And this time—
He does not come alone.
He drags the Drakolimne with him.
The impossible happens without ceremony.
The creature's massive body is lifted against gravity, pulled upward by force that does not obey conventional limits, water tearing away from its form as it is forced out of its natural domain.
The Drakolimne screams.
The sound is not animalistic.
Not bestial.
It carries something deeper.
Something older.
A resonance like collapsing history, like structures far beyond physical form breaking apart under strain.
They rise—
Then crash.
Into Mount Morito.
The impact is catastrophic.
Stone fractures instantly, the cliff face exploding outward as if struck by something far larger than either of them. Fragments of rock scatter in every direction, the mountain itself resisting the intrusion only briefly before giving way.
Aldo's mind flickers.
Just for a moment.
A crack in focus.
A fracture in control.
[too loud]
[too many voices]
[hold]
The whispers surge back, louder now, more insistent, more aggressive, pressing against his consciousness from every direction.
But he pushes through.
Forces it back.
Holds.
Another strike.
The blade drives forward again, carving into the Drakolimne's body as it struggles against the impact.
The creature heals.
But slower now.
The regeneration is no longer immediate.
Cracks remain longer.
Damage lingers.
Aldo closes distance.
His fist rises—
Then slams into the creature's face.
Left.
Impact reverberates through bone and scale alike.
Right.
Another strike follows immediately, the force deep enough to carry through structure into core.
Bone-deep impacts.
Scale shatters in fragments, pieces breaking away under repeated force, scattering across the broken stone of the mountain.
The creature roars again.
Pain.
Resistance.
Defiance.
They grind along the mountain face—
Dragged by momentum, tearing through stone as they move, ancient rock formations breaking apart under their combined force, carving a visible line of destruction down the side of Mount Morito.
Debris falls in cascading waves.
Dust fills the air.
The mountain itself reshapes under the violence.
Then—
Something new.
Yellow liquid begins leaking from the Drakolimne's body.
Thick.
Viscous.
It spills from the cracks Aldo has carved, flowing downward in uneven streams.
When it touches stone—
It sizzles.
The surface reacts instantly, small bursts of vapor rising as the substance eats into the rock.
Aldo strikes again.
And again.
Relentless.
Until—
Something shifts.
Not in the creature.
In him.
His pupils darken.
Slowly.
Subtly.
Not fully.
But enough.
The change is visible.
The corruption rises.
Not as a sudden takeover, but as a creeping influence, seeping into the edges of his awareness.
The whispers return.
Louder.
Closer.
More aggressive.
No longer distant suggestions.
Now demands.
He exhales.
Hard.
Forcing control back into his body, into his mind, into the fragile space between action and surrender.
Then—
He vanishes again.
The Drakolimne crawls desperately to the lake, rush through trees and bushes hitting its chest.
Aldo teleport on its back...again.
Grabs Drakolimne mid-collapse.
One final strike.
An immense force push pinning Drakolimne on the ground for some seconds.
Bone cracks. A piece of the sword slip deep into its flesh.
Then—
He throws the sword.
Not toward the monster.
Not toward himself.
But toward the land.
Toward Hano.
The blade spins through air like a falling judgment.
Aldo's body drops immediately after.
Impact.
Silence.
He collapses on the ground. He moves due to inertia but stop when his head touch a bushes of wild flower, the butterfly instinctively fly away but it fly around fainted Aldo,
Unconscious.
The Drakolimne crawls.
Broken.
Bleeding yellow.
Dragging itself desperately back toward the lake like instinct alone is still functioning.
Comtois watches the sword land near him.
He exhales once.
Then steps forward.
Cracks his neck.
And grips it confidently.
A grin returns.
Small.
Sharp.
Dangerous.
"Lemme finish that pet fast."
The Drakolimne crawls.
Not with power anymore, not with the overwhelming dominance it had commanded moments before, but with something stripped down to instinct alone, its massive body dragging itself forward in uneven, desperate motion, scales grinding against dirt and shattered stone as it forces itself toward the only place that still promises survival.
The lake.
