Chapter 2:

From Darkness

> Once, a curious boy wandered too close to the great Seal, where none were meant to tread. His parents warned him, for they knew the ancient tales, but his desire to see the forbidden door was too strong. When he reached it, a great lord made of stone stepped from the shadows. The boy cried out, but no one heard him. The lord said nothing, only watched as the boy tried to flee. But no one escapes the guardian of the Seal. The boy was never seen again, his bones left to rest in the eternal dark.

>

> — Children’s warning tale, popular in the Clan of the Seal

Slitted eyes gleamed from the far wall of the ravine-shaped cavern, low and menacing, tracking Jericho with predatory intent. The tunnel snake, coiled in its lair, was still digesting its last meal, but its watchful gaze was unmistakable—it had already marked him as the next.

I have scouted the adjoining chambers. This is the only way forward. Legion’s voice echoed in his mind, cold and matter-of-fact.

Jericho gritted his teeth. He had been relieved to discover that Legion served more than just as a source of cryptic wisdom and ancient grievances. The spectral hound had proven useful, able to scout and guide him through the labyrinthine Underroots. But any satisfaction he’d felt at Legion’s utility evaporated when he realized that the fully-grown tunnel snake—an apex predator down here—was blocking his only path to the Seal.

The snake’s massive, coiled form filled the narrow passage ahead, its thick, black scales blending into the shadowed rock, making it almost invisible. Only the faint glint of its slitted, yellow eyes betrayed its presence. It was far from the sluggish beast Jericho had hoped to encounter, and its immense size made it clear that it had gorged on creatures far larger than the vermin of the Underroots. Its last meal had likely been human, judging by the remnants scattered near its tail.

His stomach tightened with disgust, but more than that, a cold calculation settled in his mind. This wasn't about revenge for the devoured souls or the danger it posed. It was simple—the beast was in his way.

The flames that had been gently flickering across Jericho’s skin flared briefly, casting sharp, dancing shadows across the cavern walls as his resolve hardened. The heat within him surged, coruscating outward in bright bursts of orange and gold, illuminating the dark passage ahead. The tunnel snake’s eyes flickered, narrowing as it sensed the rising energy, the predator within it awakening.

Jericho moved slowly, his steps silent as he crept forward, every muscle in his body coiled with purpose. He could see the snake’s massive form shifting, the muscles in its back half tensing in preparation for a strike, its sleek body poised to lunge from its shadowed alcove. The air between them felt charged, a fragile, breathless moment hanging just before the clash.

Without breaking eye contact with the beast, Jericho's hand slid downward, brushing the stone floor until he found what he was looking for—a large rock embedded in the cavern’s surface. Slowly, with careful deliberation, he pried it loose, lifting it with a single hand. His flames danced over the stone’s surface as he straightened, the weight of it barely registering in his grip.

Hefting the rock, Jericho felt the raw power flowing through his limbs—the fire aether, loose and wild within him, coursing through his veins. Even without fine control over his meridians, the energy made him feel unstoppable, as if the stone in his hand weighed nothing more than air. It was a small taste of the power waiting to be unleashed, simmering beneath the surface, ready to burst free.

For a fleeting moment, Jericho allowed himself a wry hope: that all of his future problems might be solved with the simple, judicious application of large rocks. The thought brought the ghost of a smile to his lips as he hefted the stone one last time, feeling the fire aether pulse through him, ready to be unleashed.

Without hesitation, he hurled the rock with the force granted by the aether surging through his limbs. The moment it left his grasp, the stone ignited, flames roaring to life around it as it sailed through the air. The fire consumed the rock, transforming it into a blazing projectile streaking toward the tunnel snake.

The creature lunged at that exact moment, its head snapping forward with terrifying speed, but it never had a chance. The flaming stone met the snake’s skull with a sickening crunch, the impact reverberating through the cavern. The sheer weight of the rock, combined with the force of Jericho’s throw, sent the snake’s head jerking backward violently, the flames searing its thick scales.

A massive portion of the beast's skull caved in under the blow, bone and ichor splattering across the cavern floor. The tunnel snake’s body twitched, its massive coils flailing in its death throes, but it was already over. The beast collapsed in a heap, its enormous form crumpling to the ground, lifeless.

Jericho stood over the fallen creature, the heat from the flames on his skin slowly fading as the fire aether ebbed. The simple power of a well-thrown stone, ignited with the fury of his core, had proven more than enough.

Not a very climactic first battle.

Well struck, Ar’Kaen. Tunnel snakes of this size subsist on large prey, and they find that in human populations.

The hound padded silently alongside Jericho, its spectral form flickering in the dim light as they left the snake’s chamber behind. Jericho cast one last glance at the corpse, a twitch of satisfaction curling at the edges of his mind before he refocused. He could get used to the power of aether.

XXX

The tunnels twisted before them, narrow and jagged, carved over centuries by both nature and man. The echo of his footsteps against the stone walls was the only constant sound as they traveled. Legion, as always, walked in silence, its haunting presence ever at his side. Time passed in the darkness, the oppressive weight of the Roots pressing down on Jericho’s shoulders, but he pushed on, fire still simmering just beneath his skin.

