The rain begins without warning, a sudden, violent transformation of the atmosphere that feels less like weather and more like a physical assault. One fleeting moment, the lakeshore breathes beneath the oppressive weight of a cold night wind, the trembling pine branches whispering secrets to the dark; the next, the sky cracks apart with the finality of a breaking seal.
Water crashes downward in sheets so dense and suffocating that they blur the liquid boundary between the churning lake and the drowning air. Lightning flashes somewhere far behind the jagged teeth of the mountains, illuminating the obsidian surface of Lake Admonito in rhythmic, violent white pulses that sear the retina before the hungry darkness swallows the world whole once more.
Thunder rolls across the valley, not as a sound, but as a physical vibration, sounding like a thousand boulders collapsing through the marble floors of the heavens to shatter against the earth.
Comtois freezes at the treacherous edge of the shore, one heavy leather boot already sinking into the treacherous, hungry mud that seeks to claim him. Rainwater immediately drenches his hair, plastering the strands against his forehead, before running in icy rivulets down his cheeks and sliding along the black, obsidian veins that crawl beneath the pale skin of his hand where Morito's sword presses firmly against his palm. The sword hums with a low, thrumming frequency that vibrates through his marrow—not a sound of warning, but a sound of starvation. Hungrily.
Around him, the lakeside grasses flatten instantly under the weight of the deluge, pinned to the earth like defeated soldiers. Ferns bend low enough to scrape their fronds against the soaked, weeping earth, while the ancient pine trees sway violently as the wind tears through their needles with a high-pitched shriek, carrying the metallic scent of wet bark and the pungent aroma of disturbed, ancient soil. Comtois slowly, deliberately, lifts his rain-slicked face toward the churning sky, his eyes narrowing against the stinging spray.
"Seriously?" he mutters.
Another flash of lightning turns the world into a silver-plate photograph, and in that split second of clarity, the lake explodes upward. The Drakolimne rises from the black, suffocating water like a titan dredged out of an ancient, feverish nightmare, its enormous body coiling through the storm with a grace that defies its massive scale. Its hide is a map of recent trauma; scales remain cracked and jagged from Aldo's previous assault, and further shattered by the concussive force of Hano's detonating golem. Pale, yellow blood, thick and viscous, mixes with the descending rainwater and slides down its prehistoric hide in glowing, bioluminescent streaks before disappearing back into the frothing lake.
One eye remains its old, deep, soulful color, a remnant of the creature it once was, but the other has turned a flat, impenetrable black. It is not the dullness of a blind eye, but the terrifying density of something corrupted.
The dark eye fixes its malevolent focus directly on Comtois, tracking him with a predatory precision that ignores the chaos of the storm. The rain intensifies, the droplets becoming heavy as lead, and beneath the flickering lightning, the Drakolimne's jagged wounds begin to knit together, the flesh stitching itself closed with a sickening, wet sound that shouldn't be audible over the thunder. Comtois immediately clicks his tongue, a sound of profound annoyance that cuts through the roar of the gale.
"Oh, Onaga, you absolute disaster."
He points an accusing finger toward the rising serpent, his gesture sharp enough to pierce the mist, treating the creature as if it were a personal representative of every frustration he has ever endured.
"You shoved corruption into the giant murder salamander. Amazing. Fantastic. Truly incredible teamwork."
The Drakolimne roars in response, but this time the sound is fundamentally wrong, a sonic aberration that makes the teeth ache. It is no longer the mournful, whale-like scream of a lonely god, nor is it the haunting chorus of whispering voices that once followed its wake.
Now, the roar carries a jagged distortion inside its core, layered with guttural, low growls and the harrowing echoes of broken human sounds crushed together beneath a layer of monstrous, unadulterated rage. The very rain vibrates from the sheer force of the acoustic wave, and ripples spread across the lake's surface with such momentum that they slap against the shore like physical blows.
Comtois exhales a long, steady breath that turns to mist in the freezing air, and then, he grins. It is a dangerous, sharp-edged grin—the kind of expression that usually appears exactly three seconds before something extremely stupid and magnificent happens.
"Yeah, yeah. Be mad. I'm not letting you get your boyfriend back."
The Drakolimne lunges with the speed of a snapping whip, its massive head cutting through the air as water erupts behind it in a towering plume of white spray. Comtois doesn't flinch; instead, he channels a surge of raw, jagged power through Morito's sword, causing the black-red veins on his arm to pulse with a blinding, rhythmic light. The mud beneath his boots bursts outward in a muddy halo as he anchors his will.
Then, he vanishes.
A thunderclap of displaced air cracks across the lakeshore, a vacuum-sealed pop of teleportation that momentarily displaces the falling rain into a mist of fine vapor. He reappears instantly in the empty air directly beside the Drakolimne's head mid-charge, his body coiled like a high-tension spring. With the amplified, terrifying strength the sword provides, he drives his fist into the creature's lower jaw. The impact detonates the surrounding rainwater outward in a perfect, circular shockwave that carves a hole in the storm. Nearby pine trees bend violently away from the epicenter, their trunks groaning under the sudden pressure, and birds hidden deep within the safety of the forest explode upward in frightened, chaotic swarms, choosing the lightning over the ground-shaking force of the blow.
The Drakolimne's massive, mountain-like body skids sideways through the flooded shore, its claws furrowing deep trenches into the earth as it fights for purchase. But it is only pushed sideways. It is not broken, and more importantly, it is not stopped. Comtois's grin disappears as he feels the lack of a "crunch" under his knuckles.
"…Okay that's concerning."
The counterattack is instantaneous. The serpent's tail comes out of the peