Time itself appears to linger as my mind Liberates itself, the chains fading entirely for a split second. Everything gains definition as the colors sharpen and the sights bloom, allowing me to see with greater detail. Marshall's hand is opening into a grasp from his fist as it slowly, very, very slowly, approaches the cuff of my coat. Even with this skill, the man is so swift he moves through it with noticeable speed.

Alexos crawled along at a snail's pace, moving an inch per minute. Marshall forces his fingers to clench at an inch per second as they approach me. I want to win. I know this is all to teach me how to fight hand to hand, dodge, and make opportunities to strike without hurting myself.

But... I still want to win—at least a little bit.

And so, in this Liberation, I open my mouth just a tad, my lips creating a hole the size of a pin after a second to my perception. Then, I breathe, my lungs gradually filling with Ether. The rate at which they fill is slow to me but so fast that I can visibly see the air move. While I do so, Marshall continues to move, his hand approaching the halfway mark to my neck. Insofar, he's the only thing to ever move with any amount of speed during Liberation, and I know he can go much faster. He did it earlier when he hit Reckless out of my hand, after all.

I want to win.

My mind forces my lungs to move faster, Ironheart turning belief into power. And as Ether fills my lungs, the pressure joining my figments of Madness present in my body, I use the gaseous Ether for Breakneck. Pressure builds behind my eyes as my teeth clench, my will forcing the Ether to move at speeds impossible.

It responds, the winds of Ether in my body spiraling throughout my whole body in an instant as the corners of my vision darken. Unconsciously, I used Daydream, trading senses for my mind. I can feel my thoughts sharpen, the world gaining color despite the rising darkness. Again, I force myself to move.

I propel myself to the limit, channeling every ounce of strength and focus. My opponent attacks with relentless speed and precision, experience built over literal decades of constant war, leaving me with no choice but to counter with everything I have. My arm shifts beneath this slowed time, a warm liquid trickling down my nose.

Finding my target, I pivot my legs, crouching at the knees as I feel cracks along my muscles that obey my commands. I must get under his grasp and strike his stomach as he overextends. A single hit. That's all I want. It's all I need. The pressure reaches a pinnacle in my mind, and I release Liberate, the fetters collapsing in on my mind as everything returns to standard time, both of us striking with movements that scream through the air.

As I move with blinding speed, my vision begins to fade. The edges of my sight turn black, like an encroaching darkness closing in. Yet, I refuse to yield. I rely on my muscle memory and the plan I made. My feet slide across the sand as I duck.

The sound around me becomes muffled, replaced by a persistent ringing in my ears. The world feels distant, as if I am submerged in a sea of silence. But I cannot afford to be distracted. I block out the ringing, focusing solely on the task at hand.

My Ether approaches its limit, my chest tightening with exertion. Each second is a struggle as if my lungs are trying to expel an explosion from within. But I ignore the heaviness in my chest, pushing through the discomfort, determined to keep fighting.

In this darkness, I feel a rush of wind above me, pain spiking along the top of my head like a strip of skin slashed by the wind. I did it! I dodged one! Now, I just need to retaliate!

The rush of adrenaline coursing through my veins masks the pain, numbing my senses. My legs are detached as if they belong to someone else. Yet, I propel myself to move, relying on sheer willpower to keep me standing and moving forward. And it is this very willpower that not only contorts the world, but it also contorts me in turn. Just as The Cabin warned.

Time seems to blur, the moment breaking into endless fragments as I noiselessly roar in my echoless mind, my body detonating with speed and strength as I strike out at Marshall.

The world fades away, reduced to a tunnel of focus as my fist flies in the air. In this state, I find a strange sense of clarity, a heightened awareness of every movement and intention. Without sight, sound, smell, or touch, I punch, my body guided only by my thoughts. And with those thoughts, I fight to regain my senses.

Despite the overwhelming physical strain, I persevere. I refuse to succumb to the darkness creeping at the edges of my senses. I oppose through the numbness, the blackened vision, the ringing in my ears, determined to see this battle through to the end.

And as I feel the final moment approach of the clash, my vision returns, only for my hand to be caught by another that outpaces my celerity with a visible shockwave. Disappointment in myself surges as I hang, my body limp and held up only my Marshall's firm and unyielding hand.

