Cyrus stood motionless before the mirror, its reflective surface seeming to penetrate the very essence of his being. The figure staring back at him was a stark contrast to his current state—shoulders squared with resolve, posture erect and unyielding, eyes blazing with a determination he scarcely recognized. It was as if the mirror showed not his present self, but the man he desperately longed to become, the hero he needed to be.
For a moment, he allowed himself to drink in the image, to imagine the strength and courage flowing through his veins. Then, with a sharp intake of breath, he tore himself away from the reflection and bolted from his apartment. His heart pounded with renewed purpose as he raced towards the staircase, only to skid to a halt before a daunting mountain of debris that blocked his escape. The building groaned around him, a stark reminder of the chaos engulfing the world outside.
Undeterred, Cyrus pivoted and sprinted upwards, taking the steps two at a time until he burst onto the building's roof. The sky above was a tapestry of smoke and embers, the air thick with the acrid scent of destruction. In the midst of this apocalyptic scene, a shimmering cube hovered, pulsing with ethereal energy that seemed to defy the surrounding desolation. As Cyrus approached, a portal materialized within its confines, rippling with possibility and silent promise.
He paused at the edge of the roof, casting a final glance at the place he'd called home for so long. A wave of nostalgia washed over him, threatening to unravel his newfound determination. Memories flickered through his mind—moments of joy, of sorrow, of mundane comfort—all soon to be left behind. The weight of his decision pressed upon him, a mantle of responsibility he was only now beginning to comprehend.
But as quickly as the doubt had come, Cyrus steeled himself against it. His jaw clenched, eyes hardening with resolve. This was no time for sentimentality or second-guessing. The lives of countless others hung in the balance, and he alone held the power to tip the scales.
Without further hesitation, he sprinted across the rooftop, each step carrying him closer to his destiny. The wind whipped at his face, carrying with it the distant sounds of battle and desperation. He clung to the faintest glimmer of hope, a tiny beacon in an ocean of darkness that seemed to grow brighter with every stride.
The words that had stirred him to action echoed in his mind, a mantra that propelled him forward with increasing speed. He was ready to change, to fight, to die if necessary for those he loved and for a world he believed could still be saved. With a final, desperate leap, he plunged into the portal, his body dissolving into a cascade of light as the familiar world vanished behind him.
For a breathless moment, Cyrus existed in a state of limbo, suspended between realities. Then, with jarring suddenness, he plummeted from the sky. His body reacted on instinct, muscles memory taking over as he hit the ground in a controlled roll. He sprang to his feet in one fluid motion, senses alert and scanning his new surroundings.
Though his powers were gone, months of rigorous physical training had honed his reflexes to near perfection. He found himself atop one of the villa's buildings, surveying the hellscape below with a mixture of horror and grim determination.
Flames licked the sky, painting the world in nightmarish hues of orange and red. The cacophony of battle had diminished, replaced by the frantic movement of people rushing towards a common destination—the Hall of Justice. Curiosity gnawed at him, but there was no time to ponder their motives. Every second counted in this race against annihilation.
Spotting a group of Bureau agents, Cyrus stealthily made his way closer. He moved with the grace of a predator, each step calculated and silent as he concealed himself behind smoldering debris. The acrid smoke stung his eyes and throat, but he forced himself to focus, straining to catch the agents' conversation over the crackle of flames and distant screams.
"Why are we here?" one agent questioned, voice laced with confusion and barely concealed fear. "The town's in chaos. Shouldn't we be fighting karmic monsters?"
"I think the same," another replied, frustration evident in his tone, "but there's nothing we can do. Nemesis said we needed to destroy the Bite."
"Nemesis? I doubt it's even Nemesis anymore." The third agent's words were tinged with a chilling certainty that sent a shiver down Cyrus's spine.
"It's certainly him. I don't even know why Nemesis blindly follows him. He keeps repeating they want to create a new world of pure-blooded. Fuck, there is no new world—just chaos and death."
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"Careful with your words," the second agent hissed. "If you don't want your head to roll like the others."
Cyrus retreated, their voices fading into the song of destruction that surrounded him. His mind raced, piecing together the fragments of information. It seemed the Bureau still clung to its mission of protecting Arkania from karmic monsters, yet Nemesis was inexplicably focused on defeating the Bite. Surely this was Lionore's doing, but what could she hope to gain from such devastation?
The mention of a "new world of pure-blooded" sent a chill through him. It reeked of the kind of fanatical ideology that had led to countless atrocities throughout history. Whatever Lionore's endgame, it was clear that the cost in innocent lives meant nothing to him.
