....
Chauncey's body hung in the air, the sheer force of Edgar's earlier strikes reverberating throughout his body. Adrenaline roared through his veins, his heart hammering, lungs burning. He lashed out, fists flying toward Edgar's jaw in a flurry of desperate, mid-air strikes. Each punch was calculated, powered by every fiber of his being—strength, anger, training, and raw survival instinct.
Edgar took each hit with a cruel smile. Blood trickled from his lip, glinting in the dim moonlight, yet he barely flinched. His jaw absorbed the impact like steel, teeth grinding against the blows, a metallic snarl escaping him. Each punch made him stagger fractionally, but he immediately corrected, his body pivoting mid-air with terrifying precision.
Chauncey's frustration flared, a red haze behind his sharp blue eyes. He swung harder, elbows arcing, fists jabbing, trying to find an opening. But Edgar—grinning, almost mocking—absorbed the blows like they were nothing, letting only the faintest recoil ripple through him before he countered.
With a calculated twist of his metallic arm, Edgar shoved against Chauncey's chest mid-air. The force drove Chauncey backward, spinning violently, limbs flailing as gravity yanked him toward the forest floor. For a terrifying second, he felt weightless, suspended between attack and impact, powerless.
Chauncey's body spun through the air, momentum carrying him toward the forest floor. His vision blurred from the sheer force of Edgar's blow—the impact still echoing through every bone. Branches tore beneath him, leaves rained down, mud spraying as he tumbled. Pain exploded across his back, his ribs rattling.
He rolled, instinctively curling into a crouch as his boots dug into the wet earth, halting his forward momentum. Gasping, he wiped blood and sweat from his lip, tasting iron on his tongue. His head was light, the world tilting slightly, but instinct screamed at him. He needed to find Edgar before the soldier found him.
For a moment, silence.
A shadow cut across his periphery. Edgar didn't rush; he advanced with a predator's patience, eyes glinting beneath muted silver hues, the metallic arm catching every stray glint. Chauncey's breath hitched as he raised his guard, anticipating the next strike.
A hook—a vicious, spiraling blow aimed for his temple—struck like a hammer. Chauncey took the impact against his elbow and forearm, the force rattling his bones. The ground beneath him quaked slightly with the impact. Mud spattered his face. He skidded back, barely maintaining footing.
But Edgar's assault didn't pause. Each step he took, each swing of that metallic arm, carried something deeper-- as if it were a shovel digging into his soul. It chipped away at the shell that had hardened him.
Another swing—a crushing arc aimed to obliterate his jaw—whistled through the cold night air. Chauncey's instincts screamed. He ducked low, the wind from the blow rushing over his face, hair whipped across his blood-streaked cheeks. He rolled forward and attempted a lightning-quick uppercut, his fist slicing through the space where Edgar's chin would have been—but Edgar twisted, effortless, unharmed.
Chauncey spun into a haymaker, muscles screaming, veins standing out as he unleashed every ounce of fury. Edgar weaved through it effortlessly, his movement unnervingly smooth, almost anticipatory. Another blow followed, almost a blur to the untrained eye—ducked and dodged with what seemed like no effort at all.
The third strike, however, found its mark. Chauncey's fist collided with Edgar's metallic palm. The grip was instant and brutal, the metal pressing into his bones with unyielding strength. Pain shot through his arm, a deep, rattling ache that made his knuckles throb. His furious gaze faltered, just slightly, and Edgar's lips curled into a thin, knowing smile.
"Did your father teach you that move?" Edgar asked, his voice calm but heavy with meaning.
Before Chauncey could respond, the man began twisting his arm with calculated, unrelenting force. Slowly, excruciatingly, Edgar forced him down to his knees. Pain unlike anything Chauncey had felt erupted through his body. Every tendon, every muscle, every joint screamed. His vision swam with stars of agony as he forced himself to look up. Edgar's expression was cold, but calm—disappointing, assessing, almost clinical.
"Don't end up like him. You have enough skill for your crimes to be swept under the rug. Don't allow your talents to go to waste."
