“Negative Tides?” Archimedes murmured, his fingers tracing the open page of the book left on the Skull’s pilot desk. The words shimmered like forbidden knowledge, far beyond his fledgling mastery.
“Turn Frigo from defensive to disruptive? Thermo into clinging instead of evasive? How is it possible for Miro to be contagious?” His genius mind raced, but the void of ignorance loomed large. Knowledge couldn’t be conjured from nothing.
With a sigh, he closed the book—Claudius’s book, marked by a single underline beneath Hydro’s Negative Release. The secrets would have to wait.
* Archimedes’ short distraction while starting the Heron’s Wing.
A deep, bloody crimson painted the sky, stretching across a third of the horizon. Above, the illusory moon loomed, casting a nightmarish glow over the planet, staining the ruins and bodies below in a sinister light.
Sanguine Dream.
No longer hampered by the presence of the Inferose’s gates, Thanaris’s Domain had fully unfolded, its effect so vast that even the distant sky trembled under its influence. The crimson moon pulsed, radiating waves of energy that seemed to reach into the planet’s very core, saturating the air with a thick, unsettling aura. The ground cracked and heaved, veins of red energy splitting the terrain as the Domain extended its reach, a bleeding net cast over the world.
All this profound energy built up between the heavens and the earth below before redirecting it all like the blood within an organism. Mountains of vitality rushed into Thanaris’ body, setting her bones, clearing all injuries, and propping up her spine.
The sky, earth, and everything in between now belonged to one of three reigns.
That of the Sanguine Dream, the Lightning Wraith, or the Summertime Jolly. Thick, congealed crimson mixed alongside a brilliant radiance, combining their efforts to stand against the electrified tsunami.
Dante and Eight felt the reverberations of power long before the wave reached them. They braced themselves, muscles taut and senses on edge as they watched the sky split in two, one side a burning white and the other a deadly red.
The two fought against their own legs to rise and attack Geist, who was only a short distance away. To their twinned dismay, with Thanaris and Praetor Sun’s combined efforts, reality shook.
Their legs gave out, and both fell to the ground as Geist, too, struggled to regain any movement.
Even so, the worst had only just begun.
The tremors from the Domain Collapse intensified, and a deafening rattle echoed as Joseph’s Domain clashed with Thanaris and Praetor Sun’s. A burst of light erupted, consuming the air and forcing Dante and Eight to shield their eyes. Then, with a final, ground-shattering shockwave, an enormous collision sent them all tumbling through the ruined forest once more, crashing into twisted roots and splintered branches as they struggled to orient themselves.
Dante felt a tree break upon his spine, flipping him over before he finally slammed into the dirt, spitting up the air in his lungs. Tinges of red emerged alongside the flecks of air. Despite the pain and spreading numbness, Dante forced himself up, only to see Geist sprawled nearby, his spectral form flickering, parts of his body shredded by the onslaught.
The near-fatal strike from Joseph on top of the constant hammering from the Domains left Geist severely weakened, his ghostly form crackling with instability. But even injured, the Ghost Of The Damned exuded a deadly aura, his eyes blazing with fury as he, too, fought for his survival.
This was the moment.
Dante met Eight’s gaze, a brief, unspoken understanding passing between them. They couldn’t let Geist recover—not while he was this vulnerable. After gathering every ounce of his limited strength, Dante climbed to his knees, fists clenching as he crawled toward the ghostly marauder. Each step felt like walking against an ocean’s current as the distant battle unwound into more instability.
Eight reached Geist first, his Stigmata delivering him right behind the Anacrux. Without a moment of hesitance, Eight conjured four thin blades of ice, each one intended to finish Geist’s fading form.
The sudden movement of Eight surprised Geist as he staggered back, his hazy hand reaching out in desperate retaliation. Were his movements not compromised by his grievous wounds, Eight’s strikes would have meant nothing.
But he was knocking on the pale coffin. Two daggers sunk into Geist’s impossible flesh before the Anacrux retaliated, his spare hand swiping across Eight’s face. Chunks of flesh evaporated from the teen’s skull, leaking out copious blood, but Eight entered this forest prepared to die.
