James’s heart pounded with all the force of a war drum. A scorching hatred flared in his gut. No matter the confusion or shock, no matter how battered his essence pathways were, he would not let Jackson murder them. He clutched the trident and tried to channel essence through his body as he had done in the rift before. The memory of unleashing a destructive beam at the Briarsnatch came rushing back. If he could just replicate even a fraction of that power, maybe he could hold Jackson at bay.
Fury pulsed and he focused it into a single mental command. His essence responded, swirling inside him like a caged storm. It obeyed, at first, he could feel the lines of power coil through the channels in his arms and chest and for a single exhilarating heartbeat, he thought it might work. Then, without warning, everything inverted. The swirling essence ignited, turning his own pathways into searing lines of white-hot agony. It was as if molten steel had been poured into his veins.
James’s scream tore from his throat, raw and unfiltered, a mixture of outrage and torment. Every nerve in his body crackled with pain. He lost grip on the trident, his fingers spasming wildly. His legs buckled and fell hitting the ground hard on his bad shoulder. A new wave of pain lanced through him, but it was overshadowed by the scalding fire that tore at his inner channels.
He convulsed, curling in on himself. The farmland’s dust pressed against his cheek, gritty and cold, a stark contrast to the inferno raging beneath his skin. Why can’t I channel this? Despair hammered at him. In the rift, he’d come so close to burning out his essence channels, and now the damage had clearly caught up to him. He’d gone too far with that last desperate spell. Now, with no official healing or rest, he was paying the price. The essence that once answered his call so readily was now trying to consume him from within, like a viper turning on its handler.
Through his shrieks, he managed to grind out a single word: “WHY?!” The question wasn’t only about the betrayal; it was a raw demand hurled at the universe. Why had everything fallen apart? Why had Loran sacrificed himself for a party that was now turning on each other? Why was Jackson murdering them one by one?
Jackson bent into a squat, the casual posture seemed so out of place amid the carnage. His dark eyes glinted with something akin to amusement, though his expression was outwardly calm. There was no hint of remorse at what he’d just done. “Listen, kid,” he began in an even tone, as though they were discussing the cost of bread in a market square. “It’s nothing personal. Honest. I’ve done worse jobs, believe it or not.”
James tried to form words, but the agony made it difficult to speak. The taste of copper filled his mouth; he’d bitten his tongue in the convulsion. He spat blood to the side, glaring up at Jackson with all the hatred he could muster. This man, this traitor, had waited until they were battered and at their most vulnerable to strike. He’d killed Elia, attacked Joey, and left Marcus to bleed out. That fury still simmered under the pain, but the physical torment was crippling, locking James’s muscles in spastic half-twitches.
Jackson, undeterred by James’s obvious anguish, continued. “A couple of jobs ago, I was approached by a baroness. I never caught her real name, but she’s well-known enough in certain circles. I’ve got… let’s say a reputation for ‘professional expediency’ known to seedier folk. She came to me with an offer, some arrangement about recruiting new, young talents to join her in Ashwynd. She pays handsomely for each prospect.”
James’s vision blurred, spots of color dancing at the edges of his sight. Ashwynd… The name tugged at his memory faintly. The notion that Jackson was in league with that kind of power made James’s stomach churn. He tried to formulate a retort, some condemnation. All that left his lips was a hoarse hiss of pain.
Oblivious or uncaring, Jackson shrugged. “I wasn’t sold on the offer at first. Too risky, messing around with highborn conspiracies. But the baroness knew how to hook me. She offered more gold than I’d see in a lifetime of petty thievery and mercenary work, and she offered good essence cores. Enough to unlock all sorts of interesting possibilities for me.” He waved a hand dismissively, as though the specifics of his deal were unimportant. “But then, you see, I needed an actual reason to go rogue. I had to find a truly remarkable young talent. Not just any random farmhand who could wave a sword around. Something special.”
James’s heart pounded, and he dared not speak for fear that the next wave of pain would seize his throat. He suspected where Jackson was headed with this. Sure enough, the rogue gestured to him with the tip of his bloodstained dagger. “And then you showed up, James. A raw greenhorn in some respects, no offense, but oh, your potential.” Jackson’s eyes glinted with something akin to envy. “I have a skill called {Roguish Analyze}, helps me see under the hood, so to speak. Let’s me glean details most people can’t see from a normal Status check. And you… well you were wide open to me like a whore at a brothel, practically singing to the world with your potential. That’s when I decided you might be my ticket to early retirement. Or better yet, to a seat at some baroness’s grand table where I can get real power.”
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James sucked in a ragged breath, blinking back tears. Of course this would happen. Of course, in a world dominated by power, a special “title” or “talent” would make him a walking target. He knew the nature of opportunists like Jackson, but he’d never expected the man to be this callous, this thorough. The betrayal tasted bitter, laced with the stench of blood still lingering in the air.
