The night around Lake Admonito no longer feels natural.
It has crossed some unseen threshold, slipped quietly from something merely unsettling into something fundamentally wrong, as if the world itself has begun to misalign.
The wind comes in broken currents now, circling the shore instead of crossing it cleanly. It coils and recoils in uneven breaths, brushing past the trees in irregular pulses rather than steady motion. Each gust carries a layered scent—wet pine stripped raw from bark, the iron thickness of blood, churned mud dragged up from below the surface, and something metallic underneath that does not belong to any natural landscape. It lingers too long in the air, clinging to the lungs.
The lake itself groans. Not metaphorically. Actually groans.
The sound rolls beneath the water like old timber bending under impossible pressure, deep and strained, as though something vast is forcing the lake to bear weight it was never meant to carry. It vibrates through the ground as much as the air, low enough that the human ear almost mistakes it for imagination.
Almost.
The surface trembles in widening circles, each ripple overlapping the last in patterns that never quite settle. Fish float dead near the reeds, their pale bodies turning slowly with the motion of the water. Pine needles rain steadily from branches despite no visible storm, a soft but constant descent that carpets the shoreline in unnatural stillness.
And at the shoreline, Hano Kichiro stands soaked from head to toe, unmoving, as if rooted there. Black veins crawl visibly beneath his neck and wrists like ink injected directly into his bloodstream, branching and shifting in slow, deliberate patterns.
The Morito Sword vibrates in his grip.
Not violently.
Hungrily.
Its crimson veins pulse one after another, like a second heartbeat syncing itself to his own, tightening that connection with each passing second.
Comtois keeps pacing nearby with visible irritation, boots sinking into wet dirt every few steps. Mud clings and pulls at him, but he ignores it, his attention fixed entirely on the lake. His jaw tightens as he stares forward, the expression of someone forced to wait outside a burning house—helpless, furious, and knowing that whatever happens next is already beyond stopping.
Aldo lies unconscious several meters behind them near the pines, his body slumped at an angle that suggests he was only barely set down with care. He had been half-carried earlier by Onaga Kei and Ryong Min Ki after collapsing from corruption overload, his weight dragging unevenly between them as if something inside him resisted even that simple act of movement. Now he remains still, his chest rising and falling in shallow, uneven intervals. His breathing is unsteady, but present—fragile proof that he has not crossed whatever line the sword had tried to push him beyond. Dark traces still linger beneath his closed eyes, faint shadows that do not belong to exhaustion alone.
The sword's corruption has not fully left him.
Probably will not for a while.
Meanwhile, the lake keeps moving.
Not waves.
Movement underneath.
Something enormous shifting, displacing the water from below in slow, deliberate motions that warp the surface into uneven bulges before letting it fall back again. It feels less like a body of water and more like a skin stretched over something alive.
Hano exhales slowly, the sound controlled, measured.
Then turns toward Comtois.
His expression becomes blank.
Completely blank.
Almost stupidly blank.
A dummy face, stripped of tension, fear, or urgency, as if none of what surrounds them applies to him at all.
"What are the six abilities again?" he asks.
Silence follows, thick and immediate.
Then Ryong bursts first.
A loud laugh escapes him before he can stop it, sharp and disbelieving, cutting cleanly through the oppressive atmosphere. It doesn't belong here, and that only makes it worse.
Onaga nearly folds over beside Aldo from disbelief, one hand braced against his knee as he tries—and fails—to keep himself composed.
Even Comtois freezes for two full seconds, staring at Hano as if trying to process whether he misheard. Then he slaps his forehead hard enough to make a wet, echoing sound.
"BRO. YOU TOOK THE CURSED HERO SWORD WITHOUT REMEMBERING THE MANUAL?"
Hano doesn't react to the outburst. He simply points at the lake immediately, arm snapping forward with sudden urgency.
"TELL ME NOW !!!"
"WHY ARE YOU YELLING AT ME LIKE I'M THE INSTRUCTION BOOKLET?!"
"BECAUSE YOU TALK TOO MUCH SO YOU REMEMBER EVERYTHING."
Ryong wheezes harder, laughter breaking into uneven gasps as he struggles to breathe through it. Even Onaga turns away, covering his mouth, shoulders shaking despite himself.