Not an ounce of fear penetrated his mind as Eight slipped under Geist’s guard, delivering a powerful kick that sent Geist tumbling.
The spike on the Cryo’s boot caught on Geist’s hand, consumed by the Arido as the Anacrux’s flesh rekindled with the stolen vitality. While rolling across the dirt, spectral hands flew like claws, catching Eight by the shoulder, digging in with ghostly talons. Eight gasped, struggling against the paralyzing cold of Geist’s voracious grip.
The young man fought to pry himself free, but Geist tightened his hold, a cruel grin forming on his battered face.
Dante swung the shotgun from his back, pulling the trigger without hesitation. However, something seemed to be missing as the weapon sputtered. As if refusing to fire with such a lackluster owner, a heartbeat resounded within it in anger. The human cursed as the situation worsened.
“Not so fast, runt,” Geist rasped, his voice laced with a venomous sneer. “With your life, I can—”
Dante ignored the taunt as he advanced, focusing on the tiny sliver of ice within his body, a remnant from the Surewinter technique he had narrowly harnessed. He couldn’t activate it through any traditional methods.
After all, the Lightsea utterly ignored him. However, he needed strength. Right here. Right now.
It didn’t matter the damage dealt. The years shaved off meant nothing. At this second, Dante cared for one thing.
Power. The power to fight back.
A power that was his. Power that couldn’t be stolen.
Just a bit of the stored frozen crystals was a risky gambit. Without access to the Lightsea, he couldn’t accurately purify and wash the energy.
Yet...
Dante’s mind flicked back to a scarce few hours ago. Eight had stared up at the sky, proclaiming the life of a Loveless Bird. Once they enter the sky, they either reach their goal.
Or they die the instant they touch the ground.
The vast Domains surrounding Dante merely added to his resolve. He plucked his thumb out with one hand, bashing it against his heart while chanting the Surewinter activation hymn.
Those who had mastered the technique needed their minds and nothing else to call upon its strength. However, without an ounce of the Lightsea’s favor, a man like Dante had to do more.
He wasn’t even sure if it would work.
But as he watched Eight’s life siphoned away, the young man treading toward his death for the second time this day, Dante made sure it would.
A thin blade slipped from his hand, delving through his flesh and into the icy crystal that sat in front of his heart. Surewinter built countless manifestations throughout the body, yet there were up to three cores of the technique, one for each stage.
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Between his will, the knife, and the rushing agony in his body, Surewinter heeded his call.
The frost ignited.
An inch from his heart, the crystal he had painfully built over the past few months cracked, the power seeping through his veins. Misty frost crept along his arm, turning his skin pale and cold, the chill biting down to the bone.
Dante felt the pain of frostbite directly as his skin cracked and blistered. But he clenched his jaw, pushing through, forcing the rush to sustain itself. A feeble, tiny passage to the Lightsea’s icy depths had been made inside the crystalline core.
It would never be enough to return his Stigmata or Tide, but Dante had lived twenty-six years without either. He could fight without such things.
Dante would make this last as long as he could, pulling out every molecule of energy he could.
The human stopped five feet from Geist while Eight scrambled for survival. The teen fought tooth and nail, summoning countless blades that were swiftly devoured.
Geist’s eyes narrowed, his attention shifting from Eight to Dante with the sudden emergence of Surewinter. His frustration grew as he flicked one hand toward the human, “You! I knew you were hiding it!”
Dante’s eyes opened to the sound of coursing wind, and he raised his right arm, focused on drawing out the icy fragments within his flesh. An instant before Geist’s devouring claw reached him, the crystals within Dante’s flesh detonated in sharp, violent bursts. The frost exploded from his arm like glass, dispersing the hazy attack.
With the simple movement, Dante’s right arm hung limply, a massive chunk of flesh wrenched open like a grotesque flower. Geist and Dante immediately shared a glance as the former recognized the mangled technique’s potency, and the latter began anew.
The human named this brutal technique Deadwinter in his mind, knowing the price it demanded, yet resolved to see it through.
