Date: October 26, 542 years since the Fall of Zanra the Dishonorable.
Rosh stared at the figure standing a few paces away and couldn't move. His hands, which had been gripping his daggers a second ago, lowered. The vectors, ready to leap from his fingers, dissipated. The energy control technique, pulsing in his legs, fell silent.
Before him stood *her*.
His mother.
He recognized her immediately—not by her face, which had changed over the years of separation, but by the way she held herself. By the slight tilt of her head. By the way her dark hair fell over her shoulders. By that particular, aching weight that appeared in his chest whenever he thought of her.
She was older. Much older. Wrinkles furrowed her face, and deep shadows lay under her eyes. Her clothes—a white, flowing dress—were the same as all the creatures in this world, but on her, they seemed almost normal. Almost domestic.
She looked at him, and in her black, empty, cold eyes, there was nothing. No recognition. No love. No hatred. Only emptiness.
*It's not her,* Rosh told himself. *It's a guardian. An illusion.*
But his heart didn't listen. His heart pounded somewhere in his throat, and blood roared in his ears. He couldn't look away. Couldn't move. Couldn't even breathe deeply.
The woman stepped forward. Her lips, pale, almost colorless, parted.
"Rosh," she said. Her voice was soft, gentle, like on those rare days when she didn't drink and wasn't angry. "How you've grown."
He flinched. She knew his name. She spoke with his voice. The real voice he remembered from childhood.
"You look like your father," she continued, taking another step. "The same eyes. Mismatched. Disgusting. But beautiful."
Rosh wanted to say something, but the words stuck in his throat. His fingers trembled, and the daggers clenched in them vibrated faintly. He couldn't raise them. Couldn't point them at her.
*It's not her,* he repeated. *It's not her.*
The woman approached. Step. Another step. Her white dress swayed, though there was no wind. Her dark hair streamed behind her like water. She hovered over the sand, not touching it, and in that movement, that smooth, almost weightless gait, was something that took Rosh's breath away.
"I've looked for you for so long," she said, and pain sounded in her voice. "So long."
She stopped three paces away. Her black, empty, cold eyes stared directly into his mismatched ones. In their depths, in that bottomless darkness, something like tears flickered.
"You have no idea how much I've missed you."
Rosh felt a tear roll down his cheek. He didn't remember the last time he cried. Maybe in childhood. Maybe never.
"Mother," he whispered, and the word burned his throat.
---
The woman stepped forward and embraced him.
Her arms, thin and cold, wrapped around his shoulders, and she pressed against him. Rosh froze, not knowing what to do. His hands, still gripping the daggers, hung at his sides. The vectors died. The energy control technique fell silent.
He felt her warmth. Her smell—the same one from childhood, which he had forgotten but which suddenly returned. He closed his eyes and allowed himself to believe. If only for a moment. If only for a second.
"You've grown," she whispered in his ear. "Grown and become strong."
Her voice was gentle, tender, like a mother who truly loves her son. Rosh felt something inside him begin to melt. The wall he had built over the years was crumbling.
"I'm so proud of you," she said. "You've become like him. Like your father."
Rosh wanted to answer, wanted to say something, but in that moment, he felt pain.
---
Sharp, burning, it pierced his back and exited his chest. Rosh opened his eyes and looked down. Three serrated blades protruded from his chest. They were white, with silvery veins, and on each, at the very tip, pulsed a drop of his blood.
He didn't scream. Didn't groan. He just stared at the blades emerging from his body, unable to believe this was happening to him.
The mother pulled back. Her face, so gentle a moment ago, was now empty. Black. Lifeless.
"You bastard," she said, and her voice became alien, metallic, like the screech of steel on stone. "Because of you, he left. Because of you, he abandoned me. I should have slit your throat myself long ago."
The blades jerked, and Rosh felt them tearing at his insides. Blood gushed from the wound, soaking his white clothes, and he, staggering, fell to one knee.
The pain was unbearable. It pulsed in his chest, spread through his abdomen, rose to his throat. But through the pain, through the red haze clouding his vision, Rosh saw the woman's face change. Her features blurred, distorted, and within seconds, it was no longer his mother's face but a smooth, white mask without eyes, without mouth, without nose. Her body elongated, became taller, and new appendages, tipped with triple blades, burst from her back.
A creature. The same as the others, but larger, more massive, more dangerous. Its aura pressed down on Rosh like a vise, and he felt his own spirit contract under the pressure.
*A Peak Pillar,* he realized.
