Saa'ir’s mind sharpens, his senses attuned to every shift and shadow in the narrow hallway. The first assailant lunges at him, striking down with a blurred fist, but Saa'ir sidesteps swiftly, using the attacker’s momentum to flip them over his shoulder, feeling a disconcerting, viscous resistance beneath his grip as he does.

The figure doesn’t hit the ground but instead seems to splash back to its feet, its form reshaping as though made of thick, sentient liquid.

Two more figures advance in sync, hands steeped in black outstretched like claws. Saa'ir pivots, his back pressed against the cold stone wall, narrowly dodging one swipe and deflecting the other with a sharp, open-palm strike that sends the cloaked figure reeling into its companion. The two collide, but their forms seem to melt and merge for a moment before disentangling themselves with eerie fluidity.

Realizing that physical attacks don’t impact them as expected, Saa'ir shifts his focus to entirely defense. He moved fluidly from one stance to another, his hands constantly redirecting their strikes.

Another figure lunges forward, and Saa'ir grabs its arm, twisting it to throw the attacker off balance, but the limb slips through his grip like gelatinous liquid, reshaping as the figure pulls back.

Gritting his teeth, he stepped backward in a calculated rhythm, using the narrow space of the hallway to limit the angles from which they can attack. He then assesses his surroundings, eyes locking onto one of the torches flickering on the wall.

As two figures charge at him side-by-side, he sidesteps and uses a well-timed kick against the wall to propel himself over them, his fingers brushing against the torch as he passes. Landing behind them, he yanks the torch from its sconce and brandishes it defensively, the flames casting shadows that danced across the walls.

The figures hesitate, as if wary of the light. Saa'ir eyes sharpen and he doesn’t waste the opening; he swings the torch in wide arcs, using the fire to force them back.

They falter but quickly regroup, moving with increased aggression, their attacks faster and more unrelenting. A fourth figure lunges from his side, and Saa'ir instinctively twists, bringing the torch down, only to watch in confusion and frustration as the flame flickers harmlessly through the attacker’s dark, shifting form.

Thinking quickly, Saa'ir uses his footwork to position himself against the wall, forcing the figures to funnel towards him in a line. As the lead attacker swings a fist, Saa'ir ducks low, rolling beneath the blow and sweeping the figure’s legs out from under it.

Knowing their tendency to bounce back, Saa'ir didn't stop his assault there. Using the momentum of his first sweeping kick, he spun around again to deliver yet another kick to the figure's abdomen. This strike sent the tumbling figure into the rest, setting up for Saa'ir's next attack.

Brandishing the torch once more, Saa'ir gripped it as he surged his soulura through it. As if his soulura was some type of fuel, the fire within the torch blazed anew. "It feels so weird. Even though I remember next to nothing about fighting, my body and soul seem to remember on their own, reacting as if it was natural." Saa'ir thought for a second as he stared into the burning embers of the torch, time seemingly slowing down. "I wonder how much I fought in the old days..."

Focusing back into reality, Saa'ir's face would harden as he brought the torch behind his head. "Fire Affinity: Torched Surge!" he shouted, swinging the torch in a wide, backhanded arc in front of him.

The motion sent a wave of wave spawned from the torches path of flight towards Saa'ir's assailants. The fire wave made contact and knocked back each one.

Unfortunately, Saa'ir watched as, one by one, each figure stood back up. Each of them standing with their arms hung like zombies.

Saa'ir kept his stance steady, his breaths measured, waiting for any hint of movement. His mind analyzed the strange characteristics these figures had—how his strikes landed with no solid impact, as if they were sculpted from shadows and thick mist. He watched, calculating, yet he couldn’t shake the creeping sense of dread that prickled down his spine as the figures loomed in stillness, all six pairs of white void-like eyes trained unerringly on him.

Then, the first twitch.

