James and Axle ran through the shrubbery and trees, their feet pounding against the forest floor, branches whipping past their faces. They were heading in the direction where Koby had landed—where the tentacle had sent him flying over the edge of the mountain and into the valley below.
They hoped that somehow, against all reason, Koby had survived.
Their hearts beat loud enough that they could feel the pulse in their throats, in their temples, behind their eyes. Every movement sent a fresh wave of dread through their chests.
"He's going to be alright," Axle tried to assure James as they got closer to the crash site.
James said nothing. His eyes stayed fixed ahead, scanning the destruction that marked Koby's impact—toppled trees, shattered branches, a furrow carved into the earth like a meteor had struck.
They reached the site.
The devastation was worse up close. Trees lay splintered and uprooted, their trunks cracked like matchsticks. Rubble from the blast was scattered everywhere—chunks of stone, torn roots, debris that had been thrown dozens of meters. In some places, the ground itself had been scorched, the grass blackened and curled. Poison sizzled in small patches where the tentacle's residue had splattered, eating into the soil with a soft, persistent hiss.
Then the smell hit.
Blood. Decaying flesh. Something chemical and wrong. It was so pungent that it stopped Axle and James in their tracks. James's stomach turned. He pressed a hand to his mouth, forcing himself not to gag.
And then they saw him.
Koby stood in the center of the destruction, a wave of dark aura surrounding him like a shroud. The energy was thick, oily, almost alive—it pulsed and writhed around his body, clinging to him like a second skin.
His body was still mutilated.
The tentacle had nearly torn him in half. His midsection was barely held together—only his spine and a single strand of flesh connected his upper and lower bodies. The wound was grotesque, the edges blackened and raw. But the dark aura was weaving through the gap, threading itself between the torn flesh, holding him upright when he should have been dead.
James wretched involuntarily. His stomach emptied onto the forest floor. He couldn't stop it. The sight of his friend—still standing, still there—while his body was literally falling apart was too much.
He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand and took a step forward.
Koby's eyes were closed. His face was slack, expressionless. He just stood there, swaying slightly, the dark aura pulsing around his ruined midsection.
"Why does it always have to be you?" James's voice cracked. Tears dropped from his eyes, tracing clean lines through the dirt and blood on his cheeks.
"Why is there dark aura surrounding him?" Axle asked. He was stepping backward, his eyes wide, his body tense. He had heard stories about dark energy—everyone in Nyxoria had. Corruption. Destruction. Abomination. "James, that's not normal."
And then James remembered.
The mansion. The Shoggoth stampede. Koby, possessed by something, his eyes black as void, his body moving with inhuman speed. Six people dead before they had managed to restrain him.
Was that happening again?
"Axle." James's voice was low, careful. "We need to get back."
He stepped away from Koby, his movements slow and deliberate, like someone backing away from a sleeping predator.
But it was too late.
Koby's eyes opened.
Black. Completely black. No iris, no sclera, no pupil. Just endless, hungry darkness.
And then he charged.
He moved toward Axle in a blur, faster than someone in his condition should have been able to move. His hand shot out, fingers curled like claws, aiming to swipe at Axle's throat.
James moved on instinct. He kicked Axle out of the way—a hard, desperate shove that sent Axle tumbling sideways. James shifted away himself, barely avoiding Koby's strike.
Axle scrambled to his feet, his eyes locked on the mutilated mass of flesh and dark aura standing between him and James. The thing that had been Koby turned its head slowly, those black eyes fixing on Axle with something that might have been curiosity.
"Koby?" Axle's voice was barely a whisper.
James's jaw tightened. "That's not Koby anymore." He took a step back, positioning himself between Axle and the entity. "Run. We need to run."
He made to move.
And then Koby was right in front of him.
James didn't see him cross the distance. There was no blur, no flash of movement—just Koby, appearing inches from his face, his black eyes empty and cold. His hand connected with James's chest—a brutal backhand that sent James flying through the air.
He crashed into a pile of rubble, stones scattering around him, his vision swimming.
"James!" Axle shouted.
He didn't think. He rushed at Koby, wrapping his arms around the entity's neck in a chokehold. He squeezed, hoping to cut off blood flow, to force Koby unconscious.
Koby didn't react.
He didn't struggle. He didn't gasp for air. He just stood there, letting Axle hang off his back like a child clinging to a tree.