---
Rosh snarled. Not from pain—from fury. He grabbed the blades protruding from his chest and, clenching his teeth, pulled them out. Blood gushed anew, the world darkened for a moment, but he stood his ground. He rose to his feet, swaying, and his fingers, wet with blood, gripped his daggers.
The creature didn't wait. It attacked first. Its appendages, curved, serrated, shot toward Rosh from all sides—above, below, from the flanks. The blades whistled through the air, and each strike could be fatal.
Rosh dodged, using the energy control technique to move faster. His legs worked like springs, carrying him out of the danger zone at the last moment. But the creature was fast. Very fast. It anticipated his movements, came from unexpected angles, and Rosh took hits.
The first blade grazed his left side, leaving a deep scratch. The second—his right shoulder. The third—his thigh. Blood flowed in streams, but Rosh didn't stop. He struck back, and his vectors, accelerated by the technique, attacked the enemy again and again.
But the creature was strong. Its ethereal body seemed immune to the strikes. White dust oozed from the wounds, but it didn't crumble. It stepped back, regrouped, and attacked again.
"You are weak," it hissed in his mother's voice. "As weak as your father. You will die as worthless as he did."
Rosh clenched his teeth. The words burned worse than the blades. He remembered his childhood. Her screams. Her beatings. Her hatred. It all rushed out, and fury—deep, primal—flooded his consciousness.
"I am not weak," he snarled. "I am not him."
---
He attacked with renewed strength. His daggers, artifact weapons covered in ancient runes, glowed with dull silver. He poured all his will, all his pain, all his hatred into them. The energy control technique accelerated his blood, made his heart beat faster, his muscles work at their limit.
He closed the distance, dodging a hail of blades, and plunged a dagger into the creature's chest. White dust gushed from the wound, and the creature howled—a high, piercing sound that made his ears ring. It threw him back with a swipe of an appendage, and Rosh, flying several meters, crashed onto the sand.
His chest burned with fire. The wounds left by the blades still oozed blood. Rosh rose, spitting out sand, and saw the creature change. It grew larger, more massive, and its appendages, now numbering at least a dozen, froze in the air, ready for a new attack.
*It's adapting,* Rosh realized. *Growing stronger with each strike.*
He couldn't let this continue. He needed to find a weak spot. Fast.
He opened his eyes. His gaze fell on the creature's mask—smooth, white, without a single crack. But in the place where normal creatures have eyes, he noticed a faint flicker. A thin, almost invisible line that pulsed in time with the enemy's heart.
---
The creature attacked again. Blades rained down like hail, and Rosh, dodging, waited for his moment. He didn't counterattack. Didn't waste energy. He just dodged, retreated, bided his time.
"Running?" the creature hissed in his mother's voice. "Like your father. Like all the men in your family. Cowards. Worthless."
Rosh said nothing. He felt his strength leaving him. Each dodge was harder, each movement demanded more energy. But he waited.
And his moment came.
The creature, tired of the endless dodging, made a mistake. It swung too wide, and its defense momentarily weakened. Rosh saw it. His legs, obeying the energy control technique, launched him forward faster than ever.
He didn't attack with his daggers. Instead, he released all his vectors, accelerated to their limit by the technique. They shot toward the creature's mask, and at the same moment, Rosh, using his last strength, jumped and plunged both daggers into the very spot where the flicker pulsed.
White dust gushed like a fountain. The creature froze for a moment, then its body began to crumble—slowly, with a quiet, melodic chime. The mask cracked, and from the crack poured blinding white light.
Rosh stepped back, breathing heavily. The creature collapsed onto the sand and crumbled, leaving behind only a handful of silver leaves.
---
He had won. A Peak Pillar—and he had prevailed.
But the price was high. His body was covered in wounds, and the worst—three deep holes in his chest—still bled. He pressed his hand to the wound, trying to stop the blood, and felt regeneration slowly, very slowly, beginning its work.
*I'm alive,* he thought. *I'm alive.*
He sank onto the sand, leaned his back against the cold rock, and closed his eyes. Silver leaves lay around him—about fifty, no less. He would gather them later. Right now, he needed to rest.
His mother's voice still echoed in his head. Her gentle words. Her cruel words.
*I will forgive you,* he thought, staring at the white sky. *Someday. Not now. But maybe, someday.*
He closed his eyes and allowed himself to rest. Just for a few minutes. Then he would rise, gather the leaves, and move on.
Rosh smiled—for the first time in a long while—and slipped into darkness.