At long last, the passage opened. The tunnel spilled into a chamber so massive it stole Jericho’s breath. He stopped, gazing up at the smooth stone walls stretching far above him. The air here was different—still, almost reverent, as if this place had been untouched for ages. The stone was too precise, too smooth to be natural. It was clearly hand-carved, each surface polished to a gleam.

Massive columns dominated the chamber’s interior, lined in perfect rows that led to a distant wall. Each pillar was thick, carved with intricate designs that hinted at a forgotten civilization’s mastery. Jericho couldn’t help but feel a deep sense of awe as he walked between them, his footsteps echoing through the cavernous space. The sheer scale of the construction was mind-boggling—whoever had built this had done so with purpose, with vision beyond human reach.

Above him, a gargantuan chain descended from the ceiling, holding an immense metal apparatus at its center. The chain alone was thicker than Jericho’s body, and from it hung a rough crystal, glowing with a bluish-white light. The light filled the chamber, but strangely, it cast no shadows. Everything appeared flat and surreal, bathed in an unnatural glow that made the immense space seem somehow lifeless, frozen in time.

Jericho’s gaze drifted forward, finally settling on the far wall. There, looming like a force of nature, stood the Seal.

It was a wall of brutal gray metal, stretching impossibly high, riveted with bolts the size of men. Massive spots of rust marred its surface, dark and spreading, but there was no sense that the rust had weakened it. The Seal stood firm, ancient and powerful, as if daring the world to challenge it.

Jericho felt his heart quicken as he stared at it, the weight of the task before him settling over him like a mantle. This was it. The Seal. The purpose for which countless lives had been sacrificed, the power of his core born to break it.

As Jericho’s gaze stayed fixed on the immense wall of metal, he directed his will to Legion to scout the interior of the chamber for threats. The hound’s spectral form shimmered for a brief moment, its eerie white eyes flickering as if responding to the silent order. As you will, Ar’Kaen, came Legion’s response, the voice trailing off as its form melted into shadow. In the blink of an eye, it padded away, silently slipping between the towering columns, its presence fading into the eerie, shadowless light of the chamber.

Jericho strode forward, each step echoing softly in the vast silence. As he moved through the massive chamber, the sheer scale of the place began to sink in. The towering columns, once distant and abstract, now loomed over him like ancient sentinels, each one carved with intricate, forgotten symbols that reached far beyond his grasp. The light from the glowing crystal cast an otherworldly glow over the space, but it did nothing to reveal its full dimensions. The chamber felt endless, timeless—a relic of an age far removed from the present.

For what seemed like hours, Jericho walked, his bare feet making only the faintest of sounds against the impossibly smooth stone floor. The quiet was unnerving, broken only by his own movements and the subtle hum of energy that always accompanied the presence of the Seal. The silence in the chamber was weighty, oppressive, as though even time itself had slowed.

Finally, the path ahead opened up, leading into a vast circular space near the foot of the Seal. Here, the wall of brutal gray metal loomed even larger, its rivets the size of men, rust staining its surface like scars. The Seal stood over the open area, its sheer presence radiating power and finality.

Jericho’s eyes were drawn to the center of the space. There, standing in a dry fountain, was a large statue, weathered but still imposing, its features eroded by time. It depicted a figure draped in ornate robes, its body adorned with intricate carvings that hinted at wealth and power. A heavy headpiece crowned the figure's stone brow, jagged points rising from its surface like a crown of thorns, each point encrusted with dull gems that had long since lost their luster. Yet even in their faded state, they spoke of a time when such adornments would have gleamed in the light of prosperity.

In one hand, the statue clutched a perfectly smooth orb, its surface untouched by the wear that had scarred the rest of the monument. The orb seemed to hum with latent power, as though it still held some long-forgotten purpose. The figure’s other hand gripped a staff, tall and imposing, carved with intricate patterns that wound up its length, the craftsmanship so fine that Jericho could make out tiny, interlocking shapes within the design. The staff itself looked like more than just a weapon—it was a symbol, something meant to command and control.

Legion sat motionless near where Jericho had stopped, its ghostly form fixed on the statue with an intensity that sent a chill through Jericho. The hound’s glowing white eyes flickered, as if contemplating something far beyond the immediate.

The statue hums with aether, Legion's voice echoed in Jericho's mind, layered with the chorus of many. It is strange to us, seeing aether outside of your core. We do not recognize its form, but it is clear to us that this is the guardian of legend. Not flesh, then, but animated material.

Jericho stepped closer, his gaze narrowing as he took in the looming figure. The stone seemed lifeless at first glance, worn down by time and neglect, yet something pulsed beneath its surface. Jericho attempted to use his spiritual sight, but could not look further than his own body.

Likely a ranked entity, Legion continued, its tone shifting to something more clinical, though weakened over time. The gods had no reason to believe an aether-starved world could birth one capable of felling a being saturated in aether. We are in agreement. It must be defeated.

“How do I begin?” Jericho muttered, his eyes scanning the imposing statue.

Hmm… Perhaps you should throw a large stone, Legion responded, a hint of dry amusement threading through its many voices.