The absurdity of the conversation feels unreal against the backdrop of a dying lake monster and a collapsed knight somewhere beneath the water. The air still smells of blood and metal. The lake still groans. Nothing about this moment should allow for humor—and yet it forces its way in anyway, sharp and jarring.
Comtois groans dramatically, dragging a hand down his face before beginning to count on his fingers, each number punctuated with reluctant clarity.
"Okay. Okay. Listen carefully before your brain leaks out through corruption or something. Six abilities. Two hundred meter radius teleportation including up to ten people. Strength amplification proportional to the user. Dark slash enchantments. Higher corruption equals stronger magic output. Weakens nearby enemies. Fast regeneration through dark magic. And earth magic manipulation."
Hano nods seriously, absorbing the list without hesitation.
"Good."
Then, without another word, he turns and immediately walks toward the lake, boots sinking slightly into the saturated ground with each step. There is no pause, no visible doubt—just direct movement toward the source of everything wrong.
Comtois watches him go, eyes narrowing.
"That's it? No follow-up questions?!"
"No."
"You almost got corrupted before remembering the abilities!"
"I remembered now."
Comtois throws his hands up, exasperation breaking through whatever restraint he had left.
"THAT IS NOT REASSURING."
But Hano does not stop.
But Hano continues anyway.
The Morito Sword hums louder.
It starts as a faint vibration in the air, barely audible over the groaning lake, but it deepens quickly—layered, resonant, like something alive beginning to stir. The sound presses outward from the blade, low and insistent, until it feels less like noise and more like pressure against the skin.
The earth answers.
At first it's subtle. A distant cracking beneath the mud, like frozen ground beginning to thaw—but wrong, too deep, too deliberate. The soil near Hano's boots quivers, then tightens, then splits.
The shoreline caves inward.
Massive fractures tear through the wet ground beside him, jagged lines racing outward in branching paths. Entire sections of earth shear apart as enormous slabs begin rising from below, forced upward by something that does not care for resistance. Mud pours off them in thick, heavy sheets, slapping back into the ground in wet bursts. Tree roots stretch, strain, and then snap violently, recoiling like torn muscle. Rocks grind against one another with a deafening, crushing force that vibrates through the air and into bone.
Ryong stops laughing instantly.
The sound cuts off mid-breath, replaced by silence thick enough to feel.
Even Comtois falls quiet.
Three gigantic humanoid shapes emerge from the earth itself.
Stone golems.
The first rises nearly twenty meters tall, its form crude and uneven, shoulders broad and jagged. Water and dirt cascade down its body in constant streams, exposing rough layers of stone beneath. Its head tilts slightly as it stabilizes, gravel cascading from its frame.
The second mirrors it on the opposite side, pulling itself free with the same grinding resistance, its limbs forming out of compacted earth and fractured rock.
But the third—
The third towers behind Hano like a moving fortress.
Forty meters.
Thicker. Heavier.
Its emergence is slower, more violent. The ground does not simply break—it collapses under its mass. Its torso alone resembles a castle wall forced into human shape, slabs of stone stacked and fused together in uneven layers. When it shifts, those plates grind against each other with a deep, crushing rumble. Pine trees caught beneath its rising form snap instantly, splintering like dry twigs beneath its weight.
The surrounding animals react before the humans do.
Birds explode upward from the forest canopy in chaotic flocks, wings beating frantically as they scatter into the night. Foxes burst through the undergrowth, darting between roots and brush without direction, driven only by the need to flee. Even the constant hum of insects disappears, as if the air itself has been cleared of them.
Hano steps forward and stops near the edge of the water, soaked boots sinking into the mud with a soft, final pull.
Behind him, the three stone giants stand motionless.
Then his eyes narrow.
And the golems move.
Not elegantly.
Not naturally.
Brutally.
The two smaller ones lurch forward first, their massive legs driving into motion with blunt force. They leap.
For a fraction of a second, their weight leaves the ground.
Then they crash into the lake.
Water erupts upward in violent columns, surging into the air before collapsing outward. A miniature tsunami rolls toward the shore, slamming into the bank hard enough to drench everything in its path.
Comtois recoils, sputtering as water hits him full force. He spits lake water from his mouth, wiping his face with a grimace.
"You seriously couldn't warn us first?!"
Hano drags a hand across his face, clearing water from his eyes.