It crashes through trees and bushes without control, its chest slamming into trunks that splinter under the impact, branches snapping and scattering as its weight pushes through the forest's edge, leaving a trail of destruction carved not by intent, but by necessity. Leaves tear free in clumps, undergrowth crushed flat beneath its body, the ground itself reshaped by the path it forces open.
Each movement is heavier than the last.
Each motion slower.
But it does not stop.
It cannot.
Aldo appears again.
No warning.
No transition.
He teleports directly onto its back—
Again.
His boots hit against broken scales, landing hard, but steady, his body already moving before the impact fully settles.
He grabs the Drakolimne mid-collapse.
Not gently.
Not cautiously.
His hand digs in, fingers locking into damaged armor, anchoring himself as the creature struggles beneath him, its movements erratic, desperate, unfocused.
Then—
One final strike.
The sword drives downward.
The force behind it is immense, far beyond physical strength alone, a surge that carries through the blade and into the creature's body, pinning it to the ground with a weight that feels absolute, as if the very earth itself is pressing down in unison.
For a few seconds—
Everything holds.
The Drakolimne is forced into stillness.
Bone cracks.
The sound is deep, internal, final.
A piece of the sword slips deeper into its flesh, not just cutting, but embedding, disappearing partially into the creature's body as if the boundary between weapon and target has blurred.
Then—
Aldo lets go.
He throws the sword.
Not toward the monster.
Not toward himself.
But toward the land.
Toward Hano.
The blade spins through the air, end over end, its black surface catching fragments of light as it turns, the crimson veins pulsing faintly even in motion.
It falls like judgment.
Like a decision already made.
And then—
Aldo's body drops.
The moment the sword leaves his hand, the force holding him upright collapses with it.
He falls without resistance.
Impact.
The ground meets him hard, the force carrying through his body as he hits and rolls, momentum dragging him forward across dirt and broken vegetation.
Then—
Stillness.
He comes to a stop when his head brushes against a small patch of wildflowers, delicate and out of place amid the destruction, their thin stems bending under the contact.
A butterfly lifts instinctively from the disturbed petals, wings catching the air in a quick, fragile motion, but instead of fleeing far, it circles back, hovering uncertainly around the unmoving figure.
Aldo does not move.
Unconscious.
The Drakolimne continues to crawl.
Broken.
Bleeding yellow.
The thick liquid trails behind it, marking its path, sizzling faintly where it touches exposed stone and roots alike. Its movements are slower now, weaker, but still driven by something deeper than thought.
It drags itself toward the lake.
Desperately.
As if instinct alone is all that remains.
Comtois watches the sword land near him.
The blade cuts through the air in a slow, deliberate arc, spinning end over end before striking the ground with a dull, heavy sound that seems to carry more weight than metal alone should allow, embedding itself slightly into the damp soil before settling at an angle, its crimson veins pulsing faintly beneath the dark surface as if acknowledging the next hand that will claim it.
For a moment, he does not move.
He simply looks at it.
Then he exhales once.
Slow.
Measured.
The breath leaves him steady, controlled, as though he is forcing his body into alignment with what comes next rather than reacting to it.
He steps forward.
Each footfall deliberate, unhurried, the ground still soft and uneven beneath him from the earlier surge of water, but he does not falter. The chaos around him—the broken treeline, the churned mud, the distant thrashing of the wounded Drakolimne—feels distant, secondary.
He cracks his neck.
The sharp, dry sound slices cleanly through the lingering noise of destruction, a small, personal reset before something far larger.
Then—
He grips the sword.
Confidently.
His fingers close around the handle without hesitation, without testing, without the cautious restraint Aldo had shown. The contact is immediate, direct.
Something shifts.
The air tightens.
The faint hum of the blade deepens, responding to the new grip.
But unlike Aldo—
Comtois does not pause.
He does not hesitate.
The change washes over him, and he simply accepts it.
A grin returns.
Small.
Sharp.
Dangerous.
Not careless.
Not reckless.
But fully aware of what stands in front of him—and choosing to step into it anyway.
"Lemme finish that pet fast."