Chauncey's chest heaved. Sweat, blood, and tears mixed on his face, dripping into his eyes, stinging like fire. Pain consumed him entirely. That's all it was—pain. Raw, suffocating, relentless. Yet still, somewhere beneath it, defiance simmered.
A long, heavy moment passed. The world was silent except for the shallow rasping of Chauncey's breaths. Then, with ragged determination, he spat into Edgar's face. The projectile splattered across the man's cheek, slick with Chauncey's blood and saliva.
"Curse… you…" he rasped, voice broken but venomous.
Edgar's frown deepened. A sigh escaped him, heavy, slow, laden with visible disappointment. But before Chauncey could even register what that meant, the punishment came.
A sickening, sharp SNAP.
Pain exploded through Chauncey's arm, white-hot and blinding. He screamed—a guttural, unrestrained cry that ripped through the forest, scattering birds into the night sky in a frantic wave of flapping wings. His muscles convulsed as he writhed on the ground, clutching the broken limb, the joint dangling impossibly. Edgar released his grip without a word, letting him fall, letting him writhe, letting him exist in pure agony as the world blurred and tilted around him.
The pain was absolute. The night echoed with his cries.
However, Edgar was far from finished.
Edgar's grip on Chauncey's collar was iron. The forest seemed to shrink around them, the moonlight glinting off the metallic arm as he lifted him clean off the ground. Chauncey dangled, limbs trembling, broken arm useless at his side. His breaths came ragged, sharp, tasting of iron and mud.
"Wanna end up dead like your father? So be it."
With a sudden, brutal motion, Edgar slammed him into the forest floor. The earth shuddered under the impact. Pain exploded along Chauncey's ribs—one, maybe two were already shattered. Blood and saliva sprayed from his mouth as he tried, futilely, to brace himself for the next strike.
The first punch landed. The force reverberated through his skull, rattling his teeth and sending a shockwave down his spine. His vision blurred, red swimming with shadow, and yet he kept himself upright, mind bracing for more.
Another punch. And another.
Metal kissed flesh and bone. Edgar's strikes were precise, calculated—each blow landing on the bruises that had formed moments ago, amplifying the agony. Chauncey's face swelled, lips split, cheekbone throbbing. The taste of blood and metal was constant. Every strike left him staggering but not falling, yet the pain mounted like a storm pressing from all sides.
Edgar's eyes were calm, almost clinical, but shadowed by a flicker of disappointment. There was no anger—no personal hatred—only a quiet assertion of dominance, a lesson in brutal inevitability. A twisted sort of tough love—or perhaps just twisted enjoyment, masked behind his composure.
Then, without hesitation, Edgar broke into a sprint, dragging Chauncey's barely conscious body along the rough forest floor. Each movement tore at the skin of his back, shredding it against mud, roots, and jagged stones. Branches snapped and clawed at him as he scraped along the underbrush. Pain seared across every nerve; he could barely breathe through the bruises and blood filling his mouth.
Finally, Edgar released him, flinging Chauncey into a boulder with a deafening crash. The impact rattled him like a ragdoll, bruising him further, grinding dirt and bark into his broken form. Chauncey struggled to lift his gaze, but all he could see was Edgar advancing, measured steps cutting through the chaos of his own body.
Edgar grabbed him again by the collar, lifting him so their eyes met. Chauncey could barely register the words over the ringing in his ears.
"You did this to yourself," Edgar whispered, a quiet, cutting indictment.
Then the blows rained down again.
Punch after punch, brutal and unrelenting. Edgar's fist struck with a precision designed to maim, to obliterate, aiming to leave Chauncey's face unrecognizable. Each strike drove him further into the mud, teeth rattling, vision flickering between shadow and red. Blood pooled at his lips, streaked across his cheeks, mingling with dirt and tears.
Chauncey's mind swirled with pain, yet somehow, through every strike, he still clung to consciousness. Each hit was a message, each bruise a reminder: survival came at a cost, and Edgar made sure Chauncey knew the full weight of it.
