The wasteland wind screamed like it wanted his bones.
Aero's boots sank half an inch into the wet ash with every step backward, his breath coming in short bursts, steam curling from his lips despite the heat boiling off the creature in front of him. The storm-beast's silhouette wavered in the haze—its outline a jagged rip in the world, its body a molten skeleton wrapped in roiling clouds. Lightning spidered in its ribs, each flash briefly illuminating the twisted, bone-like protrusions that formed its legs.
Its eyes—no, the points where eyes should be—were burning pits that locked onto him. Every time they flared, the life inside him recoiled, as if the thing was a hole in reality trying to drink him empty.
Aero's chest hurt. Not from the running. Not from the heat.
From the pull.
He'd cracked something open earlier, when desperation had shoved his instincts into overdrive. Now, life force spilled through him like a breached dam—pure and furious, every heartbeat a drum that rattled his ribs. He felt every grain of ash beneath his feet, every stunted blade of grass miles away trembling against the wind, every drop of moisture twisting in the air.
And every time he moved, the beast moved faster.
A bolt cracked across the sky, slamming into the ground to his right. The shockwave tore a crater through the ash, spraying shards that hissed as they hit the beast's glowing hide.
"Not enough," Aero muttered. His voice was shaking. "I need more—"
The storm-beast blurred, reappearing so close he could smell the ozone peeling from its skin. It moved like thought—impossible to track with the eyes.
Instinct screamed. His pulse surged. The life force reacted before he did.
The ground exploded under his heel as he pivoted, palm slamming forward. A translucent green-white burst tore from his hand—a wave of compressed vitality that shimmered like sunlight through deep water. It struck the beast's shoulder and burned. The creature staggered, steam billowing from the impact site where its storm-cloud flesh hissed and tore away.
For a heartbeat, Aero froze.
It worked.
Then the beast screamed. Not a sound—more like the sky itself ripping. Every nerve in his body felt flayed raw. He stumbled, clutching his head, vision fracturing into jagged shards of light.
Through the pain, he sensed it—his attack hadn't just injured it. It had angered it.
The wasteland wind shifted. Every speck of ash on the horizon twisted toward them. The storm-beast's body swelled, clouds roiling blacker, thicker. Lightning now crawled along its legs like living veins.
He didn't have time to breathe before it lunged again.
Aero dropped low, one hand touching the ground. His life force rushed into the earth—no thought, no plan, just instinct. The ash floor shivered. Stunted roots hidden far below screamed awake, surging upward in a green blur. They coiled around the beast's front legs, smoking as they touched its heat, but holding. The creature thrashed, every movement sending cracks of thunder into the air.
"Hold it…" Aero hissed through his teeth. He forced more energy down into the roots. Each one thickened, their color deepening into a dangerous, unnatural emerald. His skin prickled as the drain hit—like pouring himself out through a hole in his veins.
The beast's eyes flared.
The roots snapped in an instant, charred into brittle black husks. Lightning danced over the storm-beast's body as it reared back.
He couldn't dodge the next strike. Not like this.
The bolt came.
Aero threw up both arms, forcing every shred of life force he had left into a barrier. It was crude—more instinct than technique—just a raw shell of pulsing energy wrapping around him. The lightning hit and the world turned white.
Heat. Pain. The taste of copper. Something inside him straining until it felt like his ribs would split.
The blast passed.
When the light dimmed, Aero was still standing, knees locked, breath ragged. Steam curled from his arms, his tunic shredded where the barrier had failed in patches. The beast tilted its head, those burning sockets narrowing.
"You're… not the only thing that can bite," Aero growled.
He pulled the life force inward this time—not blasting it out. His skin buzzed, every muscle tightening, his vision sharpening until he could count the particles of ash drifting between them. It was the same feeling from earlier—the unstable, blinding overdrive—but sharper now, more deliberate.
The pulse in his chest wasn't just a heartbeat anymore. It was a war drum.
He moved.
The distance between them vanished. One moment he was a dozen steps away, the next his fist was slamming into the creature's jawline. The impact rang like a cracked bell, sending a shockwave of green-white force through its head. Ash spiraled outward in a perfect ring.
The storm-beast reeled, its body flickering unstable for the first time.
Aero didn't stop. He pressed in, every punch, every strike laced with bursts of life force, each one searing more of the cloud-flesh away. His arms screamed with the strain, vision tunneling into nothing but motion and impact.
For a moment—a dangerous, exhilarating moment—he was winning.
Then its body detonated in light.
The force hurled him backward, tumbling through the ash until his spine slammed against a jagged rock outcropping. His head swam, ears ringing. Through the haze, he saw it reforming—half its head missing, clouds pulling back into place.
It wasn't dead. Not even close.
And the pulse inside him… was faltering.
Aero's knees hit the ash. The taste of blood was heavy in his mouth. The beast began its slow, deliberate walk toward him, every step a drumbeat in the wasteland silence.
Somewhere beyond the roaring in his head, something else stirred—a faint, steady rhythm deeper than his own heart.
Not from him. From beneath him.
The ash shifted.