Dante strode forward, flashing his left arm outward. Geist flinched to evade, yet nothing came. Instead, Eight gathered his willpower and Dived once more, appearing beside Dante as he spat out several curses, “Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. Whatever the hell I am, it’s a good thing. He can’t take from the half-alive. Don’t let him touch you. His Arido is strongest up close. Makes sense why the dumb-fuck tried to get in close with that monster.”
Whether or not he meant to, Eight’s ability to enrage others sparked Geist’s inner flame. With a roar, the Anacrux forced himself to stand now that some of his life had returned, “Breathing-Metal. It seems Vicar broke the pact. Argh... You won’t escape this, demon!”
Against Geist’s fury, the human and unknown being nodded toward each other. As the skies shook, the former spoke under his breath, “We don’t have much time. I can’t keep this thing up for long. Neither can he. All in, Eight.”
The Cryo nodded, evaporating into the air with his dwindling reserves. Geist glanced behind him, but Eight’s figure formed above him, crashing down.
Dante lurched forward, too, with bursts of agonizing rime splitting apart his body. He ground his teeth while preparing another detonating.
While Eight’s blades flicked out, launching a rapid flurry of strikes, Geist’s spectral claws slashed back, leaving trails of cold mist as they barely missed the vanished Eight.
The single conflict, however, left the boy on the ground and gasping for breath, just as Dante followed up. A flurry of bloody icicles blitzed Geist, slamming into his back.
Mist blossomed from the Anacrux’s body, Geist’s unique ichor, as he stumbled forward with a howl. But he didn’t slow even as his body grew more see-through, leaping for Eight while the boy recovered. Dante kicked with all his strength while both arms hung slack, rushing to save the Cryo.
Yet neither reached Eight as an earthquake alongside a whirlwind of pressure sent them all flying again. The fateful breeze hurled the three out of the destroyed forest and toward the regions where some life still held on.
Not for long, however, as each body collided with a different tree. All sputtered gasps of air before they finally hit the ground.
On the ground, Dante tallied his condition. He counted almost every bone in his arms as broken, three ribs splintered, and his collarbone shattered. The human’s skull carried on with a bruise over his eyes. However, each breath leaving his lungs did so with a kaleidoscope of frosty blood-flakes.
His eyes flashed around, spotting Eight impaled on a tree branch. Dante winced, empathizing with the spike through the kid’s gut. Despite such brutal trauma, the Cryo hadn’t fallen unconscious from the pain and, instead, thrashed against the branch that held him.
One had to give it to him. Eight was a tough little bastard.
Yet none of it mattered as Dante noticed Geist. The Anacrux’s right arm sat against a tree trunk while the man himself wobbled toward Dante. His remaining hand’s fingers splayed out, “Human. That... makes sense. Give me your life. Then, I can rejoin them! That damn Thanaris can’t have all the rewards!”
Dante gazed up at Geist, the man faltering with each step. No matter the injuries, however, the bastard refused to die, and Dante was the same.
Before Geist could arrive at his tree, he brute-forced his way through the frostbite growing on his arms. The ruptured muscles, torn ligaments, and exploded vessels meant nothing to his force of will. Crystals shifted in his flesh, reentering his arms with spurting blood as the human thrust his hands together.
It was a final gambit.
But before his palms struck each other, a crackle of a broken plant echoed. Geist and Dante both turned their heads, spotting an approaching figure—Rasa, staggering forward with half of his torso missing, the raw flesh of his side exposed. Despite the gore, his eyes blazed with relentless purpose, and in his remaining hand, he clutched the limp body of a man dressed in the robes of the Church.
Dante’s eyes widened in recognition as he saw the hood. Another of the Church, dead in Rasa’s grip. Praetor Sun’s second possessed strength not too distant from a Praetor himself. He was a Centurion far beyond most of his peers—one of the few Milarions. While an unofficial title, such did not mean it carried no weight.
Geist hesitated, his form flickering as he processed the unexpected arrival. Rasa’s existence changed the situation.