Peering up through shaky vision, my body fringing upon the brink of Ether saturation, I finally relent. I can't win. It's not realistic, nor is it a grave fight. I just...

Marshall forces my vision to stabilize, a cheery grin bringing light into my eyes as he congratulates me.

"Good job. You did better than I anticipated. Dodging one strike is enough to be proud of yourself. You broke past your physical limit, as well. Few. Very few, can do that. It is a different beast than the Ether saturation limit. They both wield boons if one can succeed without breaking themselves in turn."

His words attempt to console me, but they don't. I can't help but have my pupils descend onto my hanging arm, the limb that could not reach him. And with a slow sigh, I start to discharge my Strugglers Gasp, but a passion springs from my hand as I do.

A low growl, inaudible to all but me, bursts from my left arm as my flesh warps, the bone, muscle, and meat breaking off itself as a fleshy spear discharges from my hand. The projectile slams into Marshall's chest, the man less than a half-foot from me, and splatters against his uniform as it digs into the cloth.

For a moment, I worry for the old man. The Bloody Palm is a terror, after all. Yet the man simply grabs the bundle of flesh that attempts to burrow into his chest, drilling a small bleeding hole, and throws it to the sand. A low chuckle resounds from the old man as we both watch the flesh squirm, deforming like a serpent as it moves back toward me.

I hear a subtle call from my hand as the flesh crawls to my foot, up my body, and returns to my hand, returning the pinky finger I didn't realize I had lost. Then, as it happens, Marshall extricates my hand, and I fall to the ground limply as my body is lost in all its internal strength.

"Unexpected indeed. You have incredible strength for such a weak base. That... have you reached some form of Harmony with your artifact? I sensed it but was waiting to see if it'd be an ally or disability for you. Seems as though it is the former. You should be proud, young man. Among this whole fortress, I'd wager five would be your match, and two would be your betters."

The part about my weak base strikes a chord, as I am still relatively skinny compared to most other fighters. I really need to build more muscle. But as my mind continues through his sentence, I endeavor to get up.

And so, on the ground, trying to roll onto my stomach but failing the whole time, I sputter out an answer to him. The Bloody Palm hums in agreement with my words, my hand vibrating.

"Harmony? I don't know what that is. We've just come... to an understanding. Neither of us will be forced to do anything against our will."

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Marshall tilts his head, his eyes scouring every inch of the Bloody Palm. It feels like he is gazing through it, investigating every single inch of the artifact before declaring judgment.

"Curious, you are Artificed yet sane and do not know what that is? Have you never met a Hollow? They are rare nowadays, but some still roam the frontier. I recall Killian being close friends with one. I believe his name was... what was it? Kwaine? Yes. I think that was it."

I shake my head, not knowing where he is going with this. To my right, I see Johnny slip away, the man leaving the pit for some reason. Maybe the others are here? Dunno. I'll check in a little bit.

Marshall reaches down with his scarred hand, offering me help to stand as he continues after my denial.

"Interesting. Quite the willpower you have there. Hollows used to test artifacts on other people to learn their intricacies and emotions before finding a harmonious person of their tribe to attach it to. This helped prevent madness and Wendigos from appearing among their tribe. Some of them even received the artifacts shortly after birth. Though, we still did wipe them out in the end. A one percent chance is better than a zero."

The old man lifts me to my feet, holding me steady as he helps me walk out of the pit toward the preparation room through the open gate. As we move, he educates me more on something I wish I'd known long ago.

"When I aided Eli in destroying their tribe twenty or so years ago, I learned the power of artifacts and humans in tandem. It is... a lot. But the risks are too high for all but the most gallant of heart. Harmony in their tribe had three stages. I believe they were named Eclipse, Twilight, and Dawn. The details are scarce, but Eclipse seems similar to yours, random, vague, but helpful bursts from your artifact."

I limp over to a chair as Marshall helps me sit. Everything from my toes to my eyes hurt. The older man then pats a spot on a bench opposite me as he also takes a seat. My mind, however, is more focused on his words than on what we are currently doing.

"What about the other two?"

Marshall squints as if trying to remember a distant memory. Nodding, he answers me.

"Hmm... Eclipse was the most common form, and few had reached Twilight amidst the tribe. But I believe it was the person able to ask for favors just as the artifact would. A give-and-take relationship hinged on mutual respect. As for Dawn, I know little about its situation other than it is destructive."

The Wall looks me in the eye, unblinking with an eternal warning. His words beat deep into my heart, disallowing me from losing focus or memory.

"Artifacts are not toys to be played with or used. The Chieftain of the tribe was said to have reached Dawn. He fought like a true Wendigo, two beings in one. The bastard was merely a 6th Sigil, yet he gave me this and Eli a similar scar."

Marshall pulls the patch of ruined cloth from what the Bloody Palm did as he reveals to me a hideous scar of pink pigment. There are many other insignificant wounds around it, like orbiting planets around a star, but the main one runs from his collarbone to his hip and is as thick as a thumb. Even the Bloody Palm's act left only a slight scratch on his skin, but that wound? It had to have gone halfway, if not all the way through his body. I have been hurt a lot throughout the past year. None of my injuries compare to that single scar.

He closes it as I inhale sharply. The wound is unbelievable to have survived. It looks like it would have killed a bear, let alone a man. Marshall finishes his story as he gives me some more advice.

"Back then, we had Annie with us as well. She was quite the doctor and the only one to ever reach the 7th. Too bad she was assassinated. I still haven't found out who did it, though. Since you have the will to resist it without the training of the Hollows, I recommend you try and find one to teach you how to Harmonize to try and reach Dawn. I assume that is the requirement for Angelhood, though it could be higher. Otherwise, I don't see why that Chieftain stayed as a 6th Sigiled. Few remain, but they would do anything to further their history. None want to be forgotten."

I nod to his words as we sit together alone in this isolated room within Bent. Glancing around, I see medical gear everywhere alongside weapons inches from the surgical kits. But instead of reaching for any of those, I take a waterskin from a bucket filled with them and drink away my exhaustion.

Across from me, laughs ring out, Marshall chuckling at my hurry as I spill some on myself. But as I put the bottle down, I hear those humorous sounds rapidly turn worrying. Coughs and wheezes replace the laughs as Marshall bends over, slapping his chest to force air out of his lungs.

Immediately, I force myself up despite the pain and sit beside him, thoughts flying through my mind at a pace I can swear is close to Liberation. I raise my hand to help, but Marshall slaps my hand away, standing up as he does so. He turns to look at me, conspicuously forcing words from his throat.

"I am fine, Wyatt. Go meet your people. They should be here by now. We can meet again for some more training tomorrow."

I stare at him as he continues to cough, but he literally waves me away, pointing toward the exit. His voice turns gravelly for a moment, his tone unforgiving.

"Go. Now."

My head turns to him and then the closed door that heads up to the ground level used as an exit for the Pit. I take a step away but glance back at the old man as I hear him move. And as I do, I see him stumble, the Ether from his body entirely gone. His chains no longer hold him up. Whatever he did before to stay standing is gone.

All he is right now is an old man. He may have the passive effects of being an Angel, but age and wounds have stripped them all from him. That single scar left by the Hollow would be enough to cripple any Angel. The Unyielding Wall is nothing but an old man in front of me. He... kind of reminds me of Edmund—the futile struggle against age for those who will come after. It is admirable. So fiercely commendable.

He glares at me before falling to his knees and slamming a hand against the counter that holds a canteen atop it, sputtering out a curse. Following the curse is a soft whisper meant only for himself.

"Dammit! Why now..."

I can see it in his eyes even as his gaze hardens. He isn't angry at me. He's only angry at himself. He's indignant about his own weakness. Instead of leaving, I slide beside him, my exhausted and sweaty body nearly collapsing. But I force myself to move, a small stream of Ether keeping me awake as I've gained some leeway in the minutes since the fight.

"What's wrong?"

I extend my hand toward the old man, offering my assistance. His once mighty frame now trembles with weakness, his breath shallow and ragged. What I saw just hours ago is gone. The man who caught a cannonball and threw it back has vanished. Yet, I just want to help him, so my hand goes for his. But he pushes my hand away, his eyes unwilling to look at me. The effort to stand seems agonizing for him, each movement accompanied by a fit of coughing that racks his frail body. Blood stains his lips, and his wheezing fills the air.

