The basement was not a place built for gods, and yet, for five minutes, it would hold one.
Inside Tristan's chest, the thin, flickering spark of his 1st Circle mana was not merely stoked; it was detonated.
It was the sensation of a thousand suns being compressed into the narrow marrow of his bones.
His veins didn't just carry blood anymore; they carried a white-hot, viscous liquid that hummed with a subsonic frequency, vibrating against his skin until the very air around him began to distort and shimmer with heat.
[ HEAVENLY FLOW: ACTIVE ]
[ STRENGTH: 10 -> 100 ]
[ DURABILITY: 10 -> 100 ]
The mercenary holding Tristan's head down felt the change first.
The neck beneath his palm, which had been as soft and vulnerable as a bird's, suddenly turned into a pillar of cold, reinforced iron.
The heat radiating from Tristan's skin was instantaneous, scorching the man's hand.
Tristan didn't think. He didn't strategize.
With a roar that tore through the basement like a physical shockwave, Tristan surged upward. The heavy wooden table beneath his face didn't just break; it exploded.
It was reduced to a cloud of splinters and fine dust by the sheer kinetic force of his neck muscles alone.
The mercenary's grip was snapped like a dry twig, his fingers breaking as Tristan's head rose with the momentum of a hydraulic press.
Tristan spun on his heel, his movement so fast it left a golden after-image in the dim, candlelight.
He balled his right fist—a hand that now felt like it was forged from star-matter—and drove it upward.
It wasn't a punch; it was a structural collapse. The mercenary's face didn't just break; it disintegrated.
The force of a 100-strength impact on a human skull was absolute.
The jaw was pulverized into powder, the cranium shattered into a thousand jagged shards, and the brain was essentially turned to liquid by the shockwave.
The man's head was deleted from his shoulders in a spray of bone fragments and grey matter that painted the stone ceiling in a fan-shaped arc of gore.
His headless body was lifted off the ground and hurled twenty feet into the stone wall, where it hit with a sickening, wet thud before sliding into a heap of meat.
The silence that followed lasted exactly half a second.
"KILL HIM!" the red-haired woman screamed, her voice finally losing its cold, mocking edge.
The remaining five mercenaries, professionals of the Solmere Shadow-Hand, suppressed their horror and lunged.
They were elite killers, trained to ignore the impossible.
Two drew short-swords, the blades glowing with low-level enhancement magic, while another two reached for heavy, iron-shod maces.
Tristan saw them coming in slow motion.
The first swordsman lunged, his blade aimed at Tristan's heart. T
ristan didn't dodge. He reached out and caught the blade with his bare hand. The enchanted steel bit into his palm, but with 100 Durability, his skin was as dense as dragon-scale.
The sword didn't cut; it groaned under the pressure. Tristan squeezed his fingers, and the steel snapped into three pieces with a sound like a pistol shot.
Before the swordsman could blink, Tristan stepped into his guard. He drove his open palm into the man's solar plexus.
There was a dull, hollow thump, followed by the sound of every rib in the man's chest shattering simultaneously.
Tristan's hand didn't stop at the skin; it punched a literal, smoking hole through the man's stomach, exiting through the spine in a fountain of viscera and shattered vertebrae.
Tristan yanked his arm back, and the man's intestines spilled onto the stones like a coil of wet, grey snakes.
The two mace-wielders attacked from either side. Tristan caught the first mace in mid-air, the iron head crumpling like parchment in his grip.
He yanked the weapon—and the man holding it—toward him, using the man's own momentum to swing him like a flail into the second attacker.
The sound of two human bodies colliding at 100-strength velocity was a symphony of snapping bone and bursting organs. They were hurled into the darkness, a tangled mess of broken limbs.
In less than a minute, the basement floor had become a charnel house. Five men, elite killers, had been manually dismantled.
Tristan stood in the center of the carnage, his grey robes now a visceral, dripping crimson, his chest heaving with a rhythmic, mechanical power.
He turned his gaze toward the red-haired woman.
She hadn't moved. She was standing by the far wall, her serrated blade still in her hand. But she wasn't terrified.
To Tristan's shock, she was smiling—a thin, appreciative curve of the lips that held a dark, clinical interest.
"Impressive," she said, her voice smooth and untrembling. "A Silverbrook legacy technique. Heavenly Flow, if the ancient texts are correct. You've traded your lifespan for a few minutes of godhood. But don't get complacent after killing the spares, Tristan. They were just meat to keep you occupied."
