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Temple of the Promised - Mountain Monastery, Week Four, Morning
The smoke hadn't fully cleared when Soren moved.
His Bloodlust Uncos activated fully—crimson aura flaring around his body like visible heat distortion, his pupils dilating until only thin rings of iris remained, every muscle in his frame tightening with predatory focus. The enhancement was immediate and dramatic: his first step forward cracked stone beneath his boot, his sword arm moving with speed that blurred the blade's edge into abstract threat.
He covered fifteen meters in less than two seconds, blade angling toward John's throat in a strike designed to decapitate rather than wound.
John's staff came up in diagonal block—ironwood meeting steel with impact that sent vibration through both weapons. The force of Soren's strike drove John back three steps, his heels skidding on packed earth, arms straining against strength enhanced by murderous desire. But the block held. John's enhanced ki perception had tracked Soren's approach from the moment he moved, had calculated trajectory and timing and interception point with mechanical precision.
Soren's eyes widened fractionally—surprise breaking through bloodlust. "You can fight now."
John didn't waste breath on response. He rotated the staff, using Soren's momentum against him, redirecting the blade to slide past his shoulder while stepping inside the guard. The staff's lower end came up toward Soren's ribs in short, brutal jab.
Soren twisted, taking the impact on his hip instead of vulnerable organs. Pain registered as distant sensation, Bloodlust Uncos suppressing discomfort in favor of combat efficiency. He spun with the movement, bringing sword around in horizontal slash that would have disemboweled John if it connected.
John dropped flat, staff horizontal above him, and channeled light Uncos through the wood. Brilliant flash erupted from both ends—concentrated beam into Soren's face at point-blank range.
Soren screamed, staggering backward, one hand coming up to protect his already damaged eyes. But he didn't stop fighting. Vision compromised, he relied on sound and muscle memory, blade sweeping in wide arcs that covered potential attack vectors even without being able to see his target.
John rolled sideways, came up in crouch, staff moving in defensive patterns while his spatial awareness tracked Soren's movements. The temporary blindness wouldn't last—maybe ten seconds before vision returned enough for combat. He needed to press advantage.
But Soren was already adapting. His Bloodlust fed on desire to kill, and that desire had reached fever pitch—John could feel it radiating from the man's mana signature, hunger so intense it bordered on psychotic obsession. The enhancement grew stronger in response, compensating for vision loss with increased speed and strength.
The sword came at John from unexpected angle—diagonal slash low to high that forced him to block rather than counterattack. The impact was heavier than before, Soren's strength increasing as his bloodlust intensified. John's arms complained, the staff's wood groaning under stress.
They engaged in rapid exchange: John striking with staff's ends—short jabs, sweeping attacks, attempts to create distance. Soren pressing forward with relentless aggression—overhead slashes, horizontal cuts, thrusting strikes that forced John into defensive patterns. Neither could land decisive blow. John's ki perception let him track and predict movements, but Soren's enhanced speed and strength meant even predictable attacks were difficult to counter.
Around them, the courtyard had erupted into chaos.
Kael moved like avalanche given human form—two meters tall, one hundred and thirty kilograms of muscle wrapped in partial dragon-scale transformation that made his skin reflect light like polished armor. His Beast Uncos was rare variant: draconic rather than mammalian, granting him not just strength but elemental resistance and natural weaponry that made him dangerous even without formal training.
He charged toward the cluster of students near the eastern walkway, clawed hands extended, roar emerging from transformed vocal cords that sounded more reptilian than human.
Kiran intercepted him.
The boy's transformation was instant—one second human child, next second full wolf form, gray fur and exposed teeth and predator instincts that overrode conscious thought. He hit Kael low, going for the legs in canine attack pattern designed to cripple larger prey.
Kael's knee came up, catching Kiran in the ribs, sending him tumbling across stone. But the attack had disrupted his charge, giving students time to scatter.
Kiran recovered with inhuman speed, all four legs finding purchase, launching himself at Kael's throat. Jaws closed on scaled flesh—found it too hard to puncture. Kael grabbed the wolf by scruff and hurled him into the courtyard's stone wall. Impact. Yelp of pain. Kiran hit ground and rolled, dazed but functional.
"Stay down, pup," Kael growled, his voice distorted by partial transformation. "This isn't your fight."
Kiran responded by attacking again. No strategy, no calculation—just predator instinct and loyalty to John overriding self-preservation. He went low again, faster this time, trying to hamstring the larger fighter.
Kael's backhand caught him mid-leap. Claws raked across Kiran's flank, drawing blood, sending the wolf crashing into a training post that splintered under impact. Kiran whimpered but forced himself upright, legs shaking, blood matting gray fur.