My eyes follow him as he attempts to stand, a mix of concern and frustration welling up within me. How can he deny his own vulnerability? His refusal to accept help only deepens the gravity of his condition. Yet, I respect his resolve and his unwillingness to show weakness even in the face of his deteriorating state.

This is Marshall Travis—the Unyielding Wall. Even time itself, he fights without yielding.

I stand by his side, ready to support him if he falters. My presence alone is a silent assurance that he is not alone in his struggle. I can only hope that he will eventually relent, allowing me to lend a hand and ease his burden. Yet he doesn't, the old man leveraging himself until he stands again.

Though, his shoulders are sagging, his back arched, and his breath ragged. Marshall shakes his head, attempting to push me away, but he doesn't place any real substance into the action.

"Nothing. Go away. I am fine."

Shaking my head, I refuse to accept his words.

"No, you are not. Will you listen? You need help, Marshall. Without Ether, you are dying. You need my help."

Marshall steps back, his arch tapping against the stone wall behind him as he proves his name.

"I know I am dying. Perhaps... it is time. But I do not need help. You should focus on yourself, boy. This is the only chance you'll get to be taught by me."

I nod to his latter half, but the start beguiles me. What does he mean?

"It's time? Time for what?"

Marshall doesn't reply verbally. Instead, a surge of Ether, one that makes me squint from the sight of his magenta chains bulging and vibrantly illuminating my vision. Pressure wafts off him as he exhales, visible gaseous Ether leaving his mouth as magenta flames of fiery Ether flicker from his nose and eyes.

I watch in awe as the old man, despite his weakened state, summons every ounce of his remaining Ether. A surge of energy courses through his veins, revitalizing his weary body. His hunched form straightens, and his shoulders square with newfound strength. I can see the determination in his eyes, a glimmer of fierce life that refuses to be extinguished.

His muscles ripple and expand, gaining definition and power. Marshall's feeble limbs now brim with vitality, radiating an aura of raw strength. It's as if the world's weight has been momentarily lifted from his shoulders, and he stands tall, reclaiming his stature in a blaze of glory.

His eyes gleam with a renewed fire, reflecting the sheer willpower that courses through his being. Marshall steps toward me, placing a hand on my shoulder as his grip tightens, locking me in place. Even if I wanted to, I could not move, no matter what skill or force I used.

"I have waited a long time, holding on with only will to extend my life. But I can no longer do so. The countdown begins. You are to say nothing to no one. You hear?"

I open my mouth but can't reply. Marshall's Ether flickers as it continues to overwhelm me. The magnitude is such that I worry it will start to create a phenomenon without his input. But Marshall does not take my silence for an answer.

"I said do you hear me, sol--Wyatt?"

He lapses momentarily, almost calling me a soldier before saying my name. The pupils of the Wall pierce into mine, unwilling to accept defeat as he forces an answer from my lips.

"Yes, sir. Not a word."

He nods, walking away without issue as if he is a brand-new man. But as he does so, I eke out a question of my own.

"How long, sir? Can I at least know?"

Without looking back, Marshall Travis answers, accepting his demise.

"Two, three months, maybe four at max. Less if a Virtue shows, which they might. I did kill an Architect today, after all. Slowly this state will eat up the room in my body, gradually filling my saturation until I turn to sludge. No matter what the men out there think, even I tire. Even I have a limit, and Painsforge bears a hefty cost to keep me alive."

Then, with Ether hurtling out of his body with volumes I've never seen out of anyone or anything in my life, he opens the door and walks out of the pit, leaving behind an order, a thank you, and a compliment.

"Clean up the pit of your blood, then join us atop. I appreciate your silence. And... you did well today. Terrific, kid. I look forward to training you."

My lips curve in joy as his heavy footsteps gradually vanish, leaving me alone in the preparation room. Then, I grab the canteen he ditched on the counter and finish it before heading back into the pit.

Maybe a bit more training before I go up. There is still time before the next siege, right? And here are so many weights and training dummies to use. I mean, when else will I get the chance?