"Shut up," Tristan spat. The blood on his face was hot, the smell of it filling his nose, driving his primal instincts into a frenzy.
In an instant, he disappeared.
He moved with such velocity that he broke the sound barrier in the confined space, a sharp crack of displaced air echoing off the stones.
He appeared directly in front of the woman, his fist already in motion, aimed at her head.
She didn't panic. She didn't even raise her blade.
She simply tilted her head three inches to the left. Tristan's fist whistled past her ear, the wind of the punch shattering the stone wall behind her and sending a shower of debris into the shadows.
"Too slow," she whispered.
She raised a hand, her palm glowing with a deep, pulsing violet light. "Gravity Well: Tenfold."
Tristan felt as if a mountain had suddenly been dropped onto his shoulders.
The stone floor beneath his feet cracked and subsided, a circular crater forming instantly as the gravity in his immediate vicinity intensified to a lethal degree. His 100 Durability kept his bones from snapping, but the sheer magical pressure was immense.
He was forced to his knees, his muscles bulging and his skin turning a dark, bruised purple as he fought against the invisible weight of a collapsing star.
[ WARNING: 01:45 REMAINING ]
"I am a 6th Circle Gravity Mage, Tristan," the woman said, looking down at him with clinical interest. "Strength means nothing when your own mass becomes your prison. Now, stay there and let the timer run out. I want to see what's left of you when the Flow breaks and your heart explodes from the feedback."
Tristan gritted his teeth, his jaw muscles standing out like iron cables. He felt the blood vessels in his eyes beginning to pop, his vision turning a hazy red. He looked up at her, a low, guttural snarl vibrating in his throat.
I am not... Masaru anymore, he thought, his IQ pushing through the pain. Archimedes didn't quit. Genghis Khan didn't kneel. I... am a Silverbrook.
With a roar that cracked the stone pillars of the basement, Tristan forced himself to his feet.
He didn't just stand; he pushed against the gravity magic with the raw, conceptual force of his will.
The violet light around the woman's hand flickered and hissed as his 100-strength muscles defied the laws of physics.
Tristan didn't wait to trade blows again. He knew he couldn't hit her while she was focused on him—her magic was too fast. He looked up.
"Going up," he growled.
He coiled his legs, the stone beneath him turning to dust as he gathered his power.
With a single, explosive jump, he launched himself toward the ceiling. He didn't just hit the roof; he became a human cannonball.
He smashed through three feet of reinforced masonry and timber as if it were wet paper.
He burst through the floor of the building above, a cloud of dust and debris following him like the tail of a comet.
He landed in a crouch, his silver hair white with plaster dust, his eyes glowing with a feral gold light. He looked around, his senses screaming.
He was in a massive warehouse.
The space was cavernous, filled with stacks of wooden crates, iron-bound chests, and the smell of spices and illicit oils. But more importantly, the warehouse was full of men.
Dozens of them.
There were mercenaries in Solmere leather, guards in unmarked plate armor, and at least ten men in long, dark robes—mages.
They had been sitting at tables, sharpening blades, and drinking ale. Every single one of them stopped what they were doing and stared at the blood-drenched, silver-haired specter that had just erupted from the floorboards.
Tristan stood up, the center of attraction in a room full of killers. He saw the exit—a pair of massive iron-bound doors at the far end—but between him and the door was an army.
"There he is!" someone screamed. "The Silverbrook! Take him down! Ten thousand gold to the man who brings his head!"
Tristan's gaze swept the room. Forty combatants. Ten mages.
[ WARNING: 01:10 REMAINING ]
"I have to resolve this quickly," Tristan whispered to himself, his voice sounding like grinding stones.
They jumped him. The mages were the first to react, their hands glowing with kinetic energy. They fired a synchronized volley of "Force Bolts"—invisible hammers of mana designed to crush bone and shatter shields.
Tristan didn't dodge. He charged.
The bolts hit him in the chest, the impact sounding like hammers hitting a heavy bell. Tristan didn't even flinch.
His 100 Durability made the 3rd Circle kinetic spells feel like raindrops. He tore through the air, closing the distance to the first mage in a heartbeat.
He didn't use a blade. He used his body.
He clotheslined the first mage, the impact snapping the man's neck and sending him spinning through the air like a broken doll.
He grabbed the second mage by the head and smashed it into an iron support pillar, the skull popping like a ripe melon.
The mercenaries swarmed him now, a sea of steel and leather.
Tristan became a storm of violence.
He wasn't fighting; he was erasing people. A kick to a man's chest sent him flying through a stack of crates, his body bent at a nauseating angle.