Jericho couldn’t help but chuckle at the absurdity. But, with no better idea in mind, he did what had worked before. He scanned the ground until he found a good-sized candidate—a large piece of masoned stone, clearly fallen from one of the columns. With a grunt, he picked it up, feeling the familiar surge of aether as he empowered his body. FLames flickered along his arms as he took aim at the statue.

This technique—his most advanced yet—was simple but effective. The fire within him roared to life, strength coursing through his limbs as he hefted the rock. The weight felt like nothing under the influence of aether, and with a swift, practiced motion, he hurled it with substantial force straight at the guardian.

The stone ignited mid-air, a flaming projectile streaking toward its target.

With a crack like the tearing of old earth, the statue began to move. Stone rippled across its surface, fissures spreading outward from the headpiece to the base, releasing small bursts of dust and debris. Its once-dull eyes flared to life, glowing with an eerie blue light, casting sharp beams into the shadowless chamber. The statue raised its staff with mechanical precision, and in a swift, sudden motion, smashed the flaming projectile out of the air. The stone splintered upon impact, flames extinguished, leaving nothing but shattered pieces scattered across the floor.

The orb in its other hand began to glow, a cold, white light pulsating from within. Ice started to creep along its surface, forming intricate, jagged patterns that spread like spiderwebs. With a low groan, water jetted from the openings in the dry fountain, spraying out in all directions. The dry basin below began to fill rapidly, the water rushing in with alarming speed.

The statue’s movements became more fluid, its arms rotating and shifting as if life had returned to the ancient stone. But as the animation continued, something went wrong. The lower half of the figure remained rooted to the plinth, cracks snaking through its legs. Jericho watched as the stone around its knees buckled, grinding but unmoving. The figure jerked, unable to free itself from its base, its legs seemingly broken by time or neglect. Despite its inability to move, the statue’s upper body was fully animated, twisting and turning with deliberate, predatory grace.

Jericho bolted into action, his body moving with the fluidity of instinct as the chill of the water hit his feet. His heart thundered in his chest as he sprinted in a wide circle around the fountain, eyes darting for anything he could use. Chunks of shattered masonry lay scattered across the floor, remnants of the ancient chamber, and Jericho didn't hesitate. He scooped up the largest piece he could find—an uneven slab of stone—and hurled it toward the statue with all the force his aether-fueled strength could muster.

The statue reacted immediately. Its staff, now glowing faintly with the same bluish hue as its eyes, swung in a broad arc, smashing the flying debris into dust. As it did, it unleashed its own counterattack—razor-sharp jets of water erupted from its orb, slicing through the air with lethal precision, each one aimed directly at Jericho. He ducked, spun, and weaved, barely dodging the torrents of water, the sheer force of the jets cutting into the stone floor as they missed their target.

Jericho grabbed another chunk of masonry and flung it, this time aiming low. The statue's staff came down again, deflecting the projectile with a sharp crack, but Jericho was already moving, dodging another jet of water that sliced through the air inches from his head. The liquid hissed as it carved into the stone walls, sharp as a blade, leaving deep gashes in its wake.

He could feel the heat rising within him, his skin beginning to shimmer with the energy of the fire aether coursing through his veins. His limbs moved with heightened speed, dodging each jet of water with increasing precision. But the statue was relentless. With each deflected piece of debris, it retaliated faster and fiercer, its jets of water coming in rapid succession, a deadly dance between Jericho's dodges and the statue’s merciless strikes.

Then, with a sudden surge of power, the statue raised its orb high, and the water in the fountain exploded upward. Great gouts of water surged from the basin, forming a massive wave. The gout of water surged toward Jericho like a charging beast, slamming into him with brutal force. The impact nearly knocked him off his feet, the sheer weight and cold of it threatening to snuff out the flames that clung to his skin. The water felt like an icy vice, crushing in from all sides, and Jericho’s fire sputtered, flickering dangerously as the cold bit into him.

The torrent battered him backward, his feet skidding against the smooth stone floor as he fought to stay upright. The water pummeled him, cold and relentless, its powerful flow rising over his chest and surging toward his face. His breath hitched as it nearly drowned out his flames completely, soaking his skin and weighing him down. He set his feet, gritting his teeth against the onslaught, screaming as the icy water seared his flesh with its bitter cold.

With a desperate cry, Jericho thrust his hands forward, forcing them into the path of the rushing water. His arms trembled under the sheer pressure, his fingers burning from the cold, but he had no other option. He surged the fire aether through his body, pushing it past his closed meridians, forcing the raw power into his limbs. The sudden rush of aether, untamed and wild, flared inside him, flooding his veins with a heat so intense it felt as though it might consume him.

The water hissed violently as it struck his flaming hands, and then—almost in an instant—it began to turn. Steam exploded from the collision, thick clouds rising as the water evaporated, the heat forcing it away from him in a dense, scalding mist. The once-relentless wave of water transformed into a boiling vapor, enveloping the chamber in a billowing cloud of steam.

