Bren woke slowly, wrapped in the quiet, golden stillness of early morning and in the warmth of Myla's arms. She was tucked close, breath soft against his bare chest, one leg draped over his like she was staking a claim. Her hand rested against his ribs, splayed wide, like she was afraid he'd vanish if she let go.
For once, there was no pain. No deep ache in his bones. No sharp reminder of corrupted claws or overstrained muscles.
Just warmth. Just quiet.
[SYSTEM UPDATE:]
Vital Systems Stabilised.
Physical injuries: Fully Healed.
Soulbound Link: Minor Residual Strain — Recovery Complete.
The notification flickered in his vision, then faded.
Bren exhaled slowly, tension bleeding from his shoulders. Healed... finally.
He shifted slightly, careful not to wake her, but her grip tightened, fingers curling like she sensed him drifting.
"Mmm… no," she mumbled, voice thick with sleep. "Five more minutes."
He smiled to himself.
"She's dangerous like this... soft, unarmored... real."
"You said that twenty minutes ago," he whispered.
She lifted her head, blinking sleep from her eyes. "And I'll say it again." Her voice was low and husky, still wrapped in dreams. She reached for him, fingers tracing a lazy line across his collarbone. "Just stay."
"Myla…"
She kissed his shoulder and looked up with a slow, sleepy smile, the kind that made the world fall away. "The world can wait," she said, and for a second, he almost believed her.
He almost stayed.
For a heartbeat, the thought of skipping the meeting didn't feel like failure. It felt like freedom. Her arms were warm. Her heartbeat steady. Everything about her said safe.
He could stay...
Just for a while...
But duty surged like a blade turned inward. They were counting on him. He still had so far to go, mastering the system, learning to control the darkness coiled within him.
He gently peeled her hand away.
"I'll come back to you in one piece," he murmured.
She frowned, her sleep-haze fading as she studied him. He was already pulling away, already halfway back in sergeant-mode.
"He never lets himself rest. Not even now. Not even with me."
Still, she didn't stop him. Just touched his wrist one last time, their Soulbound thread shimmering faintly between them, gold and violet, alive and pulsing.
"That's an order," she said softly. But it sounded more like a prayer.
Bren smiled and turned to dress, pulling on his uniform piece by piece. Myla watched him from the bed, propping herself up on one elbow.
"He's so hot… gods. But he was cute before all this too… broken, but sweet. He's a win either way."
As he fixed his long coat, he caught her gaze and smiled. She returned it, soft and sweet.
Then he left to meet with Silas.
As he entered the war room, he could feel it was under tension.
Silas stood at the far end, hunched over a flickering holo-map. Sergeant McEvoy and Sergeant Moon flanked him, arms crossed, expressions hard. Their gazes locked on Bren the moment he stepped in, measured, unreadable.
The atmosphere crackled with something heavier than urgency. Caution. Wariness. Doubt.
"Status?" Bren asked.
Silas gestured to the map. "Rift activity in the eastern corridor. Something's stirring in the corrupted zones. Readings are unstable. Spikes every two hours."
Bren moved closer, eyes scanning the distorted terrain. His body felt whole again, but the memory of collapse, of power slipping too far, lingered sharp in his bones.
Before he could ask for details, McEvoy stepped forward and slapped a tablet onto the table with a flat thud in front of Bren.
"Before you start playing hero," he said, "you're on this now."
Bren picked it up. His eyes narrowed as he read:
100 push-ups. 100 sit-ups. 100 squats. 50 pull-ups. Five-kilometer run.
Completed before dawn. Every day.
He exhaled through his nose. "This is brutal."
McEvoy's expression didn't shift. "It's necessary. You've got power, kid, but zero control. What happened in the trial wasn't strength. It was a meltdown."
Moon grunted. "You think we forgot how close she came to getting killed? In a sparring match?"
Bren's hands curled around the edge of the tablet.
He hadn't forgotten.
Lily knelt on the floor. Her gasping breath. The shock in her eyes when Nythor lifted his sword, before everything collapsed.
She should've had him on the mat. She was winning, holding back like she was told. But Bren didn't, and neither did Nythor. Then the moment he knew it went too far.
And then... darkness.
The memory made his stomach twisted.
"I didn't mean for that to happen," he said quietly.
McEvoy didn't flinch. "Doesn't matter. It still did."
Silas crossed his arms, gaze hard. "You want to command power like that? Then prove you can survive without it. Earn the system's trust. Earn ours."
The weight of that hit harder than any training set ever could.
Bren nodded, once. Slow. Resigned. Determined.