Not even the forest's critters dare to make a sound as the punishment continued, the metallic glint of Edgar's arm catching the moonlight with every punishing swing. And yet, despite it all, Chauncey remained alive—though just barely, battered beyond recognition, and seared with the memory of every blow.
....
Snow whispered against the stone as Chauncey sat cross-legged before the frost temple's inner brazier, the cold biting deep enough to numb bone. His breath came in visible puffs. His trembling fingers pressed together, trying—again—to force the pulse of energy in his chest outward, to coax the first shimmer of a codex aura into existence.
Nothing.
Only the quiet crackle of the torch fire and the ache of failure tightening his jaw.
He exhaled sharply, frustration prickling behind his eyes.
Footsteps approached—soft but sure. Renn's silhouette appeared behind him, arms folded, breath fogging in the chill.
"You're doing that thing again," Renn murmured.
Chauncey didn't look up. "Meditating?"
"Grinding your teeth hard enough to chip them."
Renn stepped forward, nudging a knee into Chauncey's back just enough to make him straighten. He circled him like a teacher inspecting a stubborn, gifted pupil.
"You've been out here for hours. Days now. And you're still trying to brute-force a manifestation."
Chauncey swallowed, sharp and bitter. "I'm behind. I don't have time to be patient."
Renn crouched in front of him, leveling his calm, frost-colored gaze into Chauncey's unfocused one.
"You're not behind." A beat. "You're blocked."
Chauncey tensed, ready to argue. Renn raised a hand.
"Before you speak—listen. Let me explain something Flokki taught me."
He planted himself on the cold stone floor beside Chauncey, sitting shoulder to shoulder.
"Every warrior hits a ceiling. Every single one of us. You can punch it, beg it, curse it—it will not crack." Renn tapped Chauncey's sternum lightly. "Your aura can't flow if who you think you are is in the way."
Chauncey's expression tightened. He looked down at his hands, at the faint tremor in them.
"…So I'm the problem."
"No," Renn said gently. "You're the clay. And clay has to be reshaped before it becomes anything worth wielding."
Chauncey's brow furrowed, the crease deep.
Renn looked toward the open temple archway, where snow drifted like falling ash. "The gods have a… funny way of handling warriors on the cusp. They strip them down."
He lifted his hand, curling his fingers as if peeling something away.
"Layer by layer. Fear. Pride. Anger. Identity."
He turned back to Chauncey.
"And once there's nothing left but the raw core—your real self—that's when the spiritual force manifests. That's when the codex opens."
Chauncey swallowed hard. His voice was barely above a whisper. "But I'm not timid."
"No," Renn agreed. "But you are bracing. Every second." He tapped Chauncey's chest again, firmer this time. "You hold yourself together so tightly you can't grow."
Chauncey closed his eyes, breath thick with tension.
Renn's voice softened, threading between the flames and cold.
"Timid fighters… they can't awaken because fear holds their spirit hostage. They break through—suddenly, violently—and their awakening is enormous. The reward is higher because the cost is greater."
He drew a slow breath.
"You are the same. Not timid—blocked. Caged by something you won't face." Renn turned fully, bracing a firm hand on Chauncey's shoulder. "And the moment the world strips those things away from you, Chauncey… your spiritual force will erupt. It will manifest because it has no choice but to."
Chauncey opened his eyes. something flickered in them, but still—no aura.
Renn gave him a small, almost sad smile.
"It's not always a peaceful moment," he said quietly. "Sometimes your breakthrough feels like dying."
Chauncey felt a strange cold shiver down his spine.
Renn stood slowly, placing both hands behind his back as he watched snow swirl through the temple gates.
"But when you survive it…" He looked down at Chauncey with a spark of certainty. "You won't be behind anymore. You'll be reborn."
A silence settled—heavy, prophetic.
The brazier flame snapped.
....
???
The world snapped back in on itself—
the forest, the cold, the blood-soaked earth—
just in time for Chauncey's consciousness to catch the next blow meant to end him.
Edgar's fist came down like a meteor.
