The chains vanished the instant Pao cried out in pain, her blood dripping onto the cold stone. The abomination even didn't look at Amukelo. It just moved, its grotesque limbs bending unnaturally as it surged toward her.
Amukelo's world cracked.
His heart froze, his body felt weightless, his lungs squeezed as if the very air had turned against him. "No…" he whispered. Then louder—"No. No. No no no—!" The words stumbled from his throat like a prayer and a curse all at once.
He sprinted. The torchlight blurred around him. His blade scraped against the ground as he ran with everything he had. But in his panic, in the sheer emotional surge that crushed every other thought, he stumbled. His foot caught on uneven stone, his shoulder slammed against the wall, and he hit the ground hard.
His breath caught. And in that moment, everything else disappeared.
The sound of the creature's movements. The dripping of blood. Pao's labored breath. All of it faded into silence. All around him turned to black.
He stood. Or maybe he didn't. There was no ground beneath his feet. No sky above. Just emptiness. And then—like paint being spilled over glass—the world bled into form.
A battleground. Drenched in red. The sky above was gray and low, like a funeral shroud. Bodies lay everywhere.
Dozens. Maybe hundreds. Men in noble armor. All of them lifeless. All of them cut down.
But that wasn't what made his breath catch in his throat. It was the swords.
Each corpse—whether a knight in gold or a rogue in black—was killed by the same weapon. The same blade he held in his own hands.
Some warriors lay with it still embedded in their chests. Some with it through their skulls. Others had fallen beside it, as if they had carried it themselves before they died. One soldier had three of them piercing him through the stomach, the thigh, and the chest.
Amukelo stepped forward, his legs moving on instinct. The battleground stretched on for what felt like miles, and still—every sword was his. His own weapon, in dozens, hundreds of hands. Blood dripped from the identical blades like rainwater, pooling at his feet as he walked.
He felt sick. The clang of armor beneath his boot made him look down. A knight, collapsed on one side, his golden pauldrons scorched and dented. Amukelo leaned down, hands trembling.
But just as his fingers brushed the man's arm, the man's eyes snapped open.
The knight coughed up blood. It trickled from the corner of his mouth as he reached up and grabbed Amukelo's collar with surprising strength. His eyes were dim, fading, but filled with knowledge. Pain.
His voice rasped like wind through a cracked tomb. "Those who live by the sword…" he coughed again, more blood spilling over his lips, "will die by the sword…"
Amukelo shook his head, overwhelmed. "What are you talking about? Who are you?"
"We all fought…" the knight groaned, "…for something. Revenge. Glory. Rage. Power. We thought our reasons made us different."
He coughed again, weaker this time. His grip began to falter. "But we all died the same."
His head fell back. His arm dropped. The light left his eyes.
Amukelo stared, stunned. Cold. Numb.
"Will you?" The knight's final words echoed through the dead air. 'Will you?'
He looked up, looked around again. Hundreds of bodies. Hundreds of his swords. And one question.
'Would he die here, too?'
Would he be just another corpse on the battlefield, drowned in blood, buried under the weight of reasons and regrets?
Then a pulse.
And everything crashed back.
Stone. Screams. Blood. Magic.
The dungeon came back. The abomination was almost upon Pao. Its clawed feet gouged the stone as it closed the distance in a blink. Pao was trying to raise her staff, but her wound had weakened her too much.
Time seemed to slow slow again. Amukelo screamed with desperation and panic. "Get away from her!"
His body moved before thought could catch up. He swung his sword in a desperate move, thinking that it was over. But out of his swing came something he didn't expect.
A golden-dark cut tore from the edge of his sword like a wave of burning fury. It hissed as it moved.
The abomination's claws were inches from Pao.
But then, sensing the attack, it twisted its head toward the streak of golden light surging toward it.
It swung its claw to intercept the slash, a motion driven by pure survival. Its limb met the cut mid-air, and the force of the impact sent the abomination flying.
It smashed into the wall of the dungeon with a bone-crunching crack, the impact shaking the chamber. Bits of stone fell from the ceiling, and the wall itself splintered. A thick cloud of dust burst out from the collision, swallowing the scene in a haze.
Amukelo stared. Chest heaving. Hands trembling. Eyes wide. What… was that?
He felt a burning sensation in his right hand. He looked down at his sword, and his breath caught in his throat.
The runes etched into the blade—those strange markings he had never fully understood—were glowing.
Dark gold light coursed through them, pulsing like veins.
Amukelo stared at the sword like it was a stranger.
He didn't have time to think. Because the abomination was already moving.
Even after being thrown into solid stone, it recovered like nothing had happened. It roared—not in pain, but in rage. An unholy, deafening shriek that echoed through the crumbling dungeon walls. All across its twisted body, the scars that Amukelo had carved began to smoke. But this time, the mist was different. Not black. But dark crimson.
The creature didn't even look at him. It only wanted her.
It charged again—faster now, propelled by fury. Claws scraping against the ground as it propelled forward in a reckless, terrifying lunge.
And Pao—she was still kneeling.
Her hand clutched the place just beneath her shoulder where the spike had pierced her, blood pooling between her fingers. Her eyes were wide with panic, breath shallow and ragged. She tried to raise her staff, but her arms were trembling too much to lift it.
The abomination closed in.
She froze. In that one instant, something primal overtook her: fear. Not of death, but of pain. Of helplessness. She shut her eyes, gritted her teeth. She was reading herself. Bracing for what she knew was coming.
But when she thought it was over, she heard a loud CLANG.
Pao's eyes snapped open.
The creature's claws were inches away, but stopped.
Between her and death stood Amukelo. He didn't just block the claws—he held them.
His feet were dug into the stone, his sword pressed against the abomination's claws. But Amukelo wasn't being thrown back this time. He endured it.
His eyes were fixed on the creature. His expression—no longer despair. No longer panic. Just resolve.
Pao stared up at him.
Her breathing steadied—barely. The pain was still there, sharp and raw. But the sight of him standing there, sword between her and death, grounded her.
He twisted his body and sword to the side, redirecting the creature's claws away from Pao. Then, with a surge of strength, he kicked the creature with a brutal front kick to its torso.
The abomination stumbled back, snarling. It dug its claws into the ground to regain balance, sliding across the stone. It stopped a few meters away, its black mist curling like steam.
And Amukelo stood between it and her.
His breath came in heavy gasps, blood dripping from his side. His armor was torn. His arm was shaking. But he stood tall.