As Kairos and Nyxara stood within the eerie tranquility of her domain, the air around them shimmered slightly. Nyxara narrowed her eyes. "Something's wrong," she murmured.
Kairos took a slow sip from his flask, seemingly unbothered. But then, his golden eyes flickered with recognition. He lowered the flask, chuckling softly. "Not wrong… just unexpected."
Nyxara turned to him. "Explain."
Kairos tilted his head toward the suspended filament, where Bara's soul was supposed to be resting. But instead of a mere soul merging process, a phenomenon was unfolding. The filament pulsed with raw energy, surging like a living thing.
Bara's soul was absorbing everything.
Nyxara's expression hardened. "That shouldn't be possible."
Kairos simply smiled. "And yet, it is."
---
In the Subspace with Eva
Bara sat in a lotus position, his breathing steady. The vast, endless white space around them shimmered, responding to him. He didn't even realize it, but he had spent over five millennia here with Eva.
During that time, she had taught him everything.
The secrets of the Vida's power. The history that had been buried. The nature of the world beyond what he had known. And through it all, she had watched him grow.
She had watched as he surpassed every expectation.
Now, as she observed him, her golden eyes softened. He was limitless.
Then, it happened.
A brilliant golden glow burst across his back, spreading outward like wings. The symbol of the Vida's burned itself onto his skin, its intricate design stretching from his shoulders down to his arms. It looked like an ancient mark, a tattoo of divine wings etched into his very being. The energy in the space trembled, bowing to his presence.
Eva smiled. "You've finally awakened."
---
Back in Nyxara's Realm
Kairos smirked, his amusement deepening as he reached toward the filament.
"That's enough," he said smoothly. "Time to wake up, kid."
With a single motion, he grasped Bara's soul, pulling it free from the filament. The energy crackled around his fingers before he guided it downward—back into its rightful vessel.
Bara's body, which had been still for so long, suddenly gasped for breath.
X X X X X X X X X X X X X X X X X X X X X X
Back to the Present
The tension in the room was thick, but it shattered the moment Ify burst through the door.
Her eyes landed on Bara—awake, sitting up, and talking to Malik as if they had known each other forever. It was as though the last few days of agony, of uncertainty, had never happened.
Her breath hitched. He's really awake.
Not being able to hold herself back, she rushed forward and wrapped him in a tight embrace.
Bara blinked in surprise before relaxing into her hold. He could feel her trembling slightly, the weight of fear she had been carrying finally releasing.
"You scared me, idiot," she whispered, voice barely above a breath.
Malik watched the scene in silence, his gaze unreadable.
Bara chuckled softly. "I'm fine, Ify." Then, without missing a beat, he added, "But I'm starving."
Ify pulled back, wiping her eyes as she huffed. "You wake up after all this time, and the first thing you say is that you're hungry?"
Bara grinned. "Well, yeah."
She rolled her eyes but couldn't hide the relief in them. "Fine! Just wait here, I'll go make something."
With that, she hurried off to the kitchen, moving faster than necessary, as if afraid he would vanish if she took too long.
As Ify rushed off to the kitchen, Malik remained seated, his sharp eyes never leaving Bara.
At first glance, Bara seemed the same—his usual relaxed posture, that casual grin. But Malik could see it.
With his Cursed Eyes, the mark on Bara's body flickered, glimmering faintly like an ember waiting to ignite.
Malik's expression darkened. That mark… It wasn't just any mark—it was the symbol of the Vidas.
A shift in essence. A change in fate.
He didn't say anything immediately, but his grip on his own wrist tightened.
What the hell did Kairos do to you, Bara?
X X X X X X X X X X X X X X X X X X X X X X
The battlefield was a nightmare made real.
The air was thick with the scent of burning flesh and rotting essence, a grotesque mixture of death and decay. The sky above Dravenholm was cloaked in dark storm clouds, heavy with the weight of the ongoing slaughter. The ground was no longer soil but a twisted battlefield of crushed bones, charred corpses, and pools of thick, blackened blood.
And standing amidst this carnage, blade in hand, was the Horn of Dravenholm.
He was a walking massacre, a butcher given form, his body drenched in the blood of the fallen. His armor was dented and cracked, his cloak torn, but his eyes burned with an unholy fire—a warrior who had long abandoned fear, long abandoned hesitation.
Before him stood a horde of monsters, each more grotesque than the last.
A Skindrinker—a twisted abomination of flesh and sinew, its body an amalgamation of stolen human skins, stitched together with veins pulsing like writhing worms. It opened its maw, revealing rows of jagged teeth meant to tear through armor like paper.
A Bone Reaver, towering over the battlefield, its skeletal form reinforced with cursed metal, its arms ending in massive cleavers that could split a man in two with a single swing.
The Wretched Brood, insectoid horrors swarming like a living plague, their serrated limbs clacking together in a sickening symphony of hunger.
A Corpse Titan, a monstrous mass of rotting cadavers fused into one, its many faces frozen in expressions of eternal suffering as it lumbered forward, dragging a colossal rusted greatsword behind it.
And yet, he did not falter.
He grinned, his blood-streaked face twisting into something almost joyous.
Then, he moved.
His blade howled through the air, splitting the Skindrinker from head to groin in a single brutal stroke. A wave of blood erupted, painting the ground a deeper shade of crimson.
The Bone Reaver swung its cleaver, but the warrior ducked low, the wind of the attack tearing through his hair. He pivoted, drove his sword upward, and impaled the beast through its exposed ribcage, twisting the blade until the cursed metal burst into shards within its body.
A swarm of The Wretched Brood descended upon him, their claws reaching, their gnashing mandibles eager to feast on his flesh. But with a single stomp, he unleashed a shockwave of raw force, shattering their fragile bodies into a storm of gore and shattered exoskeletons.
The Corpse Titan loomed, its massive blade swinging downward to crush him. He didn't retreat. He met the strike head-on.
A surge of aura erupted from his body—a violent, suffocating presence. His blade ignited with black flames, and in one devastating arc, he cleaved through the giant, sending a torrent of rotting limbs and entrails scattering across the battlefield.
And then, amidst the carnage, a messenger approached.
His face was pale, voice shaking. "M-My Lord! The artifact has been stolen! We are tracking the culprit as we speak!"
For a moment, the warrior was silent.
Then—he laughed.
A deep, guttural chuckle, one that sent chills down the spines of those who heard it.
"Stolen?" He tilted his head, blood dripping from his chin. "Good. At least something interesting is happening."
Then, without waiting for another word, he unleashed his aura—a raw, suffocating tide of bloodlust that warped the very air around him. The ground cracked beneath his feet.
He turned back to the battlefield, where another wave of monsters was approaching.
"Find your little thief," he said. "I have my own entertainment."
And with a war cry that shook the battlefield, he rushed into the oncoming horde, a one-man catastrophe.