[10th Realm] Yun - Fisher King

[LAND WITHOUT RAIN]

[Seabed Canyon]

[? ? ?]

The echo of that final thunder still rang throughout her dreams, the cacophony of the end crescendo’d until her waking moment. Yet it was not the assault of death and decay that awoke Yun, or the blistering heat or the oppressive, rumbling footsteps of a giant. But a soft flute, from which a fleeting vision of home sprung to her mind, dashed as soon as her eyes finally adjusted to the sunlight.

“Finally, one awakes.”

Above, the sky was a haunting amber hue, as if a veil had been pulled over the world, casting it in a permanent twilight. The air was thick with a swirling fog of dust, obscuring the surrounding landscape and leaving only traces of the distant horizon visible. The ground beneath her was cracked and parched, a barren wasteland devoid of any signs of growth or vitality. Only the scars of past turmoil and the smooth, well-trodden paths remained, etched into the earth like hieroglyphs. The red walls of the canyon rose impossibly high in this vast and desolate place, sealing this cavern away from what whatever this hell was.

The air was thick with a putrid, overwhelming smell, as if the carnage of before had seeped into every crevice of the earth. It clung to her skin and with each breath, she could taste the metallic tinge of decay. It was a suffocating, constant reminder of the battle, the world, and heralded whatever horrors lie beyond.

Behind her, the culprit of the dust storm -

a colossal being, towering over the canyon walls. Its massive figure was hidden in its own shadow, leaving only an arm and hand visible as it trudged through the crevice. Yun felt a tug on her ankles, realizing that she was ensnared in the giant's net along with remnants from the past world - corpses, boats, pillars, palaces, all tangled together in a chaotic blend of ruin.

“So, you too carry the curse.”

That voice sounded again, this time from just next to her. Standing over Yun was an unfamiliar figure, yet with an aura so detestably intimate it may as well have been the blue wyrm himself. They were armored in heavily decayed, but unmistakable samurai kit. The steel was all black, before it had been eaten away by time and rust. Algae and other small, parasitic flora clung to the edges of his plates, the only signs of life. Any cloth, wood and leather had totally decayed, or was hanging by threads and was indistinguishable from one another. What space was left in between all this, naught but the apparition of a person, black smoke or smog filled the armor. Their kabuto was similarly decayed, save for its crest of sickly green haze in the vague shape of a crescent.

Thrust through their armor all around their body, were a hundred weapons. Blades of every ilk. Of all time and place. Many familiar. Many strange. In his own hands, impossibly, was Kūkyona ikari.