Chapter 63

  A shockwave rippled through the planes of the Passage — not loud, not blinding, no thunderbolts. Just an impulse, like a soft breeze across a still lake. And yet, it was enough to make Ulthanox’s right little toe itch.

  He didn’t scratch it. Of course not. But he did grimace slightly.

  The North of Tirros again.

  “What have they done this time...,” he muttered soundlessly, making a mental note to check on it later.

  For now, however, his attention returned to the young man before him. A noble son, around thirty, handsome, tragic, with that particular glimmer in his eyes that meant: I’ve lost everything, and I’m not ready to let go.

  Like so many others, he hadn’t been prepared. For what was coming. For death. Though, from a divine perspective, his situation wasn’t even that bad. Beloved by the people, a loving father, a devoted ruler, a faithful husband… poisoned by a jealous noble rival during a peace banquet, with one last bite of turkey.

  A classic.

  “I have to go back!” the noble cried, his voice trembling as his gaze darted around the pale blue twilight of the Passage. “To my people! What will become of my son?! My wife?! My city?!”

  Then came the tears. Big, heavy drops. Dignity in death? Yeah, that was a myth long dead.

  Ulthanox sighed softly. Not annoyed, not mocking — more like someone who’s heard the same questions for eons, and still tries, every time, to give a half-compassionate answer. He placed his skeletal hand on the man’s shoulder. No cold, no pressure — just weight. Presence. Death, as it was: final, but not cruel.

  “You’ll be fine,” Ulthanox said. His tone was calm, almost gentle.

  It wasn’t a promise. But it was… a possibility.

  “NO!” the man screamed suddenly, flinging himself off the illusion-bed, which immediately crumbled like sand in the wind, revealing the true face of the Passage: A boundless space, bathed in pale, lifeless light. No walls. No floor. No sky. Only the hint of form — the impression that something might be there, if one stared long enough.

  The noble staggered, looked around, breathing too fast, clinging to nothing. Panic twisted his features.

  Ulthanox crossed his arms slowly. The scene was familiar. The unraveling of the illusion was part of the Passage. A trial. A realization. One final reminder that nothing was solid anymore, except what came next.

  “And this is the moment,” Ulthanox murmured, more to himself than to the other, “when mortals realize that no crown can save them.”

  The space flickered. The light dimmed, then brightened again. The Passage reacted to the state of the soul — nervous, unsteady, occasionally melodramatic.

  Ulthanox let it happen. The gods had created this pocket dimension eons ago, shortly after the first mortal had passed away — and even today, it remained a mystery, even to Death himself. Sometimes it showed memories. Sometimes visions. And sometimes… just emptiness.

  He stepped closer. His voice now softer, yet filled with authority.

  “You won’t take any of it with you. Not the guilt. Not the fear. Not the things you love. But what you are — that stays.”

  The noble gasped. “I… I gave everything I had…”

  “Then it is enough,” Ulthanox said.

  And this time, his voice was soft. Truly soft. No sarcasm. No itch in his toe. Just:

  Death.

  And one final moment of grace. A gentle motion – barely more than a breath – and Ulthanox’s bony palm rested on the noble’s chest. No force, no flicker, no flash of magic. Just a touch, like one might offer an old friend. A silent “That’s enough now.”

  Then it happened.

  The man’s body didn’t crumble into ash or dust, but instead transformed – almost solemnly – into delicate, white flower petals. They detached with the lightness of mist, drifting silently upward, in a direction no mortal could comprehend – as if an invisible breeze were gently carrying them aloft. Slow, as though in slow motion. Peaceful.

  A final tribute to a life not wasted.

  When the last petal vanished, nothing remained but memory. No trace, no voice, no echo. The man had entered the Higher Realms. The angels had received him.

  “Congratulations,” Ulthanox whispered, barely audible, almost just to himself.

  He lingered for a moment, letting his gaze wander through the twilight stillness of the in-between world, and then – he sighed. Long and deep. With a single thought, he left the dimension of the Passage and stood once more in his citadel. It was cold, but not unpleasant. Dark, but not threatening. Utterly silent.

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  The Black Citadel was not a place of power. It was power. And it was his home.

  “Let’s see...,” Ulthanox murmured as he lowered himself onto his throne, “...whether my old friend has interfered again.”

  With another thought – faster than light – he turned his gaze northward. Toward Tirros. Toward the underground systems beneath the Ice Wastes.

  There, where a Paladin wielding demonic power was attempting to pass through an ancient being. There, where Erebos might have had his fingers in the game.

  But as Ulthanox saw what was unfolding there, he paused. No divine interference. No other immortal. No trick, no breach of the laws. Just… that.

  And even for him – even for Death – it was a sight that drew a single, honest word:

  “…Wow.”

  Not ironic. Not fear full. Just: An expression of genuine, respectful awe.

  -

  I returned to the physical world with a bang.

  It was like an invisible net tearing apart, a vacuum bursting open – a quiet yet tangible rip in reality. The air trembled. Ice particles blew off the walls. My eyes snapped open, but they no longer saw with the vision of a man.

  The Ice Stomper stood directly in front of me. A towering mass of ancient, living violence. It had already raised its fist – a colossal weapon of frozen stone and compacted death, ready to crush me.

