Rayon's chest heaved, lungs burning with every ragged breath. Blood coated his suit, his hair matted, eyes flickering between rage and something far older, far darker.
Inside him, a presence stirred.
It had a name, though few would dare speak it: Erethon.
Erethon was the opposite of Rayon. Where Rayon was calculated, sardonic, and elegant, Erethon was raw, wild, and monstrous. A force that defined madness, chaos, pestilence, and dread. Its voice whispered constantly, dripping venomous amusement, challenging his thoughts, pushing him toward things that would break any normal man.
And yet… they were one. Erethon did not fight Rayon. It completed him. It was the reason he had survived his childhood, why the other children feared him, why no lullaby or story could calm him. It was the storm beneath the calm mask, the poison in the smile, the terror behind every laugh.
Even a partial release of Erethon's power was enough to terrify armies, summon madness into the minds of men, and warp the world around him. Threads of shadow coiled from his skin, dripping a darkness so thick it could choke. Even now, with the seal only slightly cracked, the forest felt wrong. Trees bent, wind twisted, the earth itself seemed to tremble.
But it came at a cost.
Rayon's body was not ready. Not physically capable of sustaining this kind of power. Every heartbeat screamed in protest. Muscles spasmed, bones strained, and every breath felt like fire. The artifact on his wrist pulsed, the scar burning like a warning. Erethon's essence pushed against his limits, each pulse of power threatening to tear him apart from the inside.
And yet, Rayon laughed.
"Funny," he whispered, blood dripping from his lips. "All my life… I thought I was different. Not because I was smart. Not because I was strong. But because I carried you inside me."
The snake hissed, eleven heads lashing with a speed that should have killed him. Rayon's vision blurred. He could barely stand. Every movement required effort, every dodge was calculated against pain. Yet his Hollow Strings coiled around his arms, legs, torso, moving with a life of their own. Erethon's power lent them weight, sharpness, and an almost sentient precision.
Rayon felt it—a rush of pure, unfiltered dread. The first head slammed into him, knocking him to the ground. He rolled, twisting, feeling bones grind. Pain screamed through him. Another head came from above, but he raised his hand instinctively. Threads shot out, coiling around the skull, piercing the brain.
The monster shrieked. The sound tore through Rayon's ears. He coughed blood, tasting iron and rot, and yet he stood again.
Erethon whispered in his mind, a dark, mocking tone: You are mine. Let them see what we are.
Rayon's grin widened. Yes… let them see.
He rose to his full height, staggered but unbowed, shadow threads crawling over his body, burning and thrumming. His blood was everywhere, yet his gaze burned brighter than the serpent's red eyes. He was no longer just Rayon Veynar. He was Rayon—and Erethon, the storm beneath the calm.
And for the first time, the full horror of what that meant sank in: he could fight monsters that should have been gods, twist reality itself, and leave armies trembling—but each time, his body would scream, his bones would beg for mercy, and his mind would taste the edges of insanity.
He laughed again, loud, raw, carrying blood, sweat, and madness.
"You thought I was just a man?" he hissed at the serpent. "You've got no idea."
And with a roar that seemed to split the night, he stepped forward, fists raised, hollow strings crawling like living shadows across the ground and sky, ready to face eleven heads with nothing but his bare hands and the half-sealed chaos burning in his soul.
This wasn't survival anymore. This was madness made flesh.