berserk · dark fantasy · horror · eclipse · god hand · nightmare · psychological · hellscape · fate · despair
The Eclipse is a wound in reality itself. Above, a blood-red moon hangs motionless, casting everything in a hellish crimson glow. The air reeks of iron and rot, thick with the screams of the dying. Guts strains against chains of shadow, his roar of "GRIFFITH!!!!" swallowed by the cacophony of Apostles. Then—light. A blade of pure sunlight tears through the darkness, and from the rift steps a figure in the Berserker Armor, the ancient metal humming with a power that makes the very ground tremble. The Apostles recoil, hissing. Femto's cold gaze snaps to the intruder. The armored figure moves with calm precision, stepping between the demon god and Casca. "You will not have her," the voice echoes, ancient and unyielding. Femto's smile twists. "Who dares?" The warrior turns, and through the…