  But I didn’t move. Because I knew what had awakened within me.

  I was no longer just Luken.

  Gravor’s essence surged through me – like a tsunami of liquid fire and whispering shadow. My innermost self was overturned. Reshaped. And yet: I remained who I was. Only... more.

  My holy sword, once a symbol of my bond with the Light, vibrated in my hand. But the light was gone. Instead, glistening, pulsating blood-veins now coated the blade, writhing like living tendrils. They stretched into the air, twitching, as if eager to latch onto the world. A black light shimmered through them – a color that should not exist.

  I felt my skin – it tightened, withdrew, peeled in places, replaced by a new layer. Scaled. Hardened. Like polished ebony plates, with glowing lines of lava in between. It didn’t itch. It burned. But it was mine.

  Then came the sound.

  Like splintering wood, snapping bones, bark cracking beneath a mammoth’s step.

  From my shoulder plates, thorns emerged – pitch-black, asymmetrical blades slowly pushing outward. Their tips glowed red. A warning to anything that came too close.

  My fingers curled. Bones shifted, nails cracked, as long, jet-black claws shot forth – slightly curved, sharp as scalpels. I clenched my hand into a fist. It felt like I could crush steel. Then my back trembled.

  A pressure. A tear. And finally: a ripping sensation as my backplate burst open, and with a fleshy wrench, two blood-red wings unfolded – a tremor echoed through the cave as they stretched out fully. They were different now. Layered. Feathers of pure essence, yet heavy, shaped from mercury and smoke.

  When I moved them, the air shimmered.

  I drew in a deep breath. Everything was… more. Density. Weight. Power. The control was there. Not like a leash, but like a second breath. I guided it. I was it.

  “And? How do you like it?”

  Gravor’s voice sounded as always – smug, self-satisfied, eternally grinning. But I also heard curiosity. I answered myself – calm, with a weight in my voice I had never known before.

  “More than perfect.”

  I looked at my hand, turned it, felt the pulse under the skin. Then my gaze fell on the sword.

  “But… there’s nothing new in it, is there?”

  Gravor laughed. Openly. Darkly.

  “Surprises are always welcome… aren’t they?”

  I smiled. This time, genuinely.

  “Of course.”

  Then I spread my wings.

  And with a powerful beat, I lifted off. The cold air of the cave swirled below me, ice crystals scattered. I ascended. Not like a man. Not like a monster. But like something that had known both – and transcended them. And below me: the Ice Stomper. Hesitant. Because now he felt it too. That the battle he had expected… was already over.

  -

  Maira had already seen Luken’s demon form. Back then, in the chamber, when everything spiraled out of control. So his appearance no longer shocked her. Not the scaly skin. Not the claws. Not even the blood-red wings. Only the sword. The sword was new – and it was… wrong. It didn’t just pulse with energy – it breathed. Like a living creature trapped in steel and hatred. With every movement, it pulled darkness from the surroundings, drank the light, swallowed all sound.

  And then there was the mana. Maira wasn’t sensitive – she was open. Open to energies, to currents, to patterns. And what Luken now radiated wasn’t a source anymore. It was a vortex. A maelstrom of raw, tainted mana that surged toward him from all directions, like water rushing into a whirlpool. He was a node. A gate. A walking catastrophe.

  Tainted mana. She knew it. Had worked with it her entire life. But she had never felt it this strongly. It wasn’t just present. It pressed on her. It laid on the skin like a second, cold, sweaty layer. It vibrated in her skull, whispered at her nerves, twisted thoughts into spirals. It was the kind of energy that made seasoned mages start praying. And made even gods flicker in its presence.

  “If the Inquisition saw him now…” Maira thought, and the thought wasn’t hypothetical. She wouldn’t send a message. She wouldn’t give a warning. She would unleash an army – no questions, no trial. An Exterminatus in human form.

  And then Arik collapsed. Not dramatically. No scream. No seizure. Just… quietly. As if the light inside him had simply gone out. His body, made of fine ash, sank gently into itself, as if someone had turned off the air. Maira caught him reflexively, felt his entire body tremble – not from fear, but from overload. His mind hadn’t been prepared. No one without mana circuit experience could be. She gently laid him against the wall, placed a hand on his forehead. No damage – just unconsciousness. But had he stood five seconds longer… His essence might have… unraveled.

  She took a deep breath. And then – carefully, focused – slid to the cave wall, peeked around the corner. And froze. It wasn’t a battle, what she saw. It was… a demonstration. The Ice Stomper, as massive and terrifying as it was – a force of nature like a glacier on four legs – suddenly looked small. Slow. Cumbersome.

  And Luken? Luken was… different. Fast, precise, deadly – but not just that. He moved like someone no longer bound by gravity. As if he didn’t just control himself – but everything around him. Mana flowed toward him, gathered around him, formed spirals, streaks, pitch-black auras. His silhouette flickered between light and shadow.

  For the briefest moment, Maira wondered if she should help. Only briefly. Then she realized how ridiculous that thought was. Not because she was too weak – she wasn’t. But because what stood there, what fought… was no human in need of help. On the contrary. Help might’ve even interfered.

  She leaned back quietly against the ice, held Arik’s head steady, and murmured to herself: “If Vin could see you now…” And for the briefest moment… there was something like pride. And fear. And something in between.