Pain pulsed through James’s head, and for a moment, the farmland around him flickered like a dream. The tall grass parted in the breeze, carrying the metallic tang of blood with it. His body was slowly releasing its tension, the worst of the convulsions fading into a dreadful ache that left him drained and trembling. He almost wished the pain would remain strong, it was better than the terror creeping in at the edges of his consciousness. Elia’s body is right over there, isn’t it? Marcus is probably gone. Joey—
He swallowed. Another wave of nausea roiled in his stomach. Jackson kept talking, as if compelled to reveal everything. “I tried to make it easy. If the rift itself had killed them I would swoop in and "save you", the other kid too if it was expedient. But the others were too damn resourceful. His lip curled in something like admiration. “So, I helped them along a bit, leading you deeper into that labyrinth, leaking illusions to draw horrors near. I was hoping to whittle you down until the final stretch. Didn’t figure Loran would hold out as he did, or that you’d all make it to the sub-exit.” He shook his head. “Stubborn, every one of you.”
A fresh wave of fury burned through James’s veins, momentarily overpowering the physical pain. Loran’s face flashed before him, noble, battered, refusing to yield until the rest of them escaped. If he’d known Jackson was orchestrating half their struggles behind the scenes, how differently might events have gone? Could they have survived as a united front, or at least recognized the sabotage earlier? James’s eyes darted to the side. He caught a glimpse of Starfall, the mare stamping anxiously, ears pinned back. The horse’s breath came in short, frightened puffs, as though she too sensed the betrayal in the air.
Desperate for anything that might turn the tide, James tried once more to rally his mana. He urged it into a simpler pattern of {Strategic Tranquility} but the second the energy touched his frayed channels, the pain reignited, raking him from the inside. He let out a ragged cry, biting down on his lip to keep from screaming again. Warm blood spread across his tongue, tangy and bitter. His vision swam.
Jackson noticed the convulsion in James’s face. “Oh, you did nearly fry your pathways back there, hmm?” He chuckled, a soft and humorless sound. “I saw that beam you fired earlier in the labyrinth. Impressive. Must’ve taken a toll. That was when you really sealed the deal and I made the choice you know. I was flip flopping back and forth till then” He slid his knife into the makeshift scabbard at his belt, apparently no longer concerned that James posed a threat. “I do feel a bit sorry for the others, but hey, if I didn’t do it, someone else would have eventually. This world never lacks dangers.”
James tried to speak, to hurl an insult or condemnation, but the words turned into a half-cough, half-sob. His limbs felt like lead, and his chest burned. He managed to lift a trembling hand to the side of his head, wiping away cold sweat and tears. A part of him wanted to retch, to give in to the hopelessness. Another part refused to let Jackson see that surrender. Not personal? Not personal? The words echoed in his skull. “You… you’re a monster,” he rasped finally, though it came out weaker than he intended.
“Monster? That’s a loaded word, kid,” Jackson said, arching an eyebrow. “I’m a businessman, an opportunist, maybe a scoundrel. But a monster? Nah. I can’t hold a candle to the real horrors out there. And I doubt the baroness is a gentle mistress, whatever she wants with a talented young soul, it can’t be anything pretty. But my job is done the moment I deliver you.”
James’s heart hammered again. That implied Jackson planned to keep him alive. The idea was strangely more terrifying than immediate death. Did that mean James would be hauled off to Ashwynd, turned into some puppet of this baroness? Or sold into who-knows-what vile experimentation? He felt the tears slip down his cheeks, half fury, half despair. Another glance at Elia’s lifeless form twisted the knife further in his gut. She had been so determined, so strong. Now she lay face-down in the tall grass, a spreading red stain marking the spot. Marcus was at least no longer bleeding externally, but that was because his body was spent, too broken to keep going. They died for nothing. Loran died for nothing. The injustice of it all seemed to crush the air from James’s lungs.
Something flickered at the edges of James’s consciousness, a distinct internal presence that felt separate from his normal thought processes. He recognized it as the system. He sensed a faint resonance, like a door opening a crack. A wave of hope flickered in his chest. Could the system deliver a last-second miracle in the rewards from the rift?
But Jackson must have seen the shift in James’s eyes, maybe the glimmer of hope or the subtle glow of essence around him. Whatever it was, Jackson took no chances. His face hardened. “Don’t even think about it,” he growled, ripping the dagger from its sheath. With ruthless efficiency, he slammed the pommel into James’s temple.
The last coherent thing James felt was a white-hot burst of impact behind his eyes. Pain exploded in a spatter of color, and his vision convulsed into swirling shapes. For a moment, he thought he might black out instantly, but his body clung to a shred of consciousness, long enough for him to hear Jackson mutter something about “getting it done quick.” Then, a second wave of blackness descended, heavier and more absolute, swallowing James’s senses entirely.