Chauncey's body spasmed, lungs burning, vision doubled—
But his hand shot up and caught the punch.
Flesh slapped metal. Mud rippled from the impact.
Edgar froze mid-swing, eyes narrowing. His brow twitched downward into a puzzled frown.
"…Hnh?"
He tried to yank his fist free.
Chauncey didn't budge.
The muscles on Chauncey's forearm writhed like awakening serpents, veins bulging—then glowing. A dark, vicious blackish red luminescence bled through his skin like living ink. His breath came in sharp, animal gasps.
Edgar's expression shifted—from irritation to dawning confusion.
He reared his other hand back, ready to cave Chauncey's skull in—
Chauncey's heart thundered. Once. Twice. A deafening, seismic pulse.
crack—shkkk—
His broken arm snapped itself back into alignment with a grotesque, instantaneous healing pop, bones sliding under flesh like they'd never been broken at all. The newly restored arm shot up and caught Edgar's second fist mid-swing, fingers locking against fist.
Their hands clasped.
But this time…
There was no contest.
Chauncey's legs trembled—then stabilized. His spine straightened. Every glowing vein crawled upward across his neck and jaw like molten rivers. Edgar's eyes slowly widened as he felt the shift—
the impossible pressure.
The overwhelming force.
"…Fascinating.." Edgar muttered, disbelief cracking his voice.
A shriek of metal rang out.
Chauncey's grip tightened.
The alloy of Edgar's metallic arm began to buckle.
Crushing inward. Warping like soft clay. Edgar's breath hitched—part awe, part terror.
With that, Chauncey's foot dug into the dirt—
—and he twisted his entire torso.
Edgar's body was ripped from the earth like a ragdoll. Tree trunks shattered as he tore through the forest in a violent blur, spinning wildly through branches and bark before finally catching air.
Chauncey appeared beside him in mid-flight—a phantom, parallel, eyes blazing.
He planted both feet against the side of a tree, cracking it along its core—
And launched himself.
The forest folded behind him in streaks of green and black as he rammed his knee directly into Edgar's stomach with bone-splintering force.
BOOOOM.
Edgar's body bent around the strike, vomiting blood as he rocketed backward—bursting through another trunk, then another, then one that practically exploded from the impact.
He was still airborne when Chauncey zipped above him, eyes cold, hands interlaced like a stone mallet raised by a god.
For a heartbeat, Edgar's gaze met his—
and Edgar smiled.
Then Chauncey came down.
WHAM.
Like a divine hammer.
The earth cratered.
Roots snapped.
Air blasted outward in a ring.
Edgar's ribs shattered beneath the blow, fragments grinding against each other. His vision blurred at the edges, colors bleeding into white.
For the first time in a painfully long life…
He felt death brushing his cheek with familiar fingers.
A cough escaped him—wet, broken. And then a laugh. A breathless, agonized, almost relieved laugh.
Chauncey landed, boots cracking stone, aura still pulsing violently around him like a storm contained in skin.
Edgar lay gasping, chest concave, eyes unfocused.
He rasped up at Chauncey:
"…Kill me…"
Blood dribbled from his mouth as he forced the words out.
"I'm tired… of being called immortal. End it."
Chauncey stared down at him—expression unreadable beneath the pulsing veins and blood-splattered skin. His breath steamed in the cold.
He turned his back.
Edgar's voice cracked into a desperate scream.
"WHERE ARE YOU GOING!? KILL ME!"
Chauncey knelt, lifting Juniper's limp body across his back with surprising gentleness. He looked over his shoulder, eyes burning faintly but no longer furious—only resolved.
"I won't give you the satisfaction," he said quietly.
"A true warrior's death is earned."
Edgar's face twisted—pain, shock, something strangely like respect.
Chauncey walked away, Juniper held securely against him, steps steady despite the fading glow and the toll ravaging his body.
The forest fell silent.
Edgar lay in the crater, staring at the sky, lungs wheezing shallow breaths
A smile crept up on his face.
Wide. Bloody. Almost childlike.
In that moment, for the first time in years, he felt alive.