It was subtle at first—barely a flicker of motion in one of their shoulders. Saa'ir’s gaze flickered from one to the next as each figure began to convulse in small, almost imperceptible jerks. The spasms quickly escalated, a fevered stuttering in their limbs and torsos, until their bodies twisted in unnatural, angular motions. The white eyes grew brighter, swelling until each one was a gaping, ghostly orb, glaring at him with eerie intent.

An unsettling murmur drifted through the air, low and garbled, like distant cries submerged in water. Saa'ir strained to make out the words, but they fragmented and overlapped, words half-formed and strangled, each one splintering into strange echoes. The whispers curled around him, scraping at his ears.

“Not... enough...”

“Unworthy... broken…”

“No one... will... save you.”

The voices carried a dreadful weight, each garbled syllable steeped in bitterness and venom. The whispers layered upon each other, becoming louder, more relentless, like a chorus of fears spoken from deep within a young, vulnerable heart. Saa'ir’s eyes widened, feeling the weight of each word seep into his mind, an inkling of the darkness that had taken root here. He clenched his fists, pushing back against the unnatural pressure that seemed to reach out and claw at his mind.

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The figures advanced, their jerking steps rhythmic yet unsettling, each footfall echoing in the endless stone hallway. Saa'ir took a careful step back, ready to evade, but the relentless whispers began to fray his concentration. They shifted closer, their twitching forming a disturbing pattern, moving in sync as if drawn by the same malignant force.

One figure lunged, and Saa'ir narrowly sidestepped, pivoting just in time to redirect another’s blow with an open palm. The hooded form crumpled under his touch but then reformed, swirling back into its original shape like liquid drawn by unseen strings. Another rushed forward, its blank, white eyes flickering as if caught between rage and despair. Saa'ir deflected its blow, using the momentum to maneuver it into another figure, their bodies colliding but melding together like oil and smoke.

As he darted between them, he felt the heat of a torch at his side. An idea sparked. Snatching the torch from the wall, Saa'ir swiped it toward the nearest figure, testing. The flames licked across the shadowy surface, illuminating the cloak in a brief flare. The figure reeled, a distorted wail escaping as if from a hidden mouth, but no visible damage appeared. It regrouped, reforming with renewed vigor as if drawn to him by a dark, consuming need.

The words echoed again, louder this time, rippling through the air with more clarity.

“Left... abandoned…”

“Why… why couldn’t they… save me?”

A chill washed over Saa'ir as realization dawned. These voices—they weren’t the warnings of warriors or protectors. No, these were the haunting echoes of fear, of loss and despair, of memories warped into creatures of pure, unrestrained darkness. The manifestation of a deep, unyielding hurt—perhaps the very pain of the girl lying helpless somewhere beyond this nightmare, her silent cries woven into these twisted forms.

Saa'ir’s resolve strengthened, his focus sharpening. He wouldn’t fight them on their terms. No, he would face them with caution, waiting for a break, a weakness in the despair that bound them. These phantoms were more than mere obstacles; they were the embodiment of a soul in torment, and he couldn’t afford to let them consume him.

As Saa'ir steadied his stance, watching the six figures with their soulless white eyes, one broke formation with a swift lunge, its fist swinging at his face. Saa'ir attempted to evade, twisting his head just enough to avoid a direct hit, but the punch still grazed his cheek. The impact felt like a rock slamming against his skin, sending a flash of pain through his face.

Before he could fully recover, another figure darted in from the side, its fist a dark blur as it struck his abdomen. The force knocked the air from his lungs, and he doubled over briefly, instinctively bringing his arm down to guard his midsection. But his reaction left his head exposed, and a third figure took advantage of his lowered defenses, slamming a knee into his shoulder. The blow staggered him, almost driving him to the ground.

Just as he tried to rebalance, he caught a glimpse of another figure launching a kick from his right. It connected squarely with his ribs, the force pushing him back and leaving a dull, aching throb in its wake. The moment he stumbled, two more shadowed figures closed in—one swinging a fist that collided with his jaw, the other slashing with an open hand across his back, like a whip.