Then he raised his elbow and jabbed it into Axle's stomach.
The impact was brutal. Axle screamed—a raw, ragged sound—but he didn't let go. He held on tighter, his arms trembling, his breath coming in short, painful gasps. He tried to squeeze harder, tried to get Koby to pass out.
Koby reached up, grabbed Axle's hands, and pulled them apart like they were nothing.
Then he elbowed Axle in the face. Once. Twice.
Axle flew back several meters, hitting the ground hard. He rolled to his knees, coughing up blood, his vision blurred, his head ringing.
"Axle, run!" James shouted from where he was stumbling against the rubble.
But the warning came too late.
Koby was already standing over Axle.
He grabbed Axle's hair—a handful of dark strands—and yanked his head back. Axle's eyes met those black voids. There was nothing there. No recognition. No mercy. Just emptiness.
Then Koby shoved his hand into Axle's chest.
The sound was sickening. The crack of ribs breaking. The wet, tearing sound of flesh giving way. Axle screamed—a sound that James would hear in his nightmares for the rest of his life.
Axle's hands shot up, gripping Koby's wrist, trying to stop the hand from digging deeper. His fingers were slick with his own blood, slipping, losing grip. He pushed with everything he had left, fighting to keep Koby's hand from reaching his heart.
Then a wave of aura surged from the mountain.
The ground shook. The air itself seemed to vibrate. The force of it was immense—so strong that it caught Koby's attention. His head turned. His black eyes fixed on the source of the surge.
"First Technique: Thousand Strikes!"
James came in fast, using the brief distraction to launch his attack. His sword became a blur of steel, dozens of thrusts aimed at Koby's torso.
Koby moved.
He slipped away just in time, releasing Axle, who dropped to the ground with a heavy thud. James's strikes cut through empty air.
James took his fighting stance, positioning himself between Koby and Axle's prone body. His sword was raised, his jaw was set, his eyes were burning.
Koby looked at them both—James, standing defiant, and Axle, bleeding out on the ground. His black eyes held no emotion. No recognition. No anger.
Then he turned and dashed toward the mountain, toward the source of the aura surge, leaving James alone in the destruction.
James stood there for a moment, his chest heaving, his sword still raised. His mind couldn't process what had just happened. Koby had been right there. Koby had nearly killed Axle. Koby had left.
He turned.
Axle lay on the ground, screaming in pain, his hands pressed against his chest. Blood gushed between his fingers, dark and thick, pooling beneath him on the forest floor.
James staggered to his side and dropped to his knees. He pressed his hands over Axle's, adding pressure, trying to stem the flow.
"It's alright," James said. His voice was shaking. "You're going to be fine."
He didn't believe a word of it.
The punctures in Axle's chest were deep—four holes where Koby's fingers had dug in. The blood was warm and slick, seeping through James's fingers no matter how hard he pressed.
James cut a strip of cloth from his own shirt and wrapped it around Axle's chest, pulling it tight. Axle groaned, his body arching off the ground.
"We gotta get help." James tied the makeshift bandage as best he could. "Can you stand?"
Axle's breath came in short, ragged gasps. His face was pale, beaded with sweat. "I feel dizzy." His voice was thin, distant. "James? James!"
He scrambled for James's shoulder, his fingers digging into the fabric, holding on like a drowning man.
"You're okay, Axle." James gripped his arm. "You're okay."
"Stop saying that!" Axle's voice cracked with anger—fear transforming into something uglier. He didn't know why he was angry. He just was. Every word James said felt like a lie. "Am I going to die?"
His voice broke on the last word. The anger vanished, replaced by something small and terrified.
James forced a laugh. It came out hollow. "As stupid and witty as you are? No."
Axle laughed too—a wet, pained sound that turned into a groan. "Oh man, don't make me laugh." He coughed. "It hurts to—"
"Then don't laugh." James pressed harder on the bandage. "You have to bear with it, Axle. I'll leave you here and go get help. You've got to be strong."
He made to stand.
"No." Axle's hand shot out, gripping James's arm with desperate strength. "No, no, no. Don't go, James. Don't leave me here." His eyes were wide, glassy with pain and fear. "I'm scared. Just stay here. Help me."
James stared at him. At the blood soaking through the bandage. At the holes in his chest. At the face of someone who was slipping away.