"No."
Ryong, already soaked, fumbles for his notebook and starts writing immediately, ink smearing as droplets strike the page.
"Subject Hano demonstrates synchronized geological manipulation through external cursed catalyst..."
"NERD !" Comtois shouts, voice cracking between irritation and disbelief.
The forty-meter giant moves last.
It does not leap.
It steps.
Its foot slams into the lake with a force that shakes the entire shoreline. The ground trembles violently as mud collapses inward, entire sections of the bank giving way. A portion of the lakeshore caves directly into the water, dragged under by the displacement.
The lake roars.
Not splashes—roars.
Underwater, the golems descend.
Their massive forms sink quickly, pulled down by their own weight. Darkness swallows them almost immediately, their shapes dissolving into the murky depths until only distorted outlines remain, shifting beneath the moonlit surface.
Hano closes his eyes.
His breathing changes.
Slower.
Measured.
Focused.
His fingers twitch slightly.
Below, stone hands flex.
His shoulders tighten.
Below, the golems push forward, forcing against the crushing pressure of the water.
The connection settles in fully, invisible but absolute. Every movement beneath the surface echoes through him, translated into muscle tension and subtle shifts in posture.
The lake resists.
Currents twist violently around the descending forms, dragging and pulling at them from all directions. This is no still body of water. Beneath the surface, Lake Admonito churns with unseen force.
The deeper they go, the stranger it becomes.
Light fades rapidly, swallowed by layers of dark green and black. Visibility narrows until only vague shapes remain. The water thickens, heavy, almost reluctant to be displaced.
Then the bottom reveals itself.
Ancient ruins stretch across the lakebed, half-buried in silt and time. Broken pillars lie scattered at unnatural angles. Collapsed walls form jagged outlines of structures that should not exist beneath a lake. Moss-covered statues rise from the sediment, their surfaces worn and eroded, their faces smooth and empty.
They stare upward.
Watching.
And there.
The Drakolimne.
Resting among the ruins.
It does not move at first. It does not need to. Its presence fills the entire submerged expanse like a living monument, its enormous body coiled in slow, deliberate loops around a flat stone platform at the center of the lakebed. The platform glows faint blue, a dim, pulsing light that struggles against the suffocating darkness of the depths. The glow bleeds into the surrounding water in soft halos, illuminating fragments of broken pillars and half-buried statues like a dying sanctuary still clinging to purpose.
Teufel lies there.
Unconscious.
Suspended within a shimmering sphere of trapped air, the boundary of it rippling faintly as the surrounding water presses in from all sides. The bubble distorts his form slightly, bending light around him, making him seem distant even at close range. His body remains still, armor cracked, limbs slack, as if whatever battle brought him here has already taken everything he had to give.
The ruined healing structure beneath him pulses weakly.
Stone channels carved into the platform flicker with intermittent light, their glow uneven, struggling. Each pulse sends faint ripples through the water, like a heartbeat barely sustained. It is functioning—but barely.
The Drakolimne coils tighter.
Its massive body shifts with a slow, protective tension, scales grinding softly against one another beneath the water. Its wounds are already closing. Fractured scales pull inward, knitting together with unnatural precision. Torn flesh seals itself in layers, the process grotesquely efficient. Yellow blood seeps from the still-open gaps, dispersing into the lake in thick, drifting clouds that stain the water like diluted poison, spreading in slow, blooming tendrils.
The entire lake feels contaminated by it.
Hano's eyes snap open slightly.
"It heals faster in water." he says aloud.
Ryong doesn't hesitate. His pen scratches furiously across soaked paper, ink bleeding with each stroke as he forces the observation down.
Below, the golems charge.
The lake floor shudders beneath them.
Massive stone feet slam into ancient ruins, crushing pillars into fragments and grinding collapsed walls into dust that erupts into thick clouds of sediment. Every step sends compressed shockwaves outward, invisible rings of force that ripple through the water and disturb everything in their path.
The resistance is immediate.
Water presses against them from all sides, dense and unyielding. Their movements slow, arms dragging through the weight of it, every motion burdened by pressure that would crush anything lesser.
But they do not stop.
Juggernauts forcing themselves through an ocean.
The Drakolimne notices.
Its luminous eyes snap open instantly.
