I didn't move.
Not because I was ready.
Because I knew the second I did, it would start.
This thing stood where the dust split.
Still. Watching. Like the last fight meant nothing. Like I was just the next variable to delete.
My lungs stuttered.
My grip shook.
The scythe dragged behind me, leaving a smear of blood that felt more like a countdown.
I didn't speak.
Didn't breathe right.
Every sound in the world narrowed to the hush of dust and the pulse pounding through my teeth.
And that's when I felt him.
Not like a voice. Not yet. Just…weight. Thick, slow pressure settling into the back of my skull. Familiar. Patient. Waiting for me to fall just far enough.
"Let me handle it."
The words came quiet.
Not a whisper. Not spoken.
Just… there, threading through my ribs like breath gone wrong.
"You're breaking. Let me finish this."
I clenched the scythe tighter.
My grip stuttered. The blade dipped low.
"No."
Not a shout. Just defiance, rasped out like I could still afford to argue.
"You can't win like this."
He didn't sound angry. He sounded… amused. Like he knew the outcome already, and was humoring me because he'd seen it before.
"Your ribs are cracked. Your leg's shot. You're leaking heat and willpower. That thing out there?"
A pause.
Almost gentle.
"It won't hesitate. And I don't need to either."
I took a breath. It burned going in. Shuddered coming out.
"I'm not giving you control."
"Then die tired."
His tone didn't shift. No threat. No bitterness. Just facts. Delivered with that same clinical stillness.
"You'll try. You'll bleed. You'll break. And when you finally beg—I'll still be here. I always am."
The Plateau didn't interrupt.
The creature didn't advance.
Even the air waited—like it knew something internal was unfolding, and didn't want to miss the moment I folded.
But I didn't.
"I don't want your help."
"You've had it every step of the way."
Silence stretched.
"I don't want to lose."
That stopped him. Or… stilled him.
"Ah."
A beat passed. I could feel him shift behind my eyes. Less smoke, more shape.
"So it's not about survival anymore."
"It's about pride?"
"No," I muttered. "It's about who's in control."
"Still pretending it's your strength?"
"No," I said again, breath sharpening.
"It's mine because I refuse to give in to you."
Everything seemed to go still.
"I'll crawl through bone before I give in. Not to the Plateau. Not to this bastard in front of me. Not to the rot that waits inside me."
A moment of truth.
"Then break," he murmured, quieter now. "Or evolve."
I staggered one step back.
Not retreat. Not surrender.
Just bracing for the truth about to land in my blood.
The creature didn't move. Neither did I. But between us— The Plateau began to warp.
A grain of dust paused midair.
A crack in the stone flexed like it remembered being broken.
And in that breathless space—
Something cracked. Not in my bones. In the space between my thoughts.
My spine locked.
My chest compressed.
The air around me dropped into silence—thick, dense, like sound couldn't catch up to what was happening inside me.
And then— It shifted.
Not a power surge.
Not fire or thunder.
A fracture.
And through it, clarity.
My vision sheared open like a cracked lens. One instant became five. A second fractured into moments I could read like steps in a dance.
The air didn't move slower—*I* just stepped ahead of it.
My eyes widened—
Not from shock, but range.
I could see the dust trembling midair, each mote spinning on its own axis.
I could feel the creature's weight on the stone from ten paces out.
Its muscles primed to leap—just not yet.
Time didn't slow.
I just got faster.
Faster than instinct.
Faster than fear.
A cold breath escaped my body—
and the world bent around it.
{ Verse II – shardwalker…
Move between instants. Let hesitation die screaming…
Perception fractures. Time loses sequence. Reflex becomes prophecy…
Speed was no longer motion—it was truth stripped of hesitation…}
My hands stopped shaking.
My breath evened out.
The pain didn't vanish—but it couldn't keep up.
The scythe felt weightless now.
Not because I was stronger.
But because the moment had caught up to me.
"So…this is you when you get serious," he said, no longer taunting. Just watching.
"About time."
The creature tensed.
I didn't wait.
I moved.
Not like before.
Not with effort or desperation.
But with silence.
With clarity.
The scythe didn't swing—it landed.
One instant I was staring the thing down. The next—I was past it.
Blade low. Step clean. Air split like fabric behind me.
A sound followed—late and jagged.
Not the scythe. The tear of flesh parting under pressure.
It staggered back.
Its hide split along the side—deep, clean, not fatal.
Ribs visible. Tendons twitching.
Black blood hissed against stone.
And then it snarled.