"Persistent," Kael acknowledged. "Stupid, but persistent."
The wolf snarled response—sound mixing pain and defiance—and prepared to attack again despite obvious mismatch in power.
Elara and Marcus had targeted the main cluster of students—eighteen monks-in-training who'd been scattered across the courtyard when the attack began. Now they gathered in defensive formation near the northern walkway, some armed with training weapons, others with nothing but bare hands and rudimentary Uncos training.
Sister Helena stood at the formation's center—the young woman who'd initially welcomed John and Kiran, whose Uncos was Desire Recognition and whose combat training was minimal. But she was senior student present, and that meant responsibility for protecting those younger and less experienced.
"Defensive positions!" she called, her voice remarkably steady given circumstances. "Remember your training—we defend, we do not attack! Protect the temple, protect each other!"
The students formed circle, facing outward, those with defensive Uncos at the perimeter. A boy with earth manipulation raised waist-high wall. A girl with barrier generation created translucent shields. Another student with plant growth summoned thorned vines across the ground between themselves and the approaching hunters.
Elara hit the defenses first. Her feline Beast Uncos granted her supernatural speed and reflexes—she cleared the earth wall in single leap, landed inside the barrier perimeter before anyone could react. Her claws—extended from human hands rather than full transformation—raked across one student's back, drawing blood and screams.
Helena moved to intercept, but Marcus was already inside the circle from another angle. His approach was methodical, professional—no wasted movement, no excessive force. He disabled students with precision strikes: nerve clusters that caused temporary paralysis, joint locks that forced weapons to drop, calculated impacts that rendered opponents unconscious without permanent damage.
"We're not here for you," Marcus said, his tone almost apologetic as he disarmed a boy with water manipulation. "Stand down and you won't be seriously hurt."
"This is sacred ground!" Helena's voice carried righteous anger despite her fear. "You have no right—"
Elara's clawed hand closed around Helena's throat, slamming her against the stone wall hard enough to crack masonry. "Sacred ground doesn't mean shit to us, girl. We want the blind boy. Give him up and we leave."
Helena gasped for air, hands grasping at Elara's wrist. "We... don't... surrender... guests..."
"Your funeral." Elara drew back her other hand, claws positioned to disembowel.
A vine wrapped around her arm—thick, thorned, summoned by the plant-manipulation student who'd created the earlier barrier. The vegetation pulled hard, forcing Elara to release Helena or have her arm torn by thorns. She chose release, spun and slashed through the vine with single claw swipe, then launched herself at the plant user.
The student—barely sixteen, terrified but holding ground—tried to summon more defensive growth. Elara was faster. Claws found throat. Blood sprayed. The boy collapsed, choking, hands pressed against wounds that wouldn't stop bleeding.
Helena screamed. Scrambled to the fallen student, pressing her own hands over his to try stemming blood flow. "Healing! Someone with healing Uncos—now!"
But the healers were on the other side of the courtyard, separated by combat, unable to reach them. The boy's blood pooled across stone, his eyes wide and confused, not understanding why defending his home had led to dying in it.
Marcus disabled two more students—both unconscious, both breathing, both unharmed beyond bruises and temporary nerve disruption. He glanced at the bleeding boy, expression hardening. "Elara. We're not here to massacre children."
"Speak for yourself." She kicked another student in the knee—audible crack of breaking bone, screams of agony. "They're defending our target. That makes them combatants."
The students' formation was breaking. Fear overwhelming training, some running, others freezing in panic, the defensive coordination collapsing into chaos. Elara and Marcus moved through them systematically—one leaving bodies, one leaving unconscious survivors.
And through it all, the monks fought back the only way they'd been taught: defensively. Earth walls to slow attacks. Barriers to deflect strikes. Vines to restrict movement. No offensive techniques, no lethal force, nothing designed to kill or permanently harm.
It wasn't enough.
John sensed the deaths through his ki perception—mana signatures extinguishing, life force dissipating, the unmistakable sensation of consciousness ceasing to exist. Two students dead now. Maybe three. And more wounded, more bleeding, more dying while he fought Soren in personal duel that served no tactical purpose.
He needed to end this. Fast.
Soren's vision had recovered enough for basic combat—he could track John's movements again, adjust attacks in real-time, exploit openings in defense. His Bloodlust Uncos had peaked at maximum enhancement, turning him into something barely human—strength amplified to superhuman levels, speed pushing physical limits, pain completely suppressed in favor of singular murderous focus.
"You're better than before," Soren said, breathing hard but grinning through exhaustion. "Makes it more satisfying. When I finally kill you, I'll remember this. Treasure it."
