A powerful beam of Lumen exploded through the darkness, but its brilliance was instantly devoured by a ravenous shadow, as if the light had never been more than a fleeting illusion.
Brann had struck.
A heavy silence fell, dense with tension. The Fallen stood still, Fenrir gripped tightly in his hands, his gaze fixed and unreadable. His cut had been executed with supernatural perfection, a precision so absolute that no one but him could have achieved it.
Without warning, an invisible impact shattered the air. The walls trembled. Everyone staggered.
The Child of the Void reeled backward, caught off guard by the implacable force. A thin thread of golden blood trickled from the now-closed eye on his forehead.
Gaël stood stunned by what he had just witnessed. That hadn't been a simple blow. Brann had cut the unthinkable, he had severed the Lumen itself, slicing clean through the light erupting from the cursed eye. A shockwave, born of the clash between two primordial forces, hurled Brann across the cavern. He crashed against the opposite wall with a dull thud and slid to the ground, his body shuddering with spasms.
Fenrir, still vibrated in his grip, resonating with a dark, hungry wrath. Brann had chosen to cut rather than use the lumiphage. Did he even remember he had it? Or had his mind been consumed entirely by fury?
The Child of the Void, pushed back by the backlash, collapsed to his knees. A golden streak ran down his pale cheek, stark against the pitch-black fury blazing in his now-open eyes.
"You dare to sever what is eternal?" he whispered, his voice barely audible but carrying an infinite threat.
Gaël felt an instinctive terror bloom deep within him, freezing his limbs. Yet, something had awakened in him when he saw Brann's strike. The intention behind each movement. The breath between each thought.
For the first time, he had felt the true weight of what it meant to cut.
A truth both simple and terrifying.
It was not something one could be taught. Not something that could be spoken aloud.
It was something you had to witness… and understand on your own.
A door had creaked open in his mind. A threshold still far ahead, yet he had just seen its shape for the first time.
Before anyone could react, the lashes of the Eye embedded in the wall began to tremble, as if the Hollowborn had fully awakened, stirred by that masterful exchange. He tore free from the stone, lashing outward as dark tendrils driven by a twisted will. The air thickened, saturated with a poisonous, corruptive energy, oppressive and insidious, seeking entry into every soul.
Gaël, breath ragged, raised his crude metal sword. It looked pathetic, absurd even, before the horror now unfolding. His heart pounded wildly, a frantic drum inside a cage far too fragile.
"What have you done, Brann?" Maera whispered, her voice torn between awe and fear.
Brann rose slowly, his back straight as a stone pillar. His fingers, pale with strain, still clutched Fenrir.
"What had to be done," he rasped. Sometimes, to sever is to open. And some doors should never be opened… but some anomalies always seek a way in.
The Eye screamed.
A piercing, inhuman shriek tore through the air like a blade of sound. The tendrils, now fully unchained, lashed out in every direction, snapping in the darkness like demonic whips.
"Get ready!" Maera shouted, her voice trembling but firm. "This is just the beginning!"
One of the tendrils cracked through the air and slammed down where Kaien had stood a heartbeat earlier. He had already leapt away, his saber flashing in a defensive arc. With fluid grace, he parried a second strike, then rolled under a black coil that reduced a pile of rubble to dust.
Gaël, meanwhile, felt a sinister chill scrape across his skin as one of the tendrils brushed him, revealing their true nature. They weren't just there to kill. They sought to drain the very essence of life.
And while they fought off the Hollowborn from one side, a terrifying transformation was unfolding on the other. Shadows poured freely from the child now, twisting into monstrous shapes, merging into a towering form, larger, wilder, hungrier.
Fenrir, the Lumen-devouring titan, emerged in all his nightmarish glory.
Brann, battle-hardened and sharp as ever, barely dodged the beast's gaping jaws as they snapped shut inches from his face. The Titan roared, its black eyes locked onto the swordsman with feral hunger.
"You dare defy the natural order, Brann?" growled the otherworldly voice of the Lumen Devourer, echoing like a chorus of the damned.
"The natural order?" Brann replied, ice in his voice. "I wasn't born to follow order. I was born to sever it."
Fenrir roared again, and the ground cracked beneath his steps.
The battle escalated. Each strike from the titan was a storm of destruction; each counter from Brann, a deadly dance of precision and will. Fenrir fought with the fury of an ancient god, his limbs crashing down like falling stars.
Meanwhile, Gaël, Kaien, Maera, and Rai fought desperately to survive. Their movements intertwined in a chaotic symphony, Gaël's rough, brutal strikes, Maera's crimson whirlwind, Rai's piercing light-spirals, Kaien's lightning-quick parries.
But they were falling back, inch by inch, against the entity rooted in the wall.
"We can't hold much longer!" Kaien shouted, grappling with a tendril coiling around his throat. "If we don't end this soon, we're all going under!"
Maera, panting, glanced at Gaël between two dodges.
"You! Tranchant boy!" she called, gritting a grin. "Might be a good time to pull off something… flashy!"
Gaël felt his gut twist. They were counting on him? On him? Him, with his training blade and unpolished style?
He looked around.
Maera fought like a scarlet tempest. Kaien danced through the chaos, fire in his eyes. Rai stood tall, fists glowing with light, shielding the others in grim silence.
These were seasoned warriors… and they were counting on him?
And all of them, all of them, turned their eyes to him. A strange warmth rose in his chest. An unexpected weight. A vertiginous fear. They're counting on me.
The voice of the Severance stirred within his mind. Calm. Unyielding. 'Cut. But choose.'
He closed his eyes, shutting out the chaos around him, the fear, the doubt. His sword vibrated in his hands, resonating with a newfound intent. 'The strength of intent is limitless. If it's stronger than the Hollowborn's hunger… then it can cut. Then I can cut.'
The vibration in the back of his mind grew sharper, clearer, and a thought began to dominate all others: A blade is not born sharp. It must be forged, honed, and tested in battle.
A deep breath. A moment of stillness.
'Align my blade… with my intent.'
Then the vibration ceased, and the moment arrived.
'When everything aligns, one strike is enough.'
Gaël opened his eyes. His gaze had changed, fierce now, blazing with purpose. Like a blade poised to slice the world in half.
"The Moment of the Perfect Cut…" he whispered.
And he struck.
A single motion, clean, precise, free of rage, free of flourish.
At first, it seemed like nothing. Then, like an implacable ripple through space itself, the reality around the Eye shuddered. The tendrils that had cornered them were sliced clean through, severed by his strike. The remnants still connected to the wall-bound monstrosity convulsed violently.
The Hollowborn screamed, a wounded beast's cry.
With an abyssal roar, it launched a storm of appendages toward Gaël, like a downpour of shadow-serpents. Every tendril, every lash, aimed to reach him, crush him, erase him.
The monster had sensed a threat. And now, it wanted to snuff it out.