"You're fine, Axle!" His voice rose. He hardly ever swore, but the severity of the situation had pushed him past his limit. "Stay strong! You've gotta live on! It's not time for you to join your family, goddammit!"
Axle's grip on his arm loosened. His eyes fluttered.
James raked his bloodied hand through his blonde hair and stared up at the sky. Tears blurred his vision. He didn't know what to do. Koby was on a rampage. Axle was dying. And he was alone.
On the mountain, Rowan and Silas clashed.
Their movements were barely visible—blur of steel and shadow, shockwaves radiating from each impact, shaking the ground beneath them. Rowan was covered in an immense aura cloak now, the energy surrounding him like a second skin, dense and bright.
He pressed the attack, firing wind blasts that forced Silas back. Each blast was precise, controlled, aimed at driving the enemy into a corner.
But Silas adapted.
He wasn't used to fighting with the tentacles—the green, liquid-like appendages that had emerged from his back and severed arm. They were new. Unfamiliar. But he was learning. He used them as projectiles, firing concentrated poison blasts at Rowan, forcing the Hero to dodge and counter.
Rowan was graceful. His movements were fluid, economical—the product of decades of combat. But Silas noticed something.
Each wind blast was weaker than the last.
The aura surge—the explosion of power that had shattered the seal and the chains—had been born of emotion. Rage. Grief. Desperation. But that kind of power came with a cost. Rowan was burning through his reserves faster than he could replenish.
Silas smiled.
He began using his tentacles as appendages, climbing up mountain debris and rock slides, using the terrain to his advantage. He moved like a spider—quick, agile, unpredictable. His attacks came from angles that were harder to deflect.
Rowan was taken aback. The sudden shift in Silas's mobility was unexpected. He adjusted, firing wind blasts to keep the enemy at range—
Silas leaped.
He launched himself into the air, suspended for a moment, and fired three poison shots from his tentacles—aimed directly at Rowan's blind spot.
Rowan caught the movement. He couldn't dodge. Instead, he gathered aura in his palm and created a wave of wind—a shield that deflected the shots. They scattered, hissing as they hit the ground.
But Silas was gone.
Rowan felt him a breath away—at his side, close enough to touch. Silas had used the three blasts as a diversion. Now he stood beside Rowan, a charged poison blast gathering in his palm.
His smile was wide. "Checkmate, Hero."
He fired.
Rowan had no time to dodge. He threw up his hand, catching the blast with the last of the aura he could direct to his palm. The poison hit—and immediately began burning through his aura, eating into his skin.
Rowan's palm smoked. The flesh darkened.
He exhaled. Gathering wind around the blast, he used the air to disrupt its energy, pushing it upward. The blast exploded above him—a burst of wind and poison that scattered into the sky, away from both fighters.
Silas watched, his smile fading into something like respect. "You continue to amaze me, Rowan. Had you just deflected that, the blast would have exploded on contact. Poison would have spread through the air." He readied his stance. "Aren't you supposed to be a saint realm fighter? But you haven't entered it yet." His eyes narrowed. "Why?"
Rowan's smile was small, tired. "I don't need saint realm to defeat you."
"You're lying."
"And you would know what saint realm is?" Rowan's gaze flicked to Nithfang. "With your mythical sword that can barely give you the first stage? That sword must be quite powerful. But I doubt power like that comes without a price."
Silas's expression hardened. "It does come with a price. Unfortunately, I found a workaround." He charged another poison blast, the energy gathering in his palm. "So I can go all out."
He fired.
A shadow blurred past.
It moved faster than thought, intercepting the blast mid-flight. The figure caught the poison charge in its bare hand and landed on a high mound of rubble, standing over both of them.
Koby.
Most of his midsection had healed—but "healed" was too kind a word. The flesh was still gruesome, still raw, held together by weaving strands of dark aura that pulsed with every heartbeat. His body was a patchwork of torn muscle and blackened skin.
The dark aura surrounded him like a living thing.
He held Silas's poison blast in his hand. The green energy hissed and crackled against his palm—but it didn't burn him. Dark aura spread from his fingers, seeping into the blast, resonating with it. The poison hummed, shifted, and then—
Koby separated it.
One blast became two. Smaller. Contained. He held one in each hand, the dark aura intertwining with the poison, taming it.
His eyes—black, empty, endless—locked onto Rowan.
Then onto Silas.
He smiled.