John blocked overhead slash, redirected horizontal cut, stepped inside thrust attempt. His staff work was improving each exchange—muscle memory from previous life translating into current form, movements becoming more fluid as body remembered what mind had always known.
But it still wasn't enough. Soren was too strong, too fast, too enhanced by Uncos that fed on desire John had cultivated himself by maiming the man's eye and escaping.
Fine. If conventional combat wouldn't work, use unconventional methods.
John channeled light Uncos through the staff again—but this time, he didn't go for blinding flash. Instead he created sustained beam, ultraviolet spectrum, concentrated through staff's upper end like focused laser. The invisible light hit Soren's exposed skin where armor didn't cover—neck, wrists, face. Began causing radiation burns almost immediately.
Soren flinched, confused by pain without visible source. "What—"
John pressed attack. Staff strike to force guard high, then sweep low at legs while maintaining UV emission. Soren blocked the staff but couldn't stop the radiation. His skin blistered where light touched, nerve endings screaming signals his Bloodlust couldn't completely suppress.
"Clever," Soren acknowledged, adjusting stance to minimize exposed flesh. "But not enough."
He was right. The UV burns were painful but not debilitating. They slowed him marginally, distracted him briefly, but didn't fundamentally change the engagement.
John needed different approach.
Across the courtyard, he sensed Kiran struggling—the boy was injured, outmatched, fighting on pure stubbornness against opponent who could kill him casually. The students were dying, their pacifist training making them effective only at delaying inevitable defeat. Helena was wounded, other monks scattered or unconscious.
The temple itself was being destroyed—walls cracked from impact, training posts shattered, sacred spaces desecrated by blood and violence.
Everything the monks had built, everything they protected, being torn apart because John was here.
Something cold settled in his chest. Not anger exactly. More like calculation reaching inevitable conclusion.
He'd spent four weeks learning the monks' peaceful philosophy. Understanding their desire for harmony, their rejection of violence, their hope that the Promised One would heal rather than harm.
But he wasn't the Promised One. He was Kami Van Hellsin. And Kami Van Hellsin had never solved problems through peace.
John's combat style shifted. Where before he'd been defensive, reactive, trying to minimize harm even to someone hunting him—now he became aggressive. Staff strikes aimed for lethal targets: throat, temple, spine. No more blocking and countering. Just attacking with intent to kill.
Soren felt the change immediately. "There it is!" His grin widened, bloodlust surging higher. "Show me what you really are!"
The staff's end caught Soren in the solar plexus—strike hard enough to crack ribs if it connected properly. Soren twisted, took it on already-armored side, riposted with slash that would have taken John's arm off if he hadn't rolled under it. John came up inside Soren's guard, staff horizontal, drove it into the man's throat like battering ram.
Soren gagged, staggered back, but didn't fall. His enhanced durability kept him functional despite what should have been incapacitating impact. He coughed blood, smiled through it. "Better! Much better!"
They engaged in brutal exchange—no technique now, just violence. John's staff seeking fatal openings. Soren's blade trying to find flesh. Both fighters moving faster than untrained eye could track, both committed fully to killing the other.
John channeled light through staff in rapid pulses—not for blinding but for distraction, creating visual noise that disrupted Soren's tracking. Used the momentary confusion to land strike against Soren's sword arm—not hard enough to break bone but enough to bruise muscle, slow the weapon's speed marginally.
Soren responded by abandoning defense entirely, accepting staff strike to his ribs in exchange for sword thrust that caught John's shoulder—shallow cut, painful but not deep. First blood drawn on either side.
"Got you," Soren breathed, eyes locked on the wound like predator scenting prey.
John ignored the pain, channeled light Uncos directly into the cut—creating searing heat that cauterized the wound even as it was inflicted. Soren's blade withdrew smoking, the flesh sealed through emergency field medicine John had learned centuries ago.
"You're full of tricks," Soren said. "I love it. We could have been friends in different life."
"We couldn't," John said flatly. "You're insane."
"So are you. Just better at hiding it."
Maybe true. Maybe not. Didn't matter.
What mattered: students were still dying. Kiran was still fighting. The temple was still being destroyed.
And John was still here, drawing these hunters to people who'd shown him kindness.
Tactical calculation reached conclusion: he needed to draw them away. Fighting here meant more collateral damage, more dead monks, more destruction of sanctuary that didn't deserve this violence.
But Soren wouldn't be lured. He wanted John dead right here, right now, wanted to savor every moment of the kill.
Fine. Then John would have to make him unable to continue fighting.
High-risk strategy. Likely painful. Possibly fatal if executed incorrectly.
John committed anyway.
He let his defense drop. Deliberate opening, obvious vulnerability, inviting attack.