But Jericho paid the price. The heat from the steam, no longer attached to the fire within him, seared his skin from head to toe. Jericho screamed, stumbling as the scalding mist clung to him, unable to escape the heat. His vision blurred, pain clouding his mind, but still, he stood. The battlefield was obscured in a thick, blinding haze, the steam swirling like a living thing. He couldn't see the statue, couldn't hear anything but the roar of his own blood and the hiss of steam.

Jericho grit his teeth, his body screaming in pain as the scalding steam enveloped him, burning his skin with each breath he took. But even through the agony, his instincts sharpened. The dense mist that now blinded the statue could be his salvation. He had to move, and fast.

His hands fumbled across the slick stone floor, blindly searching until they found something solid—a jagged chunk of masonry, still warm from the earlier battle. He hefted it, feeling its weight, the rough edges digging into his palms.

We can see the aether within the statue, Legion’s voice echoed in his mind, calm and steady, a beacon in the haze. Follow us, Ar'Kaen. We will guide your strike.

Jericho’s breath hitched, his chest burning from both exertion and the steam that continued to sear his skin. But he focused on Legion’s words, nodding silently. Through the thick fog, he could see nothing—but Legion’s spectral form, the familiar shadow of the hound, remained sharp and clear. Its glowing eyes cut through the mist, and without hesitation, Jericho followed.

Legion padded forward, moving with calculated precision, and Jericho tracked its every step, trusting in the hound's sight. He moved in a wide arc, staying low, his body pressed close to the stone floor as he circled the statue at an oblique angle. The air was thick with steam, his every step muffled, but he kept his eyes on Legion’s form, pushing through the pain, through the heat.

The statue remained unaware, its glowing blue eyes lost in the swirling mist, the water jets silent now as it tried to locate its target.

Legion stopped suddenly, its form freezing in place. Jericho knew what it meant.

Now.

With a burst of energy, Jericho lunged forward from the steam, every muscle in his body coiled and primed. The rock in his hand came crashing down against the statue’s torso, a thunderous impact that shook the air. Stone cracked, the sound reverberating through the chamber as Jericho’s aether-enhanced strength blasted through the ancient guardian.

The statue, frozen mid-motion, was torn from its plinth, the force of the blow sending it flying backward. It tumbled through the steam, its heavy form crashing somewhere beyond sight, the sound of it landing with a dull, echoing thud. Jericho stood there, breathing heavily, the rock reduced to gravel in his trembling hand as the mist continued to swirl around him.

The battlefield was silent once more. The guardian had fallen, somewhere out in the blinding fog, and Jericho was left standing in the aftermath of his strike, the steam slowly dissipating around him.

Just then, a sudden flash of blue light pierced through the thinning mist, and the statue, now freed from its plinth, charged at Jericho with terrifying speed. Its glowing eyes blazed with unnatural fury, its once-rigid form now fluid and unbound. Jericho barely had time to react.

With a grunt, he crossed his arms to block the incoming blow. The statue’s staff crashed against his forearms with crushing force, the impact reverberating through his entire body. His legs buckled under the weight, and the sheer strength of the thing forced him into a retreat. Jericho grimaced, his arms burning from the blow, and he quickly began to backpedal, each step desperate to gain some distance.

As he stumbled back, his foot struck something solid—another chunk of masonry. Without thinking, he bent down, grabbing the jagged stone. It wasn’t a weapon, but it was all he had. Falling back on the only strategy he had developed as of late, he readied the rock for another strike.

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The statue blasted out of the mist once more, its staff swinging in a deadly arc. Jericho raised the rock just in time to block the blow, but the force of the strike was overwhelming. The staff shattered the stone in his hands, breaking clean through the masonry as if it were nothing. Splinters of rock flew in every direction, some of them slicing into his extended right hand, and Jericho staggered back, a dawning realization hitting him hard.

This wasn’t going to work. He needed something more—a real weapon.

The statue paused, its blue eyes narrowing as if assessing him, before it readied another charge. Jericho’s mind raced. He couldn’t rely on stones alone anymore. The fight demanded more than brute strength. It demanded precision, and he needed something sharp, something that could pierce stone and aether alike.

The fire, he thought, wild and frantic. He had no choice but to force the aether into his hands. If his strength couldn't stop this thing, maybe the fire would.

Gritting his teeth, Jericho focused on the burning core within him, the aether coursing through his veins. He summoned it, forcing the fire into his hands, willing it to protect him from the onslaught. His palms began to heat, the familiar flicker of flames licking at his skin. But the effort was clumsy, rushed—he could feel the power resisting, the flow chaotic as it fought against the closed meridians. The pain in his burned skin intensified, but there was no time to correct it.

The statue surged forward again, its staff descending in another crushing strike. Jericho raised his hands to block it, fire surging weakly through his limbs, but it wasn’t enough. The staff connected with his left hand, and the bone shattered instantly with a sickening crack. Jericho howled in agony, staggering backward. He could barely hold onto his balance, the pain searing through him, but the statue showed no mercy.

It twirled the staff with mechanical precision, spinning it back under one arm as it lifted the orb high into the air. Jericho’s eyes widened as the orb glowed bright, a pulse of aether rippling through the chamber. A beam of forced water shot toward him, razor-sharp and fast, a torrent powerful enough to carve through stone. He had no time, no way to block it.

