The rakshasa now flickered like a dying ember in the warped Coherence Field. Its mighty form had split and shattered, quivered in fragility.
But let's not get overly dramatic; it had just clawed its way out of what it thought was its biggest threat.
Now, the demon needed more power. It hungered like a starved beast in the fractured realms, its essence leaking into the ether. Before the void claimed it first, it was desperate to reclaim its true, monstrous form.
Look at this weak, fragile demon, scrounging for a worthy battle like it's auditioning for some epic saga. And who does it spot? Sindhu, the bravest of the brave, peeked from behind a rock like a kid playing hide-and-seek with a tornado. Because, you know, the ability to act quietly, cleverly, or without drawing attention is basically for losers.
The demon's head snapped up, senses sharpened, analyzing the scorched surroundings—the twisted trees whispering warnings in the wind, the ground still humming with residual energy from the battle.
Sindhu, half-hidden behind a jagged boulder, his eyes wide as saucers, clearly not mastering the art of stealth. With a guttural snarl that shook the leaves from their branches, the rakshasa lunged, its claws extending like molten blades, aiming to rend the prince apart and siphon his Prāṇna in one savage strike.
But Sindhu—oh, miracle of miracles—wasn't the same panicked person from moments ago. A spark of confidence flickered in him, fueled by the chaos he'd survived. He jumped to the side with surprising agility, the demon's swipe gouging deep furrows into the rock instead. The air whistled as Sindhu rolled away, his heart pounding, but his mind clearer now.
I'm totally shocked at Sindhu's ability to survive this long; who knew dodging was a superpower?
Desperation clawed at the rakshasa's core. It was fading, its regeneration faltering without fresh energy. Like a hungry lion scenting easy prey, it lunged again, faster this time, its maw gaping wide with fangs of solidified lava. Sindhu scrambled back, the heat singeing his clothes, but before the demon could close the distance—
A punch pierced through its back like a thunderbolt. The force tore the rakshasa apart in two ragged halves, magma spraying in arcs that sizzled against the forest floor.
From the tearing rift emerged Jwala, his body wreathed in flames, his etched skin glowing with renewed fury. He had recovered from whatever the demon's attack, his Prāṇna surging like a volcano unchained. The battle was over—or so it seemed. The rakshasa's forms crumpled into ash, dissolving into wisps of corrupted energy that the wind carried away.
Hopefully, no hidden tricks up its sleeve. The Coherence Field shattered with a final, echoing crack, restoring the forest to its natural, albeit scorched, state.
But the air thickened with a new scent—not the acrid burn of demon flesh, but something sharper: hatred, raw and personal.
Jwala turned his gaze toward Sindhu, he clenched his fist, embers dancing along his knuckles as he readied another punch. Sindhu, catching his breath against the rock, met his eyes. He knew the reason—or at least, I think he did.
Was it betrayal? Some unresolved grudge from the realms' fractures? Or just the lingering corruption twisting his Prāṇna?
"You scumbag!" Jwala yelled and lunged forward with a massive fireball coalescing in his fist, hurled like a comet straight at Sindhu.
The air ignited in its wake, the heat warping reality itself. Sindhu thrust his hands forward. Prāṇna surged through him—water, drawn from the humid air and the nearby river's essence. A shimmering barrier erupted before him, a cascading wall of liquid that met the fireball head-on. Steam exploded in a hissing cloud, the impact shaking the ground, but the defense held. Barely. Sindhu staggered back, drenched and singed, his eyes locked on Jwala's as the forest held its breath for what came next.