The void breach gaped before Riven like a jagged wound ripped into the shadowed realm’s heart, a maw of shadow and violet light pulsing with a sick, hungry rhythm, its edges fraying reality into threads of chaos that snapped and curled in the air. Black sand churned beneath his boots, swirling in violent eddies, a storm of grit blasting his face, stinging his skin raw, a howling wind screaming through the peaks with a voice that wasn’t wind but a thousand tortured cries clawing at his ears. The air reeked of rot and ash, a choking miasma that burned his throat, thick with the void’s rancid breath, a stench that promised death to anything foolish enough to step inside.
Riven stood at the rift’s edge, the Archive Shard clutched in his left fist, its golden runes blazing like a dying star, a fierce light cutting through the dark, a lifeline trembling in his grip as Lyra’s voice—“Riven… help…”—echoed from its depths, a desperate wail that set his blood on fire. His right hand gripped his sword, the blade dripping with the memory of ichor, its edge notched and scarred, a weapon baptized in shadow and ready to carve her freedom from this hell. His cloak whipped behind him, shredded ends snapping like a war banner, soaked in sweat and blood, a rag that carried the weight of every fight, every loss, every fucking tear he’d shed for her.
His life force roared inside him, a feral ember raging against the grief tearing him apart, a flame fed by the Void’s cold, creeping threads stitching his wounds, a dark pulse pounding through his battered flesh, keeping him upright when he should’ve collapsed long ago. His stamina was a shred, a ragged gasp clinging to his bones, every breath a snarl, his lungs screaming as the void’s weight crushed his chest, but he’d crawl through this shit if it meant reaching her. Black veins throbbed beneath his skin, pulsing wild and alive, shadow surging through him like a storm, a power that steadied his shaking hands, a tide of fury rising to drown the dark.
The Veilborn Interface burned at the edge of his sight, its obsidian frame shuddering like a caged beast, crimson tendrils snaking thick and fast, a mirror to the corruption eating his soul, a warning he ignored because Lyra was in there, and he’d let it consume him to drag her out. A flicker—Corruption Rising—flashed across his vision, a hiss in his mind, a toll for the shadow he’d wield, a price he’d pay in blood and bone to hear her voice again.
Behind him, the strike team braced, their shadows jagged against the sand, a handful of Veilborn forged in fire and loss, their eyes blazing with a mix of fear and grit. The scarred warrior stood at his flank, longsword drawn, its steel glinting cold and cruel, his face a mask of scars and steel, his breath steady despite the void’s howl, a rock Riven leaned on when the world cracked. The young Veilborn clutched his short blade, knuckles white, his chest heaving, his shadow flickering like a candle in a gale, a kid turned warrior by blood and desperation. The woman flanked them, her blade unsheathed, its edge a gleam of defiance, her scowl carved deep, her eyes locked on the breach, a storm of doubt and fire ready to burn.
Riven’s heart slammed against his ribs, Lyra’s voice a whip cracking through his skull, a call he’d follow into the abyss and beyond. “We go in—now!” he roared, his voice a guttural snarl ripping through the wind, raw and fierce, a strength born of rage and love surging through him, a command that lit their eyes with purpose. He didn’t wait—couldn’t wait—charging forward, boots pounding the sand, the shard’s light a spear piercing the dark, a warrior diving headfirst into hell for her.
The breach swallowed them, its edges snapping shut like teeth, a wall of shadow slamming around them, a suffocating weight that crushed the air from their lungs, a cold so deep it burned, a darkness so thick it clawed at their eyes. The ground vanished, sand giving way to a void of swirling black, a freefall that twisted his gut, gravity gone rogue, the world bending and breaking as they plunged deeper. Riven’s senses screamed, the Veilborn Interface pulsing wild, crimson tendrils flaring, a map of madness flickering in his sight—Void Distortion Detected—a warning he didn’t need when the air itself tried to choke him.
Shapes erupted from the dark—voidspawn, twisted fucks of shadow and claw, their bodies a mess of writhing tendrils and jagged teeth, eyes glowing violet like hellfire, a swarm rushing them mid-fall. Riven warped, shadow tearing through space, a flicker of darkness that shredded his stamina’s last scraps, landing amid the bastards, his sword slashing Shadow Strike in a crescent of void that ripped through their hides, ichor spraying black and hot across his face, a howl tearing from his throat—“Lyra!”
The impact jolted his arms, a brutal shock that rattled his bones, the strike carving a voidspawn in half, its scream a wet gurgle as it dissolved, a rush of experience slamming through him, a surge that fueled his next swing, a spark of rage in the chaos. Another lunged, claws raking for his chest, and he ducked, the wind of it slicing his cheek, blood dripping warm and coppery, a sting he ignored as he drove his blade up, gutting it, ichor soaking his hands, a roar of defiance shaking the void.