Just as the blast was about to reach him, Legion leaped into its path, their spectral form flickering like a shadow in the mist. The water slammed into them, tearing their ghostly body apart in an instant. The hound’s form shattered, rent apart by the force of the attack, unable to hold back the blow. But it was enough—Legion's sacrifice bought Jericho a precious moment, just long enough for him to dodge to the side.

Jericho dove out of the way, his broken hand screaming in pain, his body weak and battered. His heart pounded in his chest as he scrambled backward, feeling the cold stone of a nearby column press against his back. He was out of options. Legion was gone, and his fire was faltering. There was nowhere left to run. The statue loomed before him, the bluish light of its eyes fixed on him, relentless. Jericho felt a rage inside of him building; he could not allow this inhuman creation to stop him, not after what his people sacrificed.

As the statue raised its staff contemptuously, preparing for the final blow, Jericho felt desperation tighten like a noose around his chest, mixing with his impotent rage. He tried, once again, to force the aether into his hands. He could feel the fire within him, smoldering, struggling, but it wasn’t enough. If only he could throw the fire itself, hurl it at the statue like the stones he had wielded before. But that was beyond him—far beyond his capabilities.

The realization hit him like a spark in the darkness. He could only sense the aether within his own body. His sight had always been limited to what lay inside. With his spiritual sight, he saw it. The ocean of life aether swirling within his core, vast and untouched, aether born of a million willing sacrifices. The life of an empire, extinguished to grant him this power, surging within him, waiting to be unleashed. His blood dripped steadily from the wound on his right hand, swirling into the waterlogged battleground; fire aether pulsed impotently in his grasp, struggling against the barrier of his skin.

But now, his will reached further. He touched the life aether, and in his desperation, in his need for something new—something of growth, of creation, to counter his enemy—the life aether responded.

Like the opening of a floodgate, the cascade of life aether flowed from his core, rushing toward his right palm, drawn to the wound where his blood seeped. And as the life aether met the fire aether surging there, they intertwined.

The blood dripping from Jericho’s hand began to burn with an intense, organic flame—a thick, cloying fire that felt both alive and alien. It twisted and danced, vibrant and fierce, not the clean burn of ordinary flame but something more primal, something more alive.

The statue’s staff descended, the air vibrating with the force of the blow. Jericho had no time left. In the instant before his life was taken, his will surged.

The staff collided with a blade of living flame, erupted from the wound on Jericho’s palm.

The sharp edge of the organic flame cut cleanly through the stone, severing the staff in two. The top half of the staff, now lighter but still driven by its original momentum, continued its trajectory, crashing into Jericho’s face. The impact rattled him, sending sharp pain through his skull, but the aether coursing through his skin prevented serious harm. The broken staff bounced off, leaving only a dull ache in its wake.

The statue’s weight continued to carry it forward. With its remaining strength, the statue dropped the shattered staff and drove a heavy stone hand into Jericho’s chest. The force was immense, shoving him backward. His feet skidded against the smooth stone floor as the statue’s cold grip pushed him back several steps. Jericho’s breath hitched, the pressure from the impact causing his chest to burn, but he managed to keep his footing.

The statue’s eyes blazed, unrelenting, but Jericho saw an opening. With fire aether sugaring through his veins, and life aether filling his blade with a power he did not understand, and fueled by instinct and raw rage, he charged forward, closing the gap. His knowledge of blades was rudimentary—rootstone knives were common in the Underroots, but long weapons were almost unheard of, and his grasp of technique was novice at best.

The statue moved with precision, raising the glowing orb in its hand to intercept Jericho’s wild swing. The living flame, so easily capable of cutting through the stone of its staff, met the orb with a sharp, jarring impact—and stopped. The blade couldn’t penetrate the smooth, humming surface of the orb. Sparks of fire and aether crackled at the point of contact, but Jericho’s strike was deflected effortlessly.

Thrown off balance by the unexpected resistance, Jericho stumbled sideways, his feet sliding against the smooth stone floor. Without proper footing or any knowledge of stance, he struggled to regain his balance, his movements untrained and awkward. His heart pounded as the weight of the statue’s threat became all too clear.

Before Jericho could react, a sudden jet of forced water erupted from the orb, aimed directly at him. His blade of living flame, still extended from his deflected strike, met the water by sheer luck. The clash of fire and water sent a blast of scalding steam into the air, hissing violently as it filled the space between them.

But the statue wasn’t finished.

Several smaller jets of water burst from the steam cloud, precise and deadly. Jericho ducked the first, feeling the air shift as it sliced past his head. He swung his flaming blade upward, stopping the second jet just before it reached him, the water hissing as it met the living fire. But the third jet came too quickly.

A sharp pain ripped through his left shoulder as the water cut into him, a long, deep gash opening along his flesh. Jericho cried out in pain, the searing wound stinging as his blood mixed with the lingering steam. The pain drove him to the brink, his breath coming in short, furious bursts. First his seared skin, then his hand, now this.

