Rowan knelt down beside Raya, who was slumped against a tree trunk, her face pale and drawn, her breathing shallow. She had barely been conscious for the last stretch of the walk, her body finally giving out after being pushed far past its limits. He pressed the back of his hand to her forehead, feeling the clammy chill of exhaustion radiating from her skin.
"I was watching you guys from the treeline," he said, his voice calm, measured. "I already sent Axle to deal with the remaining three yggthra children."
Kai's head snapped up, disbelief written across his battered face. "He did that by himself?"
"Yeah." Rowan's tone was matter-of-fact, as if sending someone alone against three monsters was an everyday occurrence. His eyes lingered on Raya for a moment longer before he gently lifted her into his arms, cradling her against his chest in a princess carry. She didn't stir. "Raya has spent a lot of aura."
He straightened and began walking, the others falling into step behind him. The forest was quiet now—no more shrieks, no more crashing trees, no more desperate shouts. Just the soft crunch of boots on fallen leaves and the distant whisper of wind through the canopy.
Then the air shifted.
A familiar rift tore open in the space ahead of them, jagged and shimmering at the edges, and Nexarion stepped through with that same unhurried, predatory grace. Its faceless head turned toward the group, its jagged smile stretching impossibly wide.
"How are you guys surviving?" it asked, its voice echoing from everywhere and nowhere. Then its head tilted, those empty eye sockets fixing on Rowan. "Oh, I see. This was a fair match for Vexxagorath."
"The scenario has been completed, Shinigami." Rowan's voice carried an edge of authority that hadn't been there before—a tone that expected obedience, not negotiation. "Let us go."
Nexarion's smile flickered, something almost like irritation crossing its blank features. "Oi. I have a name, and it's Nexarion." It paused, letting the correction hang in the air. "Well, this was a lucky fight, but you win, of course. The rewards will be given at a later time—to only the players." Its smile returned, wider than before.
"I do not need any rewards." Rowan's voice was flat. "Can we go now?"
Nexarion's empty gaze lingered on him for a long, uncomfortable moment. Then it chuckled, a low, rumbling sound that seemed to vibrate in their chests. "Oh, sure. You've got other things to worry about than me." It stepped backward into its rift, the darkness swallowing it whole. The rift sealed with a sound like a wound closing.
The silence it left behind was heavier than before.
They walked. The forest began to thin around them, the oppressive canopy giving way to patches of grey sky. James stretched his arms above his head, wincing as his battered muscles protested.
"Can't wait to go home and have a well-deserved rest," he said, a faint smile tugging at his lips.
Axle dropped in from a thicket of bush, brushing leaves from his shoulders. His eyes swept over the group, taking in their torn clothes, their fresh wounds, their exhausted faces. "Seems like you guys survived," he said, a small, uneasy smile flickering across his features.
No one answered. The silence stretched, heavy and awkward, as they emerged from the treeline and began the familiar walk toward home. The cottage wasn't visible yet, but the path was known, worn into the earth by weeks of training, of running, of survival.
"Vexxagorath was that hard, eh?" Axle asked, falling into step beside James.
James exhaled, running a hand through his sweat-matted hair. "Very hard. I didn't think we could beat it after it tanked all of our attacks." He glanced sideways at Axle, a question forming in his eyes. "Speaking of which—you defeated three yggthra by yourself."
Axle shrugged, though there was a faint flush of pride in his cheeks. "Yggthra babies. They're well below being classified as E-ranked monsters. Not even close to what you faced."
"So you could hold your own against Vexxagorath?" James pressed.
"Never fought an E-ranked beast before." Axle's voice was careful, measured. "Always stayed with monsters under E rank."
James was quiet for a moment, pieces clicking into place. "So Rowan never expected us to win."
Axle glanced ahead at Rowan's broad back, then back at James. "I think so. He probably just wanted to see how you guys would hold your own against a beast like that. See what you were capable of when there was no safety net."
James mulled that over, rolling the words around in his head. Then he shook his head, a rueful smile crossing his face. "Still, handling three yggthra babies has to require some serious skill." He reached out and clapped Axle on the shoulder, a gesture of genuine respect.
Axle smiled, some of the tension easing from his posture.
Then they all stopped.