Soren took it instantly—blade lunging forward in thrust aimed at John's heart, Bloodlust-enhanced speed making the strike almost impossible to dodge.
John didn't dodge. He stepped into the strike, angling his body so the blade missed vital organs, taking the sword through his left side instead of center mass. Agony exploded through nerve pathways. Blood poured from entrance and exit wounds. His vision—already absent—dimmed further as shock tried to shut down consciousness.
But the movement had put him inside Soren's guard completely, so close their faces almost touched.
John dropped the staff. Grabbed Soren's head with both hands. Channeled every drop of mana he possessed into light Uncos—not gentle emission, not controlled beam, but raw energy converted to radiation at point-blank range directly against Soren's already damaged eyes.
The effect was immediate and catastrophic. Soren's eyeballs literally cooked in their sockets, retinas burning, optical nerves searing, pain so intense even Bloodlust couldn't suppress it. He screamed—sound mixing agony and rage and frustrated bloodlust—and released the sword, staggering backward with hands pressed against his ruined face.
John collapsed. The blade was still through his torso, his blood pooling rapidly, consciousness fading despite desperate attempts to remain functional. His last thought before darkness took him: Did I draw them away? Did I save anyone?
Then nothing.
Kiran saw John fall. Saw the blood. Saw Soren stumbling blind and screaming but still alive, still dangerous.
Something broke in the boy's mind—thin veneer of humanity that kept beast instincts controlled. The wolf took over completely, conscious thought subsumed beneath predator rage.
He attacked Kael with suicidal fury, all strategy abandoned, just teeth and claws and willingness to die if it meant protecting the person who'd saved him. Kael, surprised by the sudden feral assault, actually gave ground—not from damage but from sheer unpredictability of opponent who no longer cared about survival.
Helena, seeing John down and Kiran berserk, made decision. She activated her Desire Recognition Uncos—usually passive ability, now pushed to maximum intensity. Her consciousness expanded, touching every mind in the courtyard, perceiving their core drives.
Soren: bloodlust, obsession, need to kill Elara: hunger for violence, satisfaction in suffering Marcus: duty, professionalism, desire to complete mission Kael: pride, dominance, need to prove strength
And underneath all of them: uncertainty. The fight wasn't going as planned. Their primary target was down but they'd taken casualties, the monks were more resilient than expected, and continuation meant more difficult extraction.
Helena spoke, her voice carrying psychic weight enhanced by her Uncos. "You have what you came for. The blind boy is down. Take him and leave before more blood is shed."
Marcus hesitated. Looked at the three dead students, the dozen wounded, the destruction. Looked at his companions—Elara blood-soaked and grinning, Kael trading blows with rabid wolf, Soren screaming and blind.
"Elara! Kael! We're extracting!" His voice cut through combat. "Grab Soren, grab the target, we leave NOW!"
"But—" Elara started.
"NOW!"
The professional authority in his tone penetrated even Elara's bloodlust. She disengaged from the students, moved to support Soren who was stumbling in circles, hands still pressed against his destroyed eyes. Kael threw Kiran off—the wolf hit wall hard enough to crack stone, stayed down this time—and moved toward John's collapsed form.
Helena stepped in his path. "You take him, he dies from blood loss before you reach the valley floor. Let us stabilize him first."
"Not happening," Kael growled.
"Then you murder him out of spite rather than capturing him. Your choice."
Standoff. Kael's clawed hand hovering over John's body. Helena standing between them, unarmed, outmatched, but absolutely unwavering.
Marcus made the decision. "Leave him. We failed the extraction. Not worth additional casualties." To Kael: "Move. That's an order."
Kael snarled but complied. The four hunters withdrew—Elara and Marcus supporting Soren between them, Kael covering their retreat—moving back through the destroyed gates and down the mountain path.
Behind them they left three dead students, fourteen wounded, one dying slowly from throat wound, a courtyard soaked in blood, and John unconscious with a sword still through his torso.
Helena collapsed to her knees beside him, hands shaking as she assessed the wound. The blade had missed heart and major arteries by centimeters—incredible luck or incredible precision, she couldn't tell which. But he was bleeding out, consciousness gone, body in shock.
She looked up at the other students—terrified, traumatized, some still crying. "Get the medical supplies. All of them. And someone find the emergency signal—we need the Masters back NOW."
They scrambled to obey, leaving Helena alone with John's dying body and the knowledge that their peaceful sanctuary had just been shattered by violence they had no ability to prevent.
The boy Kiran, back in human form now, crawled over. His face was battered, his body covered in bruises and cuts. He reached John's side and just sat there, too hurt to cry, too exhausted to speak.
Together they waited for help that might arrive too late.
The morning sun continued rising over the mountains, indifferent to the blood drying on sacred stone.