His jaw clenched so tightly it ached, and his chest heaved with raw, untethered anger. Another blast of water hissed past him, leaving only steam and frustration in its wake. Jericho's lips curled into a snarl as he glared at the statue, its cold form standing as if mocking his every effort.

"Come on then!" he bellowed, the rage boiling over. His grip tightened around the blade of living flame, his knuckles white as he swung again, harder, faster, his movements fueled by fury. But once again, the statue deflected his strike with the orb, the clash sending vibrations up Jericho’s arm, rattling his bones.

He staggered back, blood pouring from the deep gash in his shoulder, his whole body trembling with barely contained rage. His chest heaved, fire aether still pulsing within him, but now it burned with fury. Jericho's head snapped up, his eyes blazing with wild, unrelenting anger.

"You will not stop me!" he roared, his voice echoing through the steam-filled chamber. "I will not be denied!"

Jericho surged forward again, his muscles burning, the fire aether roaring in his veins. He swung wildly, desperation and fury driving each strike. His blows came harder, sloppier, but the statue moved with mechanical precision, deflecting his attacks, sending jets of water toward him with ruthless efficiency.

A sharp hiss of steam filled the air as Jericho blocked one of the jets, but the second tore through his defenses, slicing across his shoulder. He let out a guttural cry, more anger than pain, as the blood poured from the wound, mixing with the hot mist that swirled around them.

Jericho’s frustration reached its breaking point. "Enough!" he screamed, voice ragged with fury, slamming his blade against the stone floor. The flames licked higher, and he charged once more, rage propelling him. He no longer cared about finesse or strategy—his only thought was to tear the statue down, piece by piece.

Five jets of water rushed toward Jericho at once, their speed and force relentless. The statue’s face cracked and rippled, the stone shifting unnaturally to form a twisted, snarling grin of victory. It was as if the ancient guardian could sense that the end was near, confident in its overwhelming power.

But Jericho saw none of that.

All he could see was how close he had gotten. His vision narrowed, filled only with the looming figure in front of him. He was inches away from the statue’s chest, and nothing else mattered.

The jets of water slammed into him, piercing his body with brutal force. One tore through his side, another ripped into his shoulder, and yet another stabbed straight through his thigh. The pain was unimaginable—searing, white-hot agony as the water carved into his flesh. Jericho’s body shuddered under the assault, blood mixing with the ankle-deep water beneath him.

But he didn’t stop.

With a primal roar, Jericho thrust the blade of living flame forward, his whole body shaking as it slammed home into the chest of the statue. The stone split with a deafening crack, the flame burning deep into the ancient material. The force of the strike sent both of them crashing backward, the combined weight of man and guardian collapsing into the rising water with a thunderous splash.

Jericho, now half-submerged, clawed at the statue with wild, flaming hands. The pain in his body was a distant thing now, buried beneath the rage that consumed him. He tore into the stone figure like a feral beast, screaming in fury and agony with each swipe. His flaming hands ripped chunks of stone from the statue’s chest and face, the heat searing the cracks as he went. Every piece he tore away felt like a small victory, a release of all the frustration that had been building within him.

The statue's blue eyes flickered as Jericho tore it apart, its smug grin crumbling under the force of his assault. Stone shards flew as Jericho clawed and ripped, unrelenting, his body drenched in both blood and water, steam rising in furious clouds around them.

Jericho screamed wordlessly, his voice ragged and broken, as his hands continued their furious assault, flames licking at the edges of the shattered statue.

Jericho’s frenzied assault slowed, the fury that had fueled him moments before draining from his body like the blood that now soaked the water around him. His hands, once ablaze with living flame, dimmed and flickered as they tore the last pieces of stone from the statue’s shattered chest. His breathing came in ragged, uneven gasps, his vision blurred, and the world around him felt distant—numb.

Finally, he stopped.

Jericho collapsed onto all fours, his hands splashing into the shallow, ankle-deep water, now murky with dust and blood. Around him lay the remnants of the statue, lifeless chunks of stone scattered like broken memories. The air was thick with steam, the once-powerful blue glow of the statue’s eyes now nothing but faint echoes in the darkness. The chamber was silent, save for the soft drip of water and the labored rasp of his breath.

His torso was a mess of torn flesh, his body gushing blood from five distinct gashes that crisscrossed his chest, shoulders, and stomach. The wounds were deep, too deep. Blood poured freely from him, mixing with the water at his knees, swirling in dark tendrils around his battered form.

Jericho’s head hung low, his vision swimming as the pain, once pushed aside by anger, came rushing back in waves. He could feel his strength leaving him, his limbs growing heavy. His whole body trembled, struggling to hold itself together as the life drained out of him.

He knew it was only a matter of time now. He would die here, alone in the ruins of stone and dust. The Clan Lord of the Seal would have his wish in the end, it seemed.

But there was still strength left in him—enough to see his task through, perhaps. Gritting his teeth against the agony ripping through his body, he forced his trembling arms to push him forward. His fingers clawed into the shallow water, his blood mingling with the runoff from the fountain, staining the liquid as he dragged himself painfully across the floor of the chamber.