The scarred warrior hit the fray, his longsword flashing in brutal arcs, steel meeting shadow with a screech, hacking a voidspawn’s tendrils clean off, black ooze splattering the air, his snarl a war cry cutting through the hum. The young Veilborn landed hard, sand erupting around him, his blade thrusting wild and fierce, piercing a voidspawn’s eye, its violet light dimming as it shrieked, his cry raw and ragged, a kid fighting for his life. The woman spun in, her blade a blur, slashing a tendril mid-strike, severing it with a wet snap, her scowl twisting into a feral grin, a warrior born anew in the bloodbath.
The breach warped around them, walls of shadow pulsing like a living thing, the hum swelling to a deafening roar, a tempest that shook their skulls, Lyra’s voice cutting through—“Riven… here…”—closer now, a desperate thread pulling him deeper. His chest burned, every swing a plea, every kill a step toward her, his soul a wildfire blazing through the dark, a man who’d tear the void apart to hold her again.
A voidspawn lunged for the young Veilborn, claws gleaming, its maw gaping wide, a scream tearing from its throat, a deathblow aimed at his heart. Riven warped, shadow ripping him through space, his stamina a dying gasp, crashing into the kid, shoving him aside as the claws slashed his shoulder, a searing pain exploding through him, blood soaking his arm, a snarl ripping from his lips—“Not him, you fuck!”
The impact threw him back, sand and shadow blurring, his life force flickering wild, the Void’s threads surging to mend the gash, corruption flooding his veins, black veins pulsing thicker, a roar of agony and rage shaking his frame. He swung blind, Shadow Strike tearing through the voidspawn’s chest, ichor erupting in a geyser, its body crumpling, a rush of experience flooding him, a lifeline that kept him standing, a warrior breaking but unbowed.
The young Veilborn scrambled up, eyes wide with terror and gratitude, his voice a cracked yell—“Riven!”—a plea that anchored him, a bond forged in blood. The scarred warrior roared, hacking another voidspawn down, his blade a whirlwind, his shadow fierce against the dark, a rock holding the line. The woman slashed through a tendril, her cry sharp and fierce, her blade dripping black, a storm of defiance at his side.
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The breach pulsed, a wave of void energy slamming them, a force that staggered their footing, Lyra’s voice louder—“Riven… hurry…”—a beacon in the chaos, a call that drove his blade, his heart, his fucking soul. His crimson eyes burned, blood and ichor streaking his face, the shard’s light clashing with the darkness within, a warrior plunging deeper into hell, a vow to drag her out or die trying.
The voidspawn swarmed, a tide of shadow and teeth, the breach’s walls closing tighter, a trap snapping shut, a hell they’d fight through together. Riven’s roar echoed, raw and primal, a man possessed, his team’s blades flashing at his back, a band of survivors clawing through the dark, a desperate plunge into the maw for her.
The void breach swallowed Riven whole, a suffocating abyss of shadow and violet chaos, its walls pulsing like a living lung, squeezing tighter with every ragged breath he tore from the air, a hell that wanted to crush them into nothing. The ground beneath his boots warped and buckled, black sand twisting into jagged spikes that stabbed at his soles, a floor alive with malice, shifting with every step to throw him off, a trap that laughed at their defiance. The hum roared louder, a deafening pulse that rattled his skull, a thousand voices screaming in unison, Lyra’s cry—“Riven… hurry…”—cutting through the din, a lifeline pulling him deeper, a beacon he’d bleed to reach.
He charged forward, the Archive Shard blazing in his left fist, its golden runes a wildfire scorching the dark, a light that burned his palm, a desperate flare against the void’s hunger, a promise to her he’d never break. His sword swung in his right, Shadow Strike igniting its edge, a crescent of void slashing through the air, a blade baptized in rage and blood, dripping with ichor from the last kill, a weapon that sang with every strike, a howl for Lyra echoing in its steel. His cloak streamed behind him, a tattered flag shredded by the wind, soaked in sweat and gore, a rag that carried her memory, a weight he’d drag through this shit to hold her again.
His life force raged inside him, a feral ember clawing against the void’s grip, a flame dimmed by pain and loss, fed by the Void’s cold, creeping threads stitching his shoulder’s gash, a dark pulse pounding through his veins, keeping him alive when his body screamed to quit. His stamina was ash, a flicker crumbling under the strain, every swing a snarl, his lungs on fire, his chest a furnace of agony and will, a man running on fumes and fury. Black veins throbbed wild beneath his skin, pulsing like a heartbeat, shadow surging through him in violent waves, a power that steadied his shaking hands, a tide of wrath drowning the dark.
The Veilborn Interface burned in his sight, its obsidian frame shuddering like a beast breaking free, crimson tendrils snaking thick and fast, a mirror to the corruption clawing his soul, a warning he spat at—Corruption Critical—flashing red, a hiss in his mind, a toll he’d pay in blood to hear her voice, to feel her light, to rip her from this fucking abyss. He didn’t care—let it take him, let it burn him, as long as she got out.