Twin orbs burning with cold, unnatural light, cutting through the murk like beacons. Its head shifts, just slightly—but that is enough. The lake reacts with it.
Currents spiral outward in violent motion.
Water begins to rotate, accelerating rapidly, forming twisting vortices that drag debris into their pull. Broken stone lifts from the lakebed. Silt erupts upward in thick clouds. The entire environment bends around the creature's will.
Its jaws part.
Slow at first. Then wider.
Wider still.
Thin water shields materialize in front of it—transparent, curved planes that distort everything behind them. They shimmer faintly, layers of compressed liquid held in rigid form, stacked like barriers.
Then the currents fire.
The water does not simply move—it detonates.
A concentrated blast surges forward, a compressed wave of pressure that slams directly into the charging golems. The impact splits nearby ruins apart, pillars snapping in half as if struck by invisible battering rams. The force ripples outward, tearing through sediment clouds and scattering debris in violent arcs.
But they keep coming.
Slower now.
Stone legs grind forward, pushing against the force. Their bodies tilt slightly under the pressure, but they do not break. Each step carves a path through the resistance, forcing space where none should exist.
Still advancing.
Above, Comtois stares at the lake as the surface bulges unnaturally, rising and falling in warped pulses.
"This looks insane from up here."
Below, the Drakolimne screeches.
The sound does not travel as sound.
It hits as pressure.
Ice forms instantly.
From nothing—no gradual freezing, no warning—just sudden, violent crystallization. The water itself hardens into hundreds of jagged spikes, each one forming with explosive speed. They angle forward, locking into shape like loaded weapons.
Then they launch.
The spikes tear through the water like ballista bolts, streaking toward the advancing giants in dense volleys.
The left twenty-meter golem reacts first.
Its body shifts.
Stone flows—not like liquid, but like a structure collapsing and rebuilding at the same time. Its arm expands outward, plates splitting and spreading until it forms a colossal shield, thick and uneven but massive enough to intercept the incoming barrage.
The ice strikes.
Impact after impact detonates across the shield's surface, each collision shattering into explosions of frozen shards. The water fills with fragments, spinning and colliding, turning the space into a storm of razor edges.
The shield holds.
Cracked. Eroded. But holding.
Behind it, the middle giant pushes forward, using the cover to close the distance.
Hano grits his teeth.
His jaw tightens as strain builds across his face. Sweat mixes with lake water, tracing uneven lines down his skin. His breathing becomes heavier, uneven under the weight of control.
He controls two simultaneously.
Every movement precise.
Every reaction deliberate.
But the third—
The third drifts.
Its massive form slows, then veers slightly off-course, its steps no longer aligned with the others. It moves through the ruins without direction, brushing past broken structures without purpose.
Hano's concentration slips.
Only for seconds.
But underwater—
Seconds matter.
The disconnected golem continues wandering, fading into the murk, its presence diminishing as distance grows.
The Drakolimne senses the imbalance.
Its jaws open wider.
The surrounding water compresses.
Then—
It releases.
The shockwave detonates outward.
Not air. Not sound.
Pressure.
A violent surge of force that expands in all directions, invisible but absolute. It tears through the water with crushing intensity, bending currents and distorting everything in its path.
The stone shield cracks instantly.
Fractures race across its surface in jagged lines.
Then it shatters.
The remaining force slams directly into the middle giant.
Its left arm explodes apart.
Stone disintegrates into fragments, scattering outward in a cloud of debris. The torso absorbs the impact next—massive fractures splitting across its frame, lines spreading like lightning through its structure.
Above, on the shore—
Hano screams.
Not metaphorically.
Actually screams.
The sound rips out of him, raw and uncontrolled, as pain tears through the neural connection and floods directly into his nervous system. His body jerks violently, muscles seizing under the sudden overload.
His knees buckle.
The strength drains from his legs in an instant as he collapses forward—
—but Onaga catches him.
Arms locking under his shoulders just before his face hits the mud, stabilizing him with effort as Hano's body trembles.
Ryong's eyes widen, but his hand doesn't stop moving.
Ink scratches across soaked pages, frantic, almost illegible.
"Neurological feedback severe—direct sensory synchronization confirmed—"
"RYONG STOP SOUNDING EXCITED," Comtois snaps, voice sharp with frustration.
Below, underwater—
Chaos worsens...