The severed heads of two Jeibaa warriors thudded onto the cold ground, their vacant eyes staring into the abyss. Kyrie's right arm throbbed with agony as he clenched his teeth, refusing to yield to the pain that clawed at his senses. His fingers curled around the pained limb, the muscles beneath his grip twitching in protest. The battle had been relentless, testing not only his strength but also his cunning, and it was his wit that had ultimately preserved his life.
He rendezvoused in Paasilinna with Aran, but he could not do much there. The bombs had detonated, and the Eiffel Tower was toppled down.
Back then, Kyrie's descent into darkness was swift and unforgiving. His senses were a rowdy whirlwind of pain and disorientation. He couldn't grasp the extent of the destruction that had unfolded around him as he lay trapped beneath the debris and rubble of the fallen tower.
Amidst the chaos, distant voices of first responders and the wailing sirens of ambulances pierced the air. Their urgency was a stark reminder of the catastrophic event that had just occurred. Time was of the essence, and every second counted.
Unconscious and bleeding, Kyrie's life hung on the scale. His injuries were severe, and his chances of survival appeared grim. As the rescue teams carefully extricated him from the wreckage, the true extent of his injuries became apparent. Multiple fractures, internal bleeding, and a severe head injury painted a grim picture. It was a race against time to save his life.
In a makeshift emergency clinic a few yards from ground zero, paramedics and nurses worked tirelessly to stabilize Kyrie's condition. Yet, fate had other plans. Unbeknownst to those who rushed to his aid, Kyrie carried within him a glimmer of hope—a healing power bestowed upon him by the magical apple given by Völundr.
Minute after minute, those who attended to him watched in astonishment as the impossible unfolded. The fractures began to set with unexpected speed, bones aligning as if guided by an otherworldly force. The internal bleeding gradually ceased, and the wound on his head showed signs of healing.
In approximately an hour, Kyrie's condition had changed from critical to stable. The medical staff couldn't explain the inexplicable recovery they had witnessed. It was as if some divine intervention had spared him, a phenomenon they could only attribute to a higher power.
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With his eyes fluttering open, Kyrie's first instinct was to escape. He couldn't afford to be detained or retained by the authorities or the medical staff, not with his mission still ongoing. Despite the remarkable recovery, he was weak, and his body ached from the ordeal.
He was taken to a tent where those injured rested while they recovered. Fortunately for him, nobody was watching after the injured, so it was his opportunity to vanish.
Summoning every ounce of his remaining strength, Kyrie slipped out of the makeshift clinic, evading the watchful eyes of the medical staff, who amid the rush and chaos, didn’t even notice.
Outside, the city of Paris bore the scars of the recent disaster. Smoke billowed from the fallen tower, and both volunteers and first responders worked together to clear the wreckage and rescue as many people as they could.
Kyrie knew that his role in this ongoing saga was far from over. Yet, you couldn’t stay here any longer. His fingers found the comforting shape of a ring, and he brought it to his lips to kiss it. He became dust and disappeared.
Now, Kyrie had his back leaning against the jagged remnants of a once-proud building trying to catch his breath. A fire consumed several shops a few yards away. Yet, his fatigue overpowered any concern; rest was the elixir his aching body craved.
A voice, tender and concerned, broke through the haze of his pain. "Are you okay?" Aran asked, his eyes reflecting genuine worry. But Kyrie's response was a symphony of panting breaths and pained groans.
Kyrie had been wearing a black coat that had a much longer right sleeve; the limb was not moving, as it never had. Since childhood, his right arm had been crippled. Although on several occasions it had hurt like now.
He took off his coat and under it, he wore a thick, dark purple sleeveless shirt, a brown vest, and black slacks. On his right arm, small, S-letter-shaped marks appeared, as if they were drawn with a brush and ink. The ink-like tattoos spread like a swarm of ants, going from his shoulder to his fingertips.
Aran, armed with a brush and a vial of deep purple ink, reached out. He sketched a series of small, vertical lines upon Kyrie's afflicted arm. In response, Kyrie's voice split the air with a twisted, anguished cry. The S-shaped marks writhed like worms before converging into a circle that Aran painted on Kyrie's shoulder. In an instant, the markings disappeared.
The pain dissipated, and Kyrie wore the coat.
“Is this the first time?” Aran asked, clearing his throat.
"The first time in two years," he shook his head.
“How many times has this happened to you?”
“I'm not sure... About ten times in my whole life.”
Aran's frown deepened at Kyrie's answer. “Come with me! We must stop this mess... is getting out of hand.”
Aran extended a helping hand, and he accepted it. He staggered toward the lifeless head of one of the Jeibaa he killed and yanked a metal rod his same height out of the lizard’s forehead.
“What did you do to stop the pain?”
“A spell that stops curses, nothing weird. Don’t worry.”
Kyrie offered a modest smile.