Arc 1 Final: Crack (3/3)

  "This is why I have to kill you, Luken!"

  Simon roared from the depths of his lungs as he threw up one last hastily conjured shield of trembling mana to block the next brutal claw strike. The shield flickered, groaned, and with each blow it splintered more—like glass under immense pressure. Gravor’s claws struck with such raw force that the entire room quaked. The walls of the barrier shuddered. Reality itself strained under the mana consumption.

  But though Simon fought with everything he had, it was clear in his eyes: he couldn’t last much longer. His breath came in ragged gasps. Sweat mixed with blood. His fingers trembled as they traced the signs of his spells, and every shield, every barrier, every bolt was no longer an attack, but a final act of defiance. His mana was gone.

  Gravor, on the other hand…

  He was more powerful than ever—yet he too was burning out. His body boiled from within, cracks spread across his scaled skin, and beneath every breach pulsed glowing magma. Smoke poured from his shoulder joints, his back vibrated as though something beneath the surface was trying to burst free. The demon was no more than a shadow from another world, latched onto Luken’s body like a parasite—and now threatened to die with him.

  And yet:

  Gravor laughed.

  A terrible, thunderous laugh that echoed with a thousand voices layered atop one another. It reverberated off the walls, made even the stable remnants of the dome tremble.

  Then, in a voice that sounded as if it had come from the depths of a grave, he said:

  “You're no longer speaking to your old paladin friend.”

  Gravor threw back his head, opened his maw wide, and roared with twisted triumph:

  “THIS BODY IS MINE!”

  Without warning, the monster hurled himself at Simon.

  Not with elegance or tactics—but with the force of an unleashed storm.

  Simon was slammed into the ground, his back cracking against the stone, and the sickening crunch of joints and ribs echoed through the room.

  Gravor grabbed him with his claws—left on the shoulder, right on the hip—and pinned him down like a predator holding a twitching deer. His eyes glowed like molten metal.

  Then he raised his right claw. Slowly. Deliberately.

  His voice was but a whisper, yet it cut through the chaos like a blade:

  “And now… you die.”

  But before the claw could descend, dozens of vines suddenly burst from the ground. They coiled around his raised arm, yanking it back. More lashed at his body like serpents, wrapping around his legs, then his torso, and finally the other arm. The magic that surged through them was old. Dark. Charged with desperation and unbending will.

  Gravor writhed, scratched, raged. But he sank to his knees, hunched like a fallen statue.

  His body spasmed, his voice warped into a tormented, furious screech.

  “RELEASE ME!”

  “YOU DARE NOT—I AM—”

  But the vines gave no answer.

  At the same time, the same force turned against Simon. The earth beneath him cracked, and from every fissure rose vines. They snaked around his joints, slithered beneath his cloak, bound his limbs with brutal precision. His own magic hissed, flared—but could not resist.

  Simon was forced to the ground. Gasping. Cursing. Defeated—not yet in body, but on the edge of breaking in spirit.

  Gravor turned his head. And he saw her.

  Vin.

  With trembling arms, in one hand a rune staff, in the other calling forth the roots of the earth. Her eyes glowed bluish, but her face was drenched in sweat, her lips moved constantly as though speaking incantations without pause. She swayed, bracing herself on one knee—but she did not stop.

  And then—beside her—Maira.

  Or...

  What was left of her.

  Her silhouette seemed warped. Her skin had taken on a greenish-gray hue, more like dead leaves than living flesh. A waft of decay surrounded her—you could smell it, feel it, fear it.

  Her eyes glowed with an unnatural, poisonous green. No illusion, no spell—but a gaze through which Erebos himself looked.

  Maira stood motionless. Her lips shaped words born from divine rituals. Words that created plagues. Words that could wither worlds. And she spoke them with a calm that terrified.

  Gravor froze. His gaze met hers.

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  And for a brief moment...

  Gravor saw something in Maira’s eyes—or rather: in the eyes of the one now speaking through her—that struck him harder than any blade. It wasn’t raw power. Not a shouted threat. It was the unwavering authority of a being that had shaped plagues over aeons, withered kingdoms, and dragged even gods into fever-dreams.

  For the blink of an eye, the tension vanished from Gravor’s shoulders. His head dipped slightly. A soft sound escaped his throat—not a scream, not a curse. Almost... an admission. But of course, he couldn’t help himself from slipping in a snide remark. His voice came out low and rasping, accompanied by a twitch in the half-sealed corner of his mouth:

  “You’re really intervening personally? Guess you'll have some explaining to do with your colleagues from the Lower Realms, huh?”

  He forced a cocky grin that lay on his cracked lips like rust on a once-noble blade. But the response came instantly. No banter. No games.

  “SILENCE!”

  The word echoed through the chamber like a verdict. Maira’s voice—but in a foreign depth, with inhuman power. Like a bell tolling from another world, it made the air itself tremble.

  And with that command, it happened: The vines binding Gravor twitched like whips come alive. Curse runes flared, their edges digging into his demonic skin like needles. The pressure holding him surged all at once—so intense that even Gravor let out a guttural, strained gasp. His body tensed, reared up… but stayed bound. Trapped. Unescapable.

  Erebos—speaking through Maira like a puppet—stepped closer. His voice now calm, but sharp as a scalpel, cut through the tension:

  “I DO NOT HAVE A GOOD REPUTATION...”

  He took a step. The ground beneath his feet turned grey. All green withered.

  “...BUT EVEN I WILL NOT ALLOW THIS WORLD TO BE DESTROYED BY A DEMON LIKE YOU!”

  Gravor’s eyes widened for a moment. Not in fear—but in realization. Old, dust-covered warnings in forgotten demon tongues. Stories of gods who did not act for light or order, but out of necessity.

  Then Erebos slowly turned to Simon.

  His gaze, through Maira’s glowing eyes, was sharper than any verdict ever passed on a mortal.

  “AND NOR WILL I ALLOW ANYONE TO SPLINTER REALITY.”

  Simon tried to speak, but no words escaped his lips. The last traces of mana left to him flickered like the flame of a burnt-out candle.

  Then—quietly, almost gently—Erebos laid his hand on Gravor’s shoulder through Maira’s arm.

  The demon tensed. Not in rage—but because he knew what was coming.

  The vines glowed brighter. The ground vibrated. A deep, near-divine presence filled the chamber. And suddenly, Gravor’s body pulled inward—like smoke driven out by a curse. The scales darkened, shriveled off the skin. The glowing lines beneath the surface faded, the horns receded with painful convulsions. His claws crumbled, and a shrill, defiant screech echoed through the spirit-realm.

  Gravor was sealed.

  Not banished from the body—but forced back inside it.

  Imprisoned in Luken’s innermost self, like a parasite locked within an unreachable, sealed organ.

  Erebos spoke one final time. No more shouting. Just cold, eternal words:

  “THE PALADIN AND RIGHTFUL OWNER OF THIS BODY MAY USE YOUR DARK POWERS… BUT YOU WILL NEVER TAKE HIM OVER AGAIN. NEVER LOCK HIS SOUL AWAY AGAIN.”

  The transformation ended.

  What remained was no longer a demon.

  The black scales burst like ash. The horns dissolved. The last traces of lava evaporated under a cold, green light.

  And then—in the midst of magical backlash—a heavy, plain armor materialized. Dark, but free of demonic ornament. The sword at his side. The helmet in his right hand. A torn cloak, but familiar. Luken’s armor.

  For a moment, silence reigned. And then… he stood.

  Not Gravor. Not the demon. Luken. No glow. No aura. No flicker in the eyes. Just a heavily breathing, exhausted paladin.

  His gaze slowly swept across the room. To Simon. To Vin. To Maira. And then he whispered, almost inaudibly:

  “Am I… me again?”

  And Maira—or whatever lived within her—nodded. Once. In silence. Then the god departed from her body. And Maira fell to her knees.

  At the same time, Vin ran toward Luken, tears of joy in her eyes, and hugged him—before he even knew what was happening.

  -

  I—I was back. And it felt like surfacing after years beneath a dark lake, finally able to breathe again. No more voices in my head. No foreign presence in my limbs. No whisper from another world urging me, pushing me, trying to tear me apart. I was... me. And in that moment, I could have cried—if someone else hadn’t beaten me to it.

  Before I could even form a clear thought, something slammed into my chest like a missile. Or rather: someone. Two slender arms wrapped around me so tightly that my armor groaned in protest.

  Vin.

  She had embraced me without hesitation. No caution, no holding back. Just pure strength and relief, as if she needed to be absolutely sure I was really there. I felt her trembling—not from fear, but from exhaustion and the aftershock of this absurd, chaotic battle.

  I wanted to hold her just as tightly. I wanted to say “thank you,” I wanted to laugh, just remain in this moment and savor the fact that we were alive… and that reality had stopped twisting around us. No flickering, no cracks, no pull at the mind from too much mana seeping through the walls.

  But then I heard it.

  A crack.

  Dry. Splintering. Like aged wood breaking under weight. Or roots losing their grip.

  Oh no.

  I whipped my head up —too late.

  Simon, bloody, swaying, but driven by blind fanaticism, had somehow gotten back up. His eyes flickered with the last tortured remnants of magic. He roared—not a spell, just a raw, animal sound. He wanted to attack me. One more time. Still.

  Not this time. I broke free of Vin’s embrace, stepped forward, raised my fist. In it: a tiny spark of Gravor’s essence—not much, just a shadow, but enough. I channeled it into my hand and struck.

  The hit wasn’t a punch. It was a verdict. My fist landed square on Simon’s face.

  His body flew back, desperately trying to summon his spectral cat—but no sound came. No glow. No magic. Just dust.

  He slid across the shattered floor, skidding a few meters, then lay still.

  I breathed heavily. Only then did I really look at the dome hall.

  Or what was left of it.

  The walls were cracked. The floor? Nearly gone, burned through, torn open—a field of rubble. Where the altar had once stood, only a black hole remained. No sign of Markus. Probably long gone. Gunnar too… vanished.

  I pushed the thought away. Not now. Not here.

  What mattered: We were alive. Vin. Maira. Me.

  And yes—even Gravor was silent. Deep inside me. Tired. Wounded. Sad.

  But before I could savor this strange victory, Simon moved again. Gasping. Groaning. Unbelievable how much hatred could live inside a dying body. He actually tried to rise again.

  That’s when Maira stepped forward. Slowly. Deliberately. With a calm that had nothing left to prove.

  Her eyes no longer glowed sickly green—but a faint golden shimmer, a last trace of Erebos’ power, still flickered within them. Her hair fluttered slightly, as if the room itself recognized her. Without another word, she placed her open palm on Simon’s chest. No violence. No battle.

  Just a whisper:

  “Rest in peace.”

  A final breeze swept through the hall—warm, quiet, final.

  Simon disintegrated. No scream. No curse. Just dust. And then… nothing.

  I exhaled. For the first time, fully, with a sense of: it’s over.

  My knees gave out. Not from weakness, but because my body had had enough. I collapsed onto them, breathing hard but—most importantly—victorious.

  And not alone.

  Vin sat down beside me. She said something—I barely caught it.

  “What do we do now?”

  I smiled, weakly, but honestly.

  “Stay together…,” I whispered.

  Then I closed my eyes—and sank into a well-earned sleep. A real one.

  No demons, no battles, no chaos. Just silence.

  And maybe… a new beginning.