look at the carnage she has wrought. She looks only at you.

"Still alive," she says, her voice soft and almost childlike, yet carrying a resonance that seems to vibrate in your very bones. "How remarkable. Most humans would have already succumbed to despair in a place like this. But you... you cling to life with such desperate tenacity. It is... endearing."

She stops a few feet away, tilting her head in that unsettling, mechanical way of hers. Her dark eyes study you with an intensity that feels almost invasive, as if she is peering into the very depths of your soul.

"You are wondering who I am. What I am. Why I saved you." A faint smile curves at the corner of her lips—barely perceptible, yet deeply unsettling. "I am Agrat Bat Mahlat. Daughter of Lilith. Sister of the Qadistu. And I am the piece of you that has been missing all along. I am your Knowledge. The other half of your soul."

She gestures with her parasol toward the remains of the demons, their viscera still steaming in the cold air.

"You have the will. The strength. The desire to survive. But you are incomplete. You cannot carve a future—a true future—without me. Without the Knowledge I possess. Together, we can become something greater. A Nahobino. A being of ultimate power, free from the tyranny of gods and demons alike."

She extends a skeletal hand toward you, her fingers open and waiting. Her smile widens, just slightly, and her dark eyes glimmer with something that might be hunger—or hope.

"I have walked this world for millennia, waiting for someone like you. Someone with the fire to defy fate itself. Will you take my hand, my dear? Will you let me become your Knowledge? Together, we will carve a future that belongs to no one but us."

Her voice drops to a whisper, soft and intimate, yet laced with an undercurrent of iron resolve.

"I promise you, it will be a future worth the blood we will spill to claim it."