A backhand strike to a swordsman's face removed the man's jaw and half his teeth. He grabbed a spear by the shaft, snapped the wood, and used the jagged end to impale two men at once.
He was too fast for them to track, too strong for them to block, and too durable for them to hurt.
The Office of Benedict Vane – Simultaneously
The office was a shrine to excess—gold-leaf molding, velvet drapes, and a desk made of rare mahogany that cost more than a small village.
It smelled of expensive perfume and the lingering scent of brandy.
Benedict Vane, the Master of Imports and Exports, was exactly as Alaric had described: a short, rotund man with a face like a squashed plum and fingers that glittered with too many rings. He was currently huddled behind his desk, his breath coming in short, panicked wheezes.
"I... I have told you, Vice Captain," Benedict stammered, his voice thin and reedy. "I have no knowledge of any such activity. My ledgers are perfectly legal. I simply lease space to merchants from across the border. I cannot be held responsible for what they do behind closed doors. This is an outrage! My brother shall hear of this!"
Sylvara Starbloom didn't respond with words. Her composure, the legendary elven frost she had maintained for centuries, finally cracked.
The disappearance of Tristan had touched a nerve she didn't know she possessed.
In a move so fast Benedict didn't even see it, she vaulted over the mahogany desk. She grabbed the fat man by the throat, her slender fingers digging into his multiple chins with a strength that made his eyes bulge.
She lifted him out of his chair and slammed him against the velvet-lined wall, the gold-framed portraits of previous Vanes rattling on their hooks.
"Listen to me, you pathetic, greedy worm," Sylvara whispered, her voice a low, vibrating growl of pure fury. Her amber eyes were no longer calm; they were twin pits of ancient, lethal fire. "A Silverbrook has been taken. If he dies, this kingdom falls. And if this kingdom falls, I will make sure your death is the longest, most agonizing event in Valdorian history. I will not use magic. I will use a dull knife and five hundred years of patience."
She tightened her grip, her mana flaring around her like a halo of green lightning, the pressure cracking the plaster behind Benedict's head.
"Where is he? Give me the location, or I will peel your soul from your body and leave it to rot in the Void."
Benedict's face turned a sickening shade of grey, then a dark, bruised purple. He tried to speak, but only a wet gurgle escaped.
A dark stain spread across the front of his expensive silk trousers as his bladder failed him. The sharp, acrid smell of urine filled the opulent office, clashing with the expensive perfume.
Sylvara loosened her grip just enough for him to gasp for air.
"The... the Southern Reach..." Benedict wheezed, his voice a pathetic squeak.
"Warehouse 14... near the old dry-docks. Solmere... they paid me in sun-gold. They said they were just... just holding a 'diplomatic asset.' They said nobody would get hurt! I didn't know he was a Silverbrook! I swear!"
"Solmere spies," Sylvara spat, her disgust so profound it was almost physical. "On my watch."
She dropped him like a sack of unwanted refuse. Benedict collapsed into his own puddle on the rug, sobbing and clutching his throat.
Sylvara turned to Garrick and Selene, who were standing by the door. Garrick's face was set in a mask of grim determination, his hand on his sword. Selene was pale, her fingers twitching with the urge to cast.
"Warehouse 14," Sylvara commanded. "We move now. If any Solmere agent is left standing when I get there, I will consider it a personal failure."
She didn't use the stairs. She smashed through the office window, her mana-cloak manifesting as she drifted toward the street below like a bird of prey.
Warehouse 14 – The Final Seconds
The warehouse was a charnel house.
Tristan was standing in the center of a mounting pile of bodies. The white walls were now splattered with gore, and the air was thick with the smell of iron and woodsmoke. He was a demon of silver and red.
A group of three spearmen tried to coordinate a thrust. Tristan caught all three spears in his left arm, the wood snapping against his side.
He yanked the men toward him and swung his right fist in a wide arc. Their heads collided with the sound of a hammer hitting a row of watermelons.
He was breathing hard now, the "Flow" starting to consume its own fuel. His skin was glowing a dull, angry red, and steam was rising from his shoulders as his sweat evaporated instantly.
He could feel his internal organs beginning to ache—a deep, structural pain that suggested his very cells were being torn apart by the power.
He looked at the remaining guards.
There were ten left.
Tristan took a step toward them, the floorboards groaning under the weight of his enhanced mass.
His vision flickered, dark spots dancing at the edges of the golden haze.
[ WARNING: 00:15 REMAINING ]