Each movement sent jolts of searing pain through his torso, his wounds burning and gushing as he inched forward, his breath ragged and uneven. His muscles screamed in protest, his body barely responding to his will, but Jericho pressed on. The cold water splashed against his broken skin, a cruel reminder of his injuries, yet it was nothing compared to the overwhelming determination that kept him moving.

Slowly, painfully, he reached the edge of the water and hauled himself out onto the smooth stone floor of the chamber. His hands slipped against the slick surface, the stone offering no comfort to his bloodied palms. Every inch forward was a battle, each drag of his body sapping what little strength he had left. The smooth stone beneath him felt impossibly hard, biting into his skin as he scraped himself across it.

He was fading. The world around him grew dim, the distant light from the chamber’s strange, shadowless glow flickering at the edge of his vision. His breath came in shallow gasps, his limbs trembling with the last dregs of his strength.

Just as the darkness began to creep in, he felt it—a tingle in his spine, like the faintest spark of life.

A cold, familiar presence materialized beside him. Legion.

The spectral form coalesced into being, its faint shape shimmering in the air. The hound’s white eyes flickered with their usual ethereal glow, though fainter than before. It stood beside him, silent for a moment, as Jericho dragged himself forward, each movement more painful than the last.

We remain, Legion’s voice, soft and layered, whispered in his mind. There is still time.

You have done so much, Ar’Kaen. Your strength has carried you further than any could have asked. Soon, you will join us—your people—as we leave this world behind. But first, there is this last task, this final trial.

Jericho’s hands shook as he dragged himself forward, his body screaming in protest with each painful movement. The cold, indifferent voice of Legion had shifted, now filled with something almost like warmth.

You have fought when others would have fallen. You have endured where most would have given in. We are proud of you, Ar’Kaen. Soon, this will end, and you will rest among us. But first, finish this, and be free.

Legion’s presence lingered beside him, its spectral form pacing alongside, its tone encouraging, even grateful. Jericho could feel it—he was near the end. But he would finish this. He had to.

Jericho’s fingers brushed against something solid in front of him—metal. His mind, clouded by pain and exhaustion, slowly registered the barrier before him. Dimly, he realized what it was.

Look up, Ar’Kaen. Legion’s voice, usually cold and distant, now resonated with gentle encouragement. The Seal, Ar’Kaen. One last step. One last trial.

With great effort, Jericho raised his head. His blurred vision focused on the brutal, grey surface of the Seal looming before him. The massive rivets, rusted and old but still strong, stretched high above, a final, insurmountable wall. His chest heaved, and a broken sob escaped his throat. He trembled as he slowly pulled himself to his feet, his body swaying, every fiber of his being screaming in agony.

"I... I'm sorry," Jericho whispered, voice cracking with desperation. His knees shook as he stood, barely able to hold his weight. "Forgive me. Forgive me, Legion, my people… I’ve failed. I failed to continue on. I couldn’t burn the Tree, couldn’t cast down the gods who condemned us to this dark."

The shame, the regret, weighed on him heavier than the pain in his body. He had come so far, fought so long, and yet here, at the end, he felt as though he had failed.

You have done more than we ever dared hope, Legion’s voice murmured, filled with an emotion that Jericho had never heard before—pride. Never have the gods known defeat at the hands of aether-starved mortals. You have brought us to the threshold. Now finish it, Ar’Kaen. And find your rest.

Jericho’s eyes flickered over the metal surface of the Seal, his breath coming in short, labored gasps. His body felt like it was tearing itself apart. He reached into his core, searching for the familiar warmth of the fire and life aether within him. But the reserves were nearly gone. His stores of aether, once vast and powerful, were now diminished to a faint flicker. He tried to summon the blade of living flame, willing the aether into his grasp, but the fire refused to break through. His right hand, the one that had wielded the blade before, was healed completely beneath the layers of blood and grime.

In a daze, Jericho looked at his left hand. It was still mangled and broken, blood oozing from the wounds, the bones shattered beyond repair.

Good enough, he thought bitterly. He didn’t have the strength to use his right, but his left would have to do.

Gritting his teeth, Jericho summoned the aether to his broken left hand. The fire and life aether surged forward, flooding his shattered limb with raw power. His hand erupted in searing, blinding pain as the blade of living flame sparked to life once more. The agony was unimaginable—the molten heat flowed through his broken bones like liquid glass, each wave of pain more excruciating than the last.

Jericho screamed, a primal roar of defiance, as he drove the blade into the metal of the Seal.

The flame met the ancient metal with a deafening hiss, the impact sending vibrations up Jericho’s mangled arm. He felt the resistance immediately—the Seal was thick, far thicker than anything he had ever encountered. The blade cut into it, but not easily. He had to force it, had to pry the metal apart piece by piece.

With each agonizing movement, Jericho sawed through the Seal, the blade of living flame eating away at the unforgiving surface. The metal groaned under the pressure, sparks flying as the blade cut through layers of the ancient wall. But it wasn’t clean—it was slow, brutal work. He had to twist the blade, prying chunks of metal out with each movement. His left hand screamed in protest, every pull sending sharp, jagged pain through his body.

