Her Beacon (Acheron x Caelus)

Prologue

On that day, as the blacksmith watched the sword transition from his hands to hers, a realization dawned upon him—a recognition of the path she was to tread. The path against the Eight Million Gods was not chosen lightly. It was a destiny forged in the heart of the world, a calling that echoed across the realms.

"How I wish this was a beautiful era, even though the Izumo country is still facing threats, people still hold hope, believing that the Evil Gods will be all cut down, and the world will be free again... But until the light of the sword fades, I realize that this is a dead end with no end, and those who set foot on it will never be able to turn back..."

These musings, laden with the weight of impending doom and the fragile hope of a people yearning for liberation, frame the gravity of her journey. The sword, now in her hands, is not merely a weapon but a symbol of the eternal struggle between light and darkness, hope and despair.

As she grips the hilt, a connection forms—a bond between the bearer and the blade, a pact sealed by fate. She remembers the weight of the promise, the burden of the path she has taken. Yet, in her heart, there is a space where memory fades, where the lines between choice and destiny blur.

She remembered and yet she did not.

---

Amid the aftermath of conflict, she stands alone, as mysterious as dusk itself. A beautiful woman, her presence commands the scene with an unspoken authority, a silent testament to the power she wields. Her hair, a cascading river of midnight purple, is adorned with ornaments that glint like stars caught in a celestial net. Stray strands flirt with the tumultuous breeze, whispering secrets of a warrior's path.

Her attire is a blend of tradition and defiance, a dance of fabric and form. She wears a kimono split at the thigh, dyed in the deepest of purples, its hue reminiscent of the sky at dusk, moments before night conquers day. The intricate patterns upon her garb speak of tales long forgotten, of legacies written in the ink of history. Armor plates, fashioned with the skill of a master artisan, guard her with silent vigilance, their surface etched with runes that hum with ancient magic.

The sheath of the odachi is a masterpiece of craftsmanship, its surface a dark canvas upon which the light of distant stars seems to dance. Patterns of blue and white swirl across it like the tail of a comet streaking through a midnight sky, the intricate designs reminiscent of ancient calligraphy, telling of battles fought in hushed tones. The deep indigo hue of the sheath mirrors the twilight itself, edged with silver that catches the light with every subtle movement she makes.

The sword's handle is wrapped in traditional cord, dyed in the darkest of blues, almost blending into the sheath but for the intricate patterning that hints at the nobility of the weapon within. The guard is not merely utilitarian but a statement of artistry, with flowing lines and edges that suggest motion, as if the very essence of the wind has been captured in steel.

Above her, held aloft with an air of casual grace, is an umbrella, wide and of a red so vivid it seems to hold within it the very essence of life itself. Its ribs are like the bones of a celestial creature, and the paper that stretches across them is unmarred, save for the occasional petal that clings to it—a remnant of the cherry blossoms that once witnessed the prelude to this aftermath.

Her boots, silent upon the wet earth, are the color of storm clouds, and they carry her forward with a purpose that transcends the carnage left in her wake. Each step is measured, a quiet declaration of her will to traverse paths others dare not tread.

As she moves through the battlefield, her eyes, a striking violet, reflect not just the scene before her but also the myriad paths of fate that converge upon this moment. They are orbs of perception, seeing through the veils that separate worlds, understanding the language of life and death as one would a mother tongue.

Her lips, untouched by fear, curve with the promise of a story yet to be told, a saga of her own making. "The dance has ended, yet the melody lingers on," she whispers to the fallen, her voice the soft caress of twilight against the harshness of day's end.

Around her, the world holds its breath, the skies pause their weeping, and even the wind listens. For in her presence, amidst the fallen petals and the silence of spent rage, there is a sense of something greater unfolding, a narrative woven by the threads of destiny itself.

And with her every breath, the world inches closer to the tale that will be sung of the Galaxy Ranger—a tale of battles fought, of gods defied, and of a world on the precipice of change.

---

Penacony—Planet of Festivities within the vibrant Asdana star system, also hailed as the Land of the Dreams. Here, nestled above the reaches of an unfathomable sky, floats a luxurious hotel, a pinnacle of grandeur and euphoria. Celebrities from across the stars descend upon this place like moths to a flame, seeking the intoxication of unending celebration, while the magnates from myriad worlds indulge in the opulence that only the vastness of space can provide.

People come here chasing the specters of dreams they once dared to dream, or those they've entombed in the crypts of their minds. Through the Dreampools of the hotel, they are transported to realms where fantasy is not just born but thrives, a place where every wish is a command, and every desire blooms into reality.

She, however, steps into this carnival of stars with a purpose that sets her apart. Embracing her odachi with a tenderness that belies its lethal nature, she treads across the plush red carpet, her footsteps a silent symphony amidst the cacophony of revelry.

Eyes turn towards her, curiosity alight in their gaze, marking her as an anomaly in this galaxy of dreams. Yet, the attention she garners is as ephemeral as the dreams themselves, dissolving as the crowd yearns to be lulled into their own fantasies.

Silent as the void, her observant eyes glide across the room, taking in the ballet of guests and the masquerade of gaiety. Each gesture, each fleeting smile she witnesses, is cataloged within the depths of her perception.

An abrupt commotion slices through her contemplation, a burst of sound that veers her attention to the left.

"Hey, Caelus! Quit your dumpster diving already, will you? Miss Himeko says you've got better things to do than trash treasure hunting!" The voice, laden with cheer and vivacity, pierces the ambience. A woman's voice, vibrant as the very stars above, calls out to a man who exudes an aura of childlike wonder.

He stands out like a rogue planet amidst the orderly orbits of the galaxy. His attire is a clash of casual and combat-ready: a white shirt, untucked and carefree, counters the structured formality of his jet-black coat, its tails flowing like the banner of a conquering hero. His trousers are the dark expanse of a nebula, and his boots, a shade of blue that echoes the depth of space, carry him with an unintentional swagger.

His hands, covered in gloves that seem to hum with potential, rest casually by his side, one grasping a curious orb radiating with a soft, cosmic light.

His hair, the color of moonlight filtered through the veil of an eclipse, is a disarrayed crown that defies gravity and expectation alike. The eyes that rove with untamed curiosity are the stormy grey of a planet's heart, holding within them the spark of mischief and the calm of the cosmos.

She observes him from a distance, feeling an inexplicable kinship tug at the edges of her soul, a sensation akin to the illumination that follows the dark. Confusion laces her thoughts, yet the warmth of the sentiment that blooms within her chest is undeniable. A smile, rare and genuine, graces her lips as she indulges in this newfound warmth, an ember in the chilling vastness of space.

End of Chapter

A/N: Hello to everyone reading this. What do you think of the chapter? This is a side project of mine created to satisfy my hunger for an Acheron x Caelus pairing.