Rasa’s voice was low, rasping from the strain, “You did well, Eight. I see why Praetor Sun found you interesting.”
Dante seized the momentary pause, focusing inward, his battered arms trembling as he coaxed out the last fragments of his dwindling Surewinter. Dante’s previous burst had been hasty, but now, with time, he carefully worked to boost its power while avoiding further injury to his arms.
His frostbitten hands had nearly lost sensation, but he forced his fingers to move, grinding against the necrotic tissue and pushing the last of the icy shards through his veins. A biting chill spread through his muscles, a last surge of strength igniting within him as the crystals sharpened, primed to detonate. All that they needed was an external impact.
The human never neglected his training on Surewinter, but he found the true usefulness of the technique now. As the frost tore him apart, he swore that he’d study it further and many other methods like it.
With Geist’s attention fixed on evading Rasa’s sweeping whip of water, Dante felt his chance. He forced his body up in a labored, agonizing motion as he braced himself against the tree behind him.
Rasa, dropping the dead Church follower, met Geist’s gaze with a scornful calm, his words cutting through the tense silence, “You Dirge... Fucking Church. All my brothers and sisters are dead. Because of you. And your kind. And soon... so will my Praetor.”
Geist’s face twisted with rage, mists swirling around him as he gathered his Tide. With only one arm intact, the Anacrux lunged toward Rasa, translucent flesh morphing into sharp, toxic tendrils aimed to tear the Tianshe apart. But the Centurion was ready, his eyes cold and primed for death, channeling his own Tide to meet Geist’s Arido.
A whip of water lashed out from Rasa’s remaining arm, striking Geist by slipping between his fog’s densest parts. The liquid twisted, forming a chain that wrapped around Geist’s throat. The Anacrux lurched as Rasa hauled him closer.
“Soon, I will have to train that kid alone,” Rasa mused, his voice steady and forlorn. “Her connections will collapse. He won’t have her protection anymore. Which is why... I have to... kill you all!”
Rasa kicked out with his right leg as Geist wrenched his body against the water manacle. The Milarion’s foot cloaked itself in dense waves before diverging, slicing through the air with blinding speed. Geist barely dodged, the concentrated edge grazing his shoulder and sending a shudder through his ethereal form.
Several dozen feet away, impaled on a tree, Eight gathered the last of his energy. He only had it in him for one final Dive. The past half-hour had been him delving into recesses he didn’t believe he had.
At this moment, however, he knew this was it as blood dripped from his body and sparks struck out from the cavity in his gut. While closing his eyes, he forced the Lightsea to obey him. He Dived.
However, he didn’t land beside Dante or Rasa. The Cryo crashed to the ground beneath his tree, face against dirt. Blood poured from the gaping wound, but Eight forced himself up, staggering toward Geist, unwilling to leave his fate to another.
While Rasa held Geist, the Centurion’s own body wobbling from his previous battle, Dante saw his opening and pivoted to face the Arido. The crystals in his flesh aligned, and his vision lost its peripheral, leaving only his central vision. And yet... even that was dimming.
A trio of near-death men closed in on Geist from all sides. Dante wobbled, barely on his feet, while Rasa flailed his whip outward, and Eight flung a freezing dagger. Geist twisted, dodging the dagger, and raised his own Tide to cleave Rasa’s chain.
Arido met Hydro in an open contest, mist against water. The manacle sizzled from a grasping maw of acidic haze, both locked in a struggle for domination.
Meanwhile, Eight lunged ahead, his feeble body bearing two knives for Geist’s soul. With such restriction on his movement, Geist could only evade one, and the other sank into his shoulder.
The Anacrux howled in pain, yet his entire body burst with a swarming haze, enveloping Eight. Rasa shouted, dragging Geist with his remaining strength, “Eight! Get out!”
Dante witnessed the fog overtake Eight, and he closed his eyes, concentrating on the remnants of Surewinter within him. A rush of terrible force flicked his eyes open as the human finally brought his arms together with a deafening shriek.
Deadwinter, Dante’s on-the-spot creation, brutalized his flesh, destroying much of what lingered and leaving behind splayed muscle and bone. In exchange, however...