They weren't punishing him. They were drawing a line.
And giving him the chance not to cross it again.
The next morning nearly killed him.
The cold hit like knives in his lungs, each breath sharp enough to cut. Frost clung to the training yard like a second skin, and his muscles, already worn thin, screamed before the first set was even done.
Thirty push-ups in, his arms shook.
Fifty, his vision blurred.
By seventy, he was crawling between sets, sweat turning to steam on his back in the frigid air.
The pull-up bar bit into his palms, metal slick with frost and blood. Skin tore. He kept going.
One rep.
Another.
Again.
His breath came in ragged gasps... hot, broken, burning.
He was stronger now, faster, more durable. His body could take the punishment. That wasn't the problem.
This wasn't about strength.
This was about control. About refusing the easy way out.
About finishing as Bren.
Not as the monster waiting beneath his skin.
Then…
The voice.
"You're pathetic."
Nythor's whisper curled through his skull like smoke, venomous and cold.
"Let me help. Just for a moment. Let me take over."
Bren clenched his jaw, dropped into another push-up. Fire behind his eyes. Frost in his throat.
"You'll break, little vessel. You always break."
He didn't answer.
Not this time.
He forced the last push-up. Elbows shaking, arms barely obeying, chest brushing the frozen earth. It wasn't grace. It wasn't power.
It was pure, stubborn defiance.
A low ding echoed in his mind, distant, muted like a bell ringing underwater.
[System Notification]
Daily Challenge Complete.
Minor Stat Increase: +1 Strength, +1 Endurance.
Inner Demon Control: 10%.
He collapsed.
Chest quickly rising and falling. Blood on his palms. Steam curling from his back like ghost-fire. Eyes to the sky, blinking up at the pale morning light that broke through gray clouds.
Not a victory.
Not yet...
But he hadn't broken.
And Nythor was quiet.
For now.
Later that afternoon, the next mission came. The one Silas was discussing the previous day.
Recon sweep near the edge of corrupted territory: Bren, Myla, Leia, and Kovan. The trees here were skeletal, bark scorched to black. The soil pulsed faintly beneath their boots, like something rotten breathed beneath the surface.
Even the wind felt wrong.
Off.
Watching.
Leia adjusted her scope, eyes narrowing. "We don't stay long. Something's waiting."
She was right.
The thing hit like a cannon, bursting from the underbrush in a blur of claws and static-red eyes. A beast of twisted limbs and jagged hunger.
Kovan went down first, a spray of sparks as its claws ripped through his armor. Myla fired a clean shot, perfect aim but, the thing moved like smoke, darting sideways.
Bren surged forward, blade drawn.
But pain suddenly struck into his skull like a hammer.
A pressure behind his eyes.
A voice.
"Yes," Nythor whispered, hungry. "Break again."
And Bren did.
His vision fractured. Light bent wrong. His heartbeat slowed and thundered all at once.
Bones shifted. Skin crawled.
His eyes bled black, and something snarled up from his throat... not human.
He hit the beast with brutal force with his blade... too much.
Bones shattered. Limbs tore.
It screeched, but Bren didn't stop.
Didn't even hear it.
He grabbed what was left and started swinging his fists.
His fists slammed down like hammers. Over and over.
Blood, corrupted and black, splashed across the trees.
"More," Nythor hissed, enjoying the power surge.
"Let me finish it."
"They fear you now." He laughed.
"Bren!"
Myla's voice. Sharp. Frightened.
He froze mid-blow, breathing heavily. Slowly... his eyes snapped up.
She was standing there. One hand over her mouth, trembling.
Kovan stared in shock.
Leia's rifle was half-raised.
They'd all seen.
Bren blinked, the world swimming back into focus. He could still feel Nythor under his skin, thrumming, grinning.
One more second, and he wouldn't have come back at all.
He staggered back, something inside him unraveling. The black drained from his eyes. His hands were still curled into fists.
"Let me stay," Nythor whispered. "Let them fear what you are."
"No." Bren shoved the voice down, fierce, trembling.
"I'm still me," he muttered. But the words felt thin. Brittle.
No one said a word.
Later that night...
Leia stood outside Silas's door.
He didn't look up. "Report."
She hesitated. "Bren lost control."
That made him glance up. Slowly.
"But he came back," she added. "Barely. We saw it. It was close."
Silas leaned back, silent for a moment. Then nodded. "You did the right thing."
He turned to the window, eyes narrowed at the storm-wracked horizon.
"We won't get another warning like this," he said. "Next time, it's not just Bren who breaks."