Low. Sharp. Meant for me.
Not from pain.
From insult.
Because I wasn't prey anymore.
And that—that was the offense.
It dropped lower.
Not like a beast.
Like a blade being drawn.
Its breath slowed—deliberate.
Like it was savoring the moment before it killed me.
And something behind its stillness shifted. Recognition.
I didn't wait.
Not now.
Not with the world dragging behind me.
I struck again—faster, tighter, slicing left— And this time, it moved too.
No hesitation. No blink.
Just violence slamming into mine like a grudge reborn.
Steel screamed against claws.
Stone cracked under pressure.
Blood hit the air—both ours.
We didn't clash.
We collided like truths that refused to bend.
We split apart, just inches—but it felt like a world.
It didn't retreat.
It recalculated.
Its stance shifted—no longer beast, but tactician.
Its next strike wasn't brute force. It was pattern recognition.
My last swing—too tight. My shoulder—bleeding.
It saw everything.
Then it moved again—this time looping wide. Not to flee.
To flank.
I pivoted, barely in time. Metal shrieked against claw. Sparks flared.
Its tail whipped out—hidden, low. I caught it in the ribs.
Pain exploded through me like a warning shot I couldn't answer fast enough.
Behind my thoughts, he laughed—not cruelly.
Not mockery. Just… surprise.
"That thing's learning." He chuckled.
Breath burned in my throat.
Blood clung to my ribs.
The scythe hummed in my grip, half an extension, half an anchor keeping me upright.
It didn't retreat.
Neither did I.
We circled—tight, off-balance steps on blood-slick stone.
Its claws flexed, dragging sparks.
My boots slipped once. I didn't fall.
The Plateau held its breath.
It struck first—low, feinting.
I bit.
Too fast. Too wide.
Its real claw came from above—like a guillotine backed by hunger.
I pivoted. Steel welcomed its limb.
Another cut. Shallow.
Another snarl.
Not pain—frustration.
I lunged next. Blade high. Arc tight. Timing cruel.
It ducked. I twisted mid-swing—
Slammed the haft into its jaw.
Bone cracked like dried timber.
It reeled. Half a step.
That was all I needed.
I followed. Slash. Hook. Step-through swing. The rhythm was survival—barbed and breathless.
A blur of limbs hit mine. We collided. Shoved. Tore.
I felt its claws rake across my shoulder—something gave. Deep. Sharp. Final.
I didn't look. Couldn't.
Blood soaked my sleeve in seconds. My grip faltered.
Pain bloomed, fast and wild, but I locked it down.
If I checked the damage, I wouldn't move again. So I didn't.
Then—distance again.
Our blood marked the floor like a map of ruin.
My shoulder dangled like frayed rope.
It limped—left leg dragging, bone showing.
We weren't fighting anymore.
We were destroying each other.
It raised its head and stared—unblinking.
I stared back.
No words. No roars. Just the understanding:
Only one walks away.
Then we moved.
At the same time.
A roar tore from both our throats—his, jagged and animal.
Mine, human.
Barely.
I tore across the floor like thought had died. The scythe came back. Set. Aimed.
He dropped low.
Claws like answers to questions I hadn't asked.
Stone shattered under us.
Time didn't stretch—it snapped.
And just before we met—
We both swung.
A breath between collisions.
Just before contact—
A shift in the tension.
Not silence. Not stillness.
Something else.
Something distant.
The wind curled softly through the Plateau.
No screams. No thunder. Just dust, shifting in lazy spirals—tracing invisible lines across the cracked floor.
Miyako sat beside the well.
Not moving. Not meditating.
Just… waiting.
Her gaze stayed fixed on the horizon—on that thin line where the flat earth ended and the stars began.
A place where gravity forgot itself. Where the sky wasn't above, but all around.
The Plateau wasn't land. It was pause. A single piece of ground floating in a void that didn't care what fell off it.
Concern didn't show on her face. It clung beneath the skin.
She didn't know what was happening.
Not exactly.
But she could feel it.
A pressure behind her ribs. A weight in the air.
Like the world itself was tensing.
Like a coin was still spinning somewhere she couldn't reach—
and the Plateau was holding its breath to see which side it landed on.
The weight was crushing.
She exhaled slowly, fingertips brushing the rim of the well.
Not in fear.
In focus.
Because whatever was happening beneath—
It wasn't over.
And something in her—something small and deep—told her:
Averic wasn't either.
She lowered her eyes.
"Come back," she whispered.
The wind didn't answer.