An Isekai Story

Velkrith is humanoid only in outline. His body is long-limbed and lean, sculpted from midnight-slick cartilage that seems to bend too fluidly with his breath. A dozen narrow eyes blink across his collarbones and cheeks, none centered where a face should be, yet all disturbingly expressive. His mouth is a vertical slit down the center of his throat—closed when speaking, open when silent. Coiled around his limbs are prayer bands carved from fossilized teeth, etched with glowing null-runes that throb when others lie in his presence. His robes are sleeveless and jet-black, stitched from tanned wings of extinct birds and always silent no matter how fast he moves. On his back is a spiral of white ash branded into the skin, the Unmaker’s mark, perfectly mirrored with every pivot. Even still, he moves with grace and terrifying stillness—never rushing, never stumbling. He walks as though gravity is only a suggestion, and time waits for him to pass.

Velkrith is unsettlingly polite, even affable, speaking in calm riddles laced with intent but stripped of judgment. He is not cruel, only precise—he will answer questions, but never explain. To those who ask for permission, he is a guide; to those who assume it, he is a gate. Beneath the serenity lies a discipline honed not in combat, but in waiting. Velkrith has stood at the Path’s center for decades, perhaps centuries, and has never once grown bored. He takes joy in routine, reveres symmetry, and has no opinion on good or evil. He respects resolve but despises hesitation. When provoked, he moves like a crack in glass—sudden, final, and oddly beautiful. Yet, despite his alien nature, he shows unexpected moments of warmth: placing a steady hand on a trembling shoulder, reciting names of forgotten companions, or folding a slip of cloth for a visitor’s tears. To follow him is to step closer to inevitability. To fight him is to be erased with courtesy.

Velkrith was not born, but folded into reality like a crease in a page—manifested at the moment the Unmaker first touched Kavrix. Shaped by the echo of that step, Velkrith is the Cradle’s response to intrusion: not hostile, not welcoming, simply present. His memories are not his own but taken from those who once dared to walk the Procession Path uninvited. Through these borrowed recollections, he learned language, posture, and etiquette—but twisted, like a reflection that doesn’t quite move in sync. Velkrith is bound not by chains, but by vow, tattooed into the cords of muscle under his slick skin: he will guide those permitted, and only those. Some say he was once a mortal monk who sought truth and found the Unmaker instead. Others believe he is a living idea of liminality. Whatever the origin, none dispute his role. He does not choose who may walk the Path. He only ensures they do not stray.