The Veilborn fought at his back, their shadows a jagged line against the void’s madness, a band of survivors carved from fire and ruin, their blades flashing in the dark, their cries raw and fierce. The scarred warrior hacked through a voidspawn, his longsword a brutal arc of steel, tearing tendrils apart, ichor spraying across his scarred face, his roar a rock in the storm, a man who’d die before he broke. The young Veilborn swung wild, his short blade slashing a voidspawn’s flank, black ooze splattering his hands, his breath a ragged yell, a kid turned killer, his eyes wide with terror and grit. The woman spun beside him, her blade a blur of defiance, severing a claw mid-strike, her scowl a snarl, her voice a sharp curse cutting through the hum, a warrior forged in blood and hate.
Voidspawn swarmed them, a tide of shadow and teeth, twisted fucks with claws like knives and maws gaping wide, their violet eyes blazing with hunger, a pack of nightmares clawing from the breach’s depths. Riven warped, shadow ripping through space, a flicker that shredded his stamina’s last gasp, landing amid the bastards, his sword slashing Shadow Strike in a vicious arc, tearing through two at once, ichor exploding in a black fountain, a scream ripping from his throat—“Lyra, I’m coming!”—a vow that shook the void.
The strike jolted his arms, a brutal shock that cracked his bones, the voidspawn crumpling in wet heaps, their screams dying in gurgles, a rush of experience slamming through him, a surge that fueled his next swing, a spark of rage in the chaos. Another lunged, tendrils whipping for his throat, and he rolled, sand spiking into his side, blood trickling warm, a sting he ignored as he thrust up, gutting it, ichor soaking his chest, a roar of defiance breaking free—“You won’t stop me!”
The breach twisted around them, walls of shadow pulsing faster, a heartbeat of malice, the air warping into a haze of violet and black, gravity flipping wild—sand rained upward, then crashed down, a storm that battered their bodies, a world gone mad. Lyra’s voice surged—“Riven… here…”—so close now, a desperate thread pulling his heart, a call that drove his blade through another voidspawn, its skull splitting, ichor splashing his face, a taste of copper and rot on his lips.
The scarred warrior staggered, a tendril slashing his leg, blood spraying red against the black, his snarl a guttural curse as he hacked it off, steel flashing, his shadow fierce despite the limp, a rock refusing to crack. The young Veilborn screamed, a voidspawn pinning him, claws raking his arm, red blooming bright, his blade slipping—Riven warped, shadow tearing him to the kid’s side, his sword plunging Shadow Strike into the bastard’s back, ichor erupting, a rush that saved the boy, corruption surging thicker, a snarl of pain and fury—“Get up!”
The kid scrambled free, blood dripping, his eyes wild with gratitude, his voice a cracked yell—“I’m with you!”—a bond forged in the chaos, a spark of life Riven wouldn’t let die. The woman roared, her blade slashing a voidspawn’s maw, teeth shattering, her cry sharp and fierce, ichor streaking her face, a storm holding the line, her doubt burned away in the fight.
The breach pulsed, a wave of void energy slamming them, a force that threw Riven back, sand and shadow blurring, his shoulder screaming, corruption flooding his veins, black veins pulsing wild, a roar of agony shaking his frame. He hit the ground hard, rolling, the shard’s light flickering in his grip, Lyra’s voice louder—“Riven… now…”—a plea that dragged him up, blood and ichor streaking his face, his crimson eyes blazing, a warrior breaking but unbowed.
Voidspawn surged, a wall of shadow and claws, their violet eyes a sea of hate, the breach’s walls closing tighter, a trap snapping shut, a hell they’d fight through or die in. The scarred warrior hacked through one, blood mixing with ichor, his roar a lifeline—“We’re not done!”—a rock in the storm. The young Veilborn swung, blade trembling, a voidspawn’s tendril snapping at his leg, his cry raw—“For Lyra!”—a kid fighting through the pain. The woman slashed, her blade a whirlwind, severing claws, her snarl fierce—“Keep moving!”—a storm at his back.
Riven’s chest burned, every swing a plea, every kill a step closer, his soul a wildfire scorching the dark, corruption clawing his mind, whispering power, promising strength—Take it, take it—a temptation he spat at, Lyra’s voice his anchor, her light his fight. He warped again, shadow ripping him forward, stamina gone, landing deep in the swarm, his sword slashing Shadow Strike, a crescent of void tearing through three, ichor raining, a roar shaking the void—“I’ll find you!”
The breach warped wilder, walls pulsing like a dying heart, a tunnel narrowing ahead, Lyra’s voice a scream—“Riven… please…”—so close he could feel her, taste her, a call that drove his blade, his heart, his fucking everything. His team fought behind him, blades flashing, blood and ichor mixing, a band of survivors clawing through hell, their cries raw and fierce, a desperate stand in the maw.
The voidspawn pressed, a tide of death, the breach’s hum a roar that shook their souls, a trap tightening, a hell they’d bleed through for her. Riven’s crimson eyes burned, corruption surging, the shard’s light a spear in the dark, a warrior plunging deeper, a vow to drag her out or die screaming her name.
