The ground pulsed beneath Elior's boots like a dying heart.
Heat shimmered off scorched stone, curling into the air in wavering mirages. Dreadmahn stood still for a moment, breathing in low, grinding growls. The sound of metal scraping bone. Its chains had slackened. One limb was free. Its war-crown glowed with a single crack—but deep, and glowing like something alive inside wanted out.
Elior wiped the blood from his chin. His ribs ached. Dust clung to his face. His staff still buzzed faintly, like it knew this wasn't done yet.
Seraphis crouched beside him, tail twitching. Smoke lifted off his fur in streams, wounds glowing faint blue. He didn't speak. Just nodded once.
Dreadmahn moved again.
Not fast now. Heavy. A weight shifting with intention.
Its wings dragged behind it—stitched from thousands of shattered shields. As it walked, they scraped sparks across the stone. Every step cracked the ground wider, like this realm couldn't hold it much longer.
The wind shifted.
A faint whine.
Elior turned his head slightly—caught it just in time.
One of the broken chains whipped through the air like a serpent.
He ducked.
The metal screamed over his head, cutting a trench into the mountain behind him.
He didn't wait.
Elior charged.
Staff in both hands, it twisted again—this time into twin curved blades, each one laced with runes that flickered between languages. Fire bled from the edges. Not red. Not blue. Something older.
He ran low, fast. Dreadmahn turned, too slow to stop him.
Elior leapt.
Mid-air, he spun, blades flashing once—twice—striking two of the beast's armored ribs. Sparks. A ripple of sound. The runes bit deeper than steel. They weren't cutting metal. They were cutting memory—the layers of rage and history that had built Dreadmahn into what it was.
The beast screamed.
Twelve eyes snapped toward him.
It opened its mouth.
Not a roar this time.
A pulse.
Sound hit like a wall.
Elior flew backward—crashed into a spire of black glass, shattering it. The shards cut deep. Blood ran. But he didn't stay down.
He rolled, breath caught sharp in his throat, and the staff found his hand again like it had waited for him.
Dreadmahn lunged.
Its claw swept down like a meteor.
Elior threw up a wall—no time for glyphs. Just will. Just raw memory.
The shield formed a heartbeat before the strike.
It shattered.
But it bought him enough.
Seraphis was already in motion.
The beast hit Dreadmahn's side like a bolt, claws wrapped in white flame now—his fury burning through his exhaustion. He slashed once—twice—drove his fangs into the monster's joint.
Dreadmahn staggered.
One limb buckled.
Elior saw it.
Ran again.
This time, the staff didn't twist—it split. Six points. A star. Glowing in rhythm with his heart. He dragged the pattern through the air, carving a glowing sigil across the space between them.
"Open."
The ground responded.
Memory erupted from the stone—ghosts of the old battlefield. Warriors in silhouette, moving in flashes. Their weapons struck nothing—but the sound echoed into now. Dreadmahn's body remembered the wounds.
It stumbled.
Three of its eyes flickered.
Elior kept moving.
Every step sparked.
He dashed up a fallen shield-wing, flipping forward, and drove the staff into the top of the creature's skull, right into the cracked crown.
A howl.
A burst of light.
From the break—something pushed outward.
Fingers of golden flame, clawing at the edges like a soul trapped under centuries of iron.
Dreadmahn threw him off.
Elior hit the ground hard.
But something had changed.
The beast slowed.
It faltered.
The chains groaned.
Then—
The ground ruptured.
Stone erupted as a dozen massive spears of black iron burst upward—new bindings, ancient failsafes trying to reactivate.
They stabbed into Dreadmahn's limbs.
He roared, ripping them free, tearing into the sky.
But every movement now shook the air less.
His steps cracked fewer stones.
The monster was weakening.
Seraphis dragged himself up onto one of the spears, tail coiled around it for balance. He looked down, eyes burning.
"Now," he growled.
Elior stood.
No hesitation.
He held the staff straight out. Closed his eyes.
And breathed.
Not here. Not now.
He reached back.
Farther.
Into a field of wildflowers. A small voice. A hand reaching for his. His mother's hum. The rhythm of footsteps on riverstones. All of it.
His memory.
His anchor.
The staff responded.
Not light this time.
Color.
A stream of it. Pure gold, blue, green—every shade of every life he had touched.
He let it go.
The beam fired—striking Dreadmahn's chest, burning through.
Not with fire.
With self.
The creature convulsed.
Chains rattled.
The crown cracked fully.
And through it—
A face.
Human.
Just for a second.
Elior saw the god Dreadmahn used to be.
Not a monster.
A guardian.
Tears fell from one of its eyes.
Then the roar came back.
Louder than ever.
One last charge.
No weapons.
Just mass.
Elior didn't move.
Seraphis did.
He leapt.
Not for Dreadmahn.
But for Elior.
He slammed into the boy just as the beast collided with them both.
The world vanished in a wave of fire and metal and silence.
Dust settled.
Minutes passed.
Then—
Movement.
Elior pulled himself from the rubble.
Seraphis beside him, wheezing, barely upright.
The field where Dreadmahn stood was now a crater.
And in the center—
Silence.
Just the crown.
Split in two.
The chains coiled neatly in the center, unmoving.
The soul inside was gone.
Set free.
Elior didn't speak.
Didn't need to.
He reached down, picked up half the crown.
Held it in his palm.
Then let it fall.
Behind him, the next gate opened.
Made of glass and smoke.
Through it—green.
A forest that shimmered with stars.
Another trial.
But that could wait.
For now…
Elior sat down next to Seraphis.
And for the first time in what felt like days—
He breathed.