Stunned by the succession of blows, Saa'ir's arms went up instinctively to guard his head, but it was too late to regain control. His vision blurred, and his senses scrambled as the figures moved in a relentless rhythm. A punch to his ribs. A kick to his thigh. A strike to his shoulder. Every angle became a new point of impact, the shadows raining down on him until all he could see was a wall of black fabric and flashes of white, his body caving beneath the force of their fury.

In desperation, he kept his arms braced around his head, his body curled in self-defense as the torrent of strikes pinned him to the cold floor.

Saa'ir’s vision swam as he struggled to fend off the unrelenting strikes. Each blow felt heavier, as though the figures were channeling all the pent-up rage, sorrow, and anguish from their darkened origins directly into their attacks. His arms ached, trembling as he tried to shield his face, and he could feel the cold, unyielding stone against his back as they drove him down toward the floor. The figures bore down on him, shadows piling upon shadows, weight pressing him flat as if they intended to bury him beneath the relentless weight of despair.

The voices thundered in his mind now, no longer whispers but a roaring tempest. "Forgotten… Abandoned… Too much… always too much..." Their anger was suffocating, raw emotions clawing into him like hooks. Saa'ir's heart clenched with a deep sadness, the sheer intensity of the girl’s pain flooding into his senses. How could someone so young hold onto so much grief and rage?

Gritting his teeth, he whispered under his breath, "I'm sorry… that you had to carry this alone."

Just as he felt his strength faltering, something broke through the oppressive weight—a feral growl, cutting sharply through the cacophony. Saa'ir froze, his senses jolted as he felt another presence entering the fray. Before he could fully process it, a shrill, high-pitched shriek split the air, echoing down the stone corridor. The shadowed figures around him faltered for a moment, some of the weight lifting off his body as they twisted toward the new sound.

In that brief pause, Saa'ir heard scuffling, an urgent, desperate struggle breaking out nearby. Something wild and defiant fought back against the darkness—a blur of claws and snarling fury, snapping and lunging at the figures. It moved with the raw, unfiltered instinct of an animal protecting its territory or a friend.

There was a yelp, followed by the thud of a body hitting the ground. Saa'ir strained to see, his vision still hazy, but he could just make out a shape—a creature lying on the floor, having been struck down in its attempt to protect him. The presence of the animal, though momentarily subdued, gave him a surge of renewed strength. He pushed himself up, his fingers brushing the rough stone beneath him as he steadied himself, catching a glimpse of the dark figures distracted by the unexpected interference.

In that moment, a glimmer of hope sparked in his mind, the courage to stand again amid the shadows surrounding him. He readied himself, waiting for the right moment to move, his mind already racing with a plan.

With a surge of inner resolve, Saa'ir summoned every ounce of strength left within him, pressing against the oppressive weight that pinned him to the cold floor. His muscles burned, his soul throbbed with defiance, and with a fierce shout, he forced himself upright, arms stretched wide, unleashing a shockwave of radiant soulura that burst from his core. The blast swept through the dim hallway, striking the six hooded figures and sending them hurtling backward in a cascade of shadowed fabric and seething darkness.

As the echoes of the shockwave faded, Saa'ir panted, taking in the sight before him. The six cloaked figures, now reduced to puddles of viscous black goo, writhed and pooled on the floor, their forms dissolving into nothing but an inky residue. The dark liquid slithered in tendrils toward the cracks in the stone walls, sinking and vanishing out of sight as if retreating back into the depths of the labyrinth.

Breathing heavily, Saa'ir steadied himself, gathering his senses. But a soft grunt from behind drew his attention, snapping him from his thoughts.

Turning, he saw his unexpected savior—a small fox-like creature covered in stitches, as if someone had sewn it together piece by piece.

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Next: (Chapter 61) Meeting Transcending Lifetimes