Pushing aside his questions and the growing dread in the pit of his stomach, Cyrus focused on his immediate goal—finding Neno. The library seemed the most likely place, given Neno's penchant for research and the wealth of knowledge housed within its walls. He navigated the villa's corridors with cautious speed, his human appearance allowing him to blend in amidst the chaos of fleeing residents and harried Bureau agents.
As he approached the library, the sounds of battle grew more distant, replaced by an eerie silence that set his nerves on edge. Cyrus paused before the heavy wooden doors, steeling himself for whatever lay beyond. With a deep breath, he pushed them open, the hinges groaning in protest.
The scene that greeted him was one of heartbreaking devastation. Books lay strewn across the floor, their pages fluttering in the breeze from shattered windows. Shelves had been toppled, creating a maze of literary carnage. And there, hunched over a motionless body in a pool of crimson, was Neno.
Cyrus approached slowly, his footsteps echoing in the cavernous space. Neno's hands were stained with blood, evidence of his futile attempts to save the fallen Bite before him. As Cyrus drew closer, he saw the exact moment life fled the body—a subtle relaxation, a final exhale that seemed to carry with it all hope and possibility.
Neno's shoulders sagged under the weight of his failure, his head bowing as if in prayer or submission to the overwhelming tide of death that surrounded them. The sight of his friend, usually so full of life and enthusiasm, reduced to this broken figure sent a lance of pain through Cyrus's heart.
He crouched beside Neno, placing a comforting hand on his shoulder. "It's not your fault," Cyrus said softly, his voice barely above a whisper yet seeming to fill the oppressive silence of the library.
"Yes... it is, Cyrus," Neno's voice cracked with anguish, each word heavy with self-recrimination. "I tried to use the primordial form, but I can't. I lack the courage to let go. Do you understand? I could have prevented this, Cyrus. I could have saved them all."
Cyrus felt his heart constrict at Neno's words, recognizing in them the same self-doubt and guilt that had plagued him for so long. "You don't lack courage, Neno," he said, his voice gaining strength as he spoke. "You're the bravest Bite I've ever known. I'm not just saying this to make you feel better. You reached out to me despite being hunted, risking your life in those precious seconds. You've fought tirelessly to save as many Bites as possible, disregarding your own safety. If that's not courage, I don't know what is."
Neno lifted his head, his eyes meeting Cyrus's. For a moment, the weight of their shared experiences, their failures and triumphs, passed between them in silent understanding. Then, with visible effort, Neno wiped away his tears and pushed himself to his feet.
"I said I could help you regain your powers," he said, his voice steadying as he focused on the task at hand. "And it's true. It all has to do with the Primordial Bite."
Cyrus furrowed his brow, recalling the Prophet's teachings about the first magical creature in existence. "How is that possible?" he asked, a mixture of skepticism and hope coloring his words.
"The Primordial Bite was said to be able to grant anything and everything," Neno explained, his eyes taking on a familiar gleam of scholarly excitement as he moved among the library tables, searching for something. "If true, that might be the key to restoring your powers—and perhaps even more."
"That's impossible," Cyrus protested, even as a part of him desperately wanted to believe.
"No, it's not," Neno insisted, his voice gaining strength. "It's possible because of the inherent nature of the Primordial Bite. After we left Eldor's magical school, I maintained contact with him. A few days ago, he shared the results of his research on the Primordial form."
As he spoke, Neno pushed aside a bookshelf with surprising strength, revealing a hidden altar that Cyrus vaguely remembered being forbidden to approach. The golden structure seemed to pulse with an inner light, drawing them both closer with its silent promise of power and answers.
Neno beckoned Cyrus to the altar, his eyes alight with a mixture of fear and excitement. "According to Eldor, the Primordial Bite once ruled the world with absolute, indivisible power. Nothing held value for him until he met a human. They fell in love and bonded, giving birth to the first humans capable of harnessing magic in Arkania."
"You mean the Primordial Bite is the origin of magic in Arkania?" Cyrus asked, his voice hushed with awe as the implications of this revelation washed over him.
"Yes," Neno nodded, his words gaining speed as he continued. "And if my guess is correct, the primordial canines are related to him. If we can use the altar and the primordial canine, we might tap into that primordial magic and restore your powers—perhaps even grant you abilities beyond anything we've seen before."
Cyrus gasped, the weight of possibility and responsibility settling on his shoulders like a physical force. The path before him was fraught with danger and uncertainty, but for the first time since losing his powers, he felt a genuine spark of hope ignite within his chest.