Blood dripped from his fingers, mingling with the molten fragments of metal as they fell to the floor, glowing hot. Jericho’s vision blurred with tears of pain, but he didn’t stop. He couldn’t stop. Every swing, every wrenching movement of the blade was a battle against the metal that refused to yield. His breath came in ragged gasps, his muscles trembling as he fought to tear through the barrier. The heat from the flame scorched the air around him, steam rising as the blade cut deeper and deeper into the Seal.

The metal was so thick, Jericho had to wedge the blade into the gaps he had carved, using every ounce of strength left in him to pry the chunks free. Each piece gave way with a wrenching groan, tearing loose with a sound like shattering stone. The Seal resisted, but with every desperate movement, it weakened.

The blade of living flame pierced the metal of the Seal, and for the first time, it met no resistance. His breath hitched, a desperate gasp of disbelief. The searing edge slid through the ancient wall as if it were no more than paper. With renewed urgency, he began to carve, his broken hand trembling, the pain forgotten in the rush of purpose. The flame traced a jagged, uneven circle, sparks flying as he forced the last remnants of his strength into the task.

He cut, slower and weaker with every moment, but he didn't stop. The blade moved through the metal like a whisper, carving out the final arc. His body screamed for rest, every breath a struggle, but he gritted his teeth and pressed forward. The circle was complete.

With the last of his strength, Jericho clenched his fist and punched the center of the cut. The metal groaned and gave way, the severed piece crashing outward into the open space beyond.

Then it hit him—a flood of warm, golden light washed over him, so sudden and brilliant that it blinded him. Jericho staggered, eyes wide in disbelief as the intensity of it pressed against his skin. It wasn’t the harsh, unnatural glow of lichen or the smoky haze of moss torches. It was pure, unadulterated sunlight, warm and soothing, something he had only ever heard whispered in the old tales.

He stood there, breathless, as the light bathed him, its touch almost gentle on his ravaged skin. The pain, the exhaustion, seemed to melt away for a moment, leaving only the surreal sensation of warmth. Jericho’s vision, blurry and dim from the battle, slowly began to clear.

And what he saw took his breath away.

Before him stretched a vast expanse of brilliant blue—the sky, he realized dimly—interspersed with towering, organic shapes. Brown, bark-like forms stretched outwards, their massive limbs clothed in green, vivid and bright. These clouds of leaves swayed gently in the breeze, their verdant beauty unlike anything Jericho or any of the Stone people had ever seen.

Such colors. Such brightness. It was beyond anything he had ever imagined.

As Jericho collapsed against the rough stone, his body barely clinging to life, Legion’s spectral form materialized beside him. The hound stood motionless, staring through the opening Jericho had carved, its glowing white eyes fixed on the scene beyond. For the first time, even Legion seemed taken aback.

Not a bad place to die, Ar’Kaen, Legion’s voice, gentle now, echoed in Jericho’s mind. There was no coldness, no detachment—just the quiet recognition of something beautiful.

Jericho, barely able to move, managed a faint smile as he leaned back, his gaze still locked on the brilliance before him. It wasn’t a world for him, but at least he had seen it—something beyond the endless dark.

As Jericho's breathing slowed, and the last vestiges of life ebbed from his body, the two of them—man and the spirit of countless souls—watched the sky together. The golden light, the brilliant colors, the freedom of the world beyond the Seal. A peace settled over Jericho as his vision began to fade, and for the first time, he let go.

But as he surrendered to the quiet, something cold stirred deep within him.

A chill, sharp and unmistakable, crept through his body, cutting through the warmth of the sunlight like ice. His breath caught, and in that instant, his spiritual sight flared to life. Instinctively, his mind reached into his core, where once the aether of fire and life had surged.

But now, the fire aether was gone—extinguished, burned away to nothing in the heat of battle. The life aether, once so full, had been drained to mere flickers, barely enough to spark.

And then he saw it.

The death aether, which had always sat still and heavy at the bottom of his core, was no longer inert. It stirred.

Jericho's heart, weak as it was, skipped a beat. The death aether, cold and ancient, shifted with a slow, deliberate movement. It wasn’t chaotic like the fire, or wild like life—it was patient, methodical, as though waiting for this very moment. Waiting for him to accept his death.

He was past the point of fighting or struggling, and without even knowing what he was doing, he let the death aether move through his veins.

The sensation was unlike anything he had felt before. It wasn’t painful, nor was it soothing—it simply was, a force that pushed back against the impending void. The death aether wrapped around him like a cold, patient whisper. The grip of death that should have claimed him began to loosen, and his soul, which had been teetering on the edge of release, settled more firmly within him.

As the death aether flowed, Jericho could feel the faint, flickering life aether still within him react. It didn’t resist the cold energy—it accepted it, intertwined with it, as if the two forces were meant to coexist. Life and death, once separate, now wove together in an eerie harmony, forming something new within him. Jericho’s awareness dimmed, but he could sense the intertwining energies moving through his core, through his battered form, sustaining him.

With the last vestiges of his awareness, as the world faded from his sight, Jericho felt the cold aether stabilize him, holding his soul in place, refusing to let him slip away.

And then, he fell into unconsciousness, the world of newfound light and color slipping into darkness.