The horizon had opened up before them, revealing the familiar silhouette of Blackstone Mountain—but something was wrong. Thick plumes of smoke and dust rose from its slopes, curling into the grey sky like dark fingers. The mountain itself seemed to have changed, its familiar shape marred by fresh scars, by the aftermath of something violent.
Axle moved quickly to Rowan's side, tapping him on the arm. They exchanged a glance—quick, loaded, knowing. Whatever was happening, it was dangerous.
"What's going on out there?" Kai's voice was sharp, cutting through the sudden tension.
"Not something good, probably," Axle replied, his usual lightness gone.
Rowan shifted Raya's weight in his arms, his jaw tightening. "Everyone be mindful of how you move. We don't know what's going on, so proceed with caution." He resumed walking, his pace steady, deliberate, his eyes fixed on the smoke ahead.
Kai fell into step beside James, his voice low. "It couldn't be that serious, right?"
James didn't answer immediately. His gaze was fixed on the mountain, on the destruction that stretched across its slopes, on the distant flicker of something that might have been fire. When he spoke, his voice was quiet. "I think it could."
Their thoughts moved as one, to a single person. Lyrielle.
A chained blade whistled through the air, its arc wide and deadly. Lyrielle twisted, the edge passing close enough to stir her hair, close enough to feel the cold of the metal against her skin. She was no longer on the great tree—Ramulus Dei, the tower of wood and power that had been her advantage moments ago. Now she descended, her fall controlled, her eyes never leaving her opponent.
Silas didn't give her time to land.
He twirled his weapon, the chain whipping Nithfang into a spinning vortex of death, the blade's edge catching light and shadow alike. He moved—fast, faster than before—closing the distance with a speed that shouldn't have been possible. Lyrielle twisted in midair, her descent becoming a controlled evasion as Nithfang carved a deep gash into the ancient tree behind her.
The wound didn't heal.
Silas noticed. His smile widened. She wasn't powering Ramulus Dei anymore. She was conserving her aura. This elf—this woman who had thrown train-sized wooden streams at him, who had summoned golems from the earth, who had nearly crushed him beneath a mountain of living wood—she was running out.
He pressed the advantage.
Still spinning Nithfang, he drove the blade into the earth. Debris erupted—stones, splinters, chunks of soil—shot forward like a storm of shrapnel. Lyrielle dodged, her movements fluid, precise, but the debris was a screen, a mask for what came next.
He was already moving.
The chain snapped, and Nithfang whipped toward her, its reach extended, its arc unpredictable. Lyrielle saw it coming—saw the blade curve toward her throat—and dropped low, avoiding the strike. She closed the distance, her fist already rising, aiming for his chest.
He stepped on the chain.
Nithfang stopped mid-swing, reversed direction, and snapped back into his waiting hand. The movement was seamless, practiced, the product of years of training or something far darker. Lyrielle saw it from the corner of her eye, saw the blade returning, and tried to pivot, to shift, to be anywhere but here—
She felt the blade graze her arm.
It was nothing. A whisper of steel against skin. She was already moving away, already preparing her next attack, already dismissing the touch as insignificant.
Then she heard Silas laugh.
Low at first, a chuckle that rumbled in his chest. Then louder, fuller, the sound of someone who had finally landed the blow they'd been hunting for.
The pain came a heartbeat later.
She looked down at her arm. A thin line of blood, nothing more. But the edges of the wound were already darkening, already beginning to spread, the skin flaking away as if it were ash on wind. No. No, no, no.
She had been grazed. By Nithfang. By the Soul Taker.
She didn't hesitate.
"Healing Arts: Divine Restoration."
Green light bloomed around her arm, warm and urgent, pouring into the wound. The dark edges slowed—but did not stop. The wound widened, millimeter by millimeter, the disintegration eating through her flesh despite her efforts. She had used too much aura. Ramulus Dei. The golems. Flora Mortis. Spina Mortis. Too much. And now she wasn't strong enough to fight what Nithfang had planted in her blood.
"It took me this long just to nick you." Silas's laughter faded, replaced by something almost like respect. "You're a truly worthy opponent, Lyrielle Dawnblade." His smile returned, sharper this time. "Too bad there's a seal on your abilities. And you already wasted too much aura doing your 'awesome moves.'"
He raised Nithfang, its veins pulsing with sickly green light.