The ice that made his flesh its home exploded out of his body all at once with the speed of an unseen bullet. A trail of wind followed the double-fist-sized projectile, and it pierced the dense fog.
A howl of agony echoed through the soon-to-be-leveled forest as the shroud dispersed. Dante’s gambit lodged into Geist’s chest, forcing the Anacrux to drop his prey. Before the teen even hit the ground, he returned for his retribution by rotating his lithe figure.
With blood and sparks leaking, Eight sank two knives into Geist’s ankles and contorted his body. In the split second of Geist’s shock from icicles spreading in his innards, the Cryo wrapped his limbs over his tormentor.
“Rasa!” Eight spoke a single word, but the Centurion was not one to be left behind.
Rasa already stomped his boot on the ground before Geist, his hand snapping his prey forward. Geist lurched with the weight of Eight on his back, and through his wounds, he couldn’t stop his own momentum.
He had wasted his Domain for an advantage in finding the Inferose, slipping some of his Ghosts through, but that cost him dearly. Furthermore, with the near-fatal injury from Joseph, Geist could only watch as a spiked gauntlet approached his vision.
A second later, water slammed a face into the dirt. Then again and again. Geist took three more strikes before his translucent body lost shape. Not even a departing curse came from the Anacrux as his figure decomposed into the Lightsea.
Then Rasa fell onto his ass, collapsing from his triple rounds of battles. First, he aided his Praetor, then he desperately fought to save his fellow Centurions, and after failing them all, he found these three here.
With a gasp, he held the scorched nub that remained of his left arm and gazed up at the sky canopy above while Eight and Dante crashed to the earth. The Milarion spoke, sure of what would come, “Take it, human. You owe me. That means you owe Claudius. He told me about you. Made me promise not to tell Praetor Sun. I do not make promises lightly.”
Dante struggled on the ground, fighting his torn nerves and muscles to reach even a kneel, yet his face flipped to Rasa in surprise. Centurions, especially those as close to their Praetor as Rasa, follow their leader in every act. They are their right hand, their lungs, their heart.
Also, Anacruxes could be used for countless opportunities, from weapons forged from their essences to rare tools capable of collapsing the Lightsea. Corpses typically evaporated too swiftly to give to a person, so with the difficulty of taming such a soul, few had ever been consumed. However, such items were legendary and well-known.
And yet... Rasa refused the potential power or profit. He ignored Dante’s existence. He thought only of the sunny figure that had raised him and the boy he had sworn to protect.
“She will die today. I had hoped she wouldn’t. But... Mother is too prideful. We both love the kid too much,” Rasa’s breaths left his lungs in tense heaves as tears fell down his eyes. “He’s... like a little, annoying brother to me. Never could beat him in a game of cards... Take the Qualae. And run. If she loses after putting her life on the line... there was never any hope to begin with.”
The eyes of the Centurion and the human met. Dante stared into Rasa’s gray pupils, finding a man prepared to die in the reflection. Water coalesced around Rasa’s flesh, closing his wounds and preventing him from bleeding. However, Rasa wasn’t finished fighting for the day.
His Praetor had come to this planet readied for the pure lands. As such, so was he.
With a nod, Dante crawled forward, inching toward the vaporizing corpse of Geist. As he did so, Rasa delivered one final warning as the Tianshe’s eyes followed the tremors in the sky, “Eight. You’ll have to carry him out. A normal one would knock ‘em out for hours. If it was anyone else... I’d wager his death before his survival.”
Dante heard the warning but ignored it. The man’s organs were in total disarray. He had, at most, a few hours before he’d bleed out from his arms and his hemorrhaging. He at least lucked out with Rasa’s appearance, or else, at the minimum, he’d have lost both arms.
Instead, they were just terribly maimed.
Yet it was those disfigured arms that crawled forward, dragging him inch by inch, passing Eight’s equally mangled form until he fell beside Geist. One trembling hand, missing half its fingers, landed upon the deceased Anacrux.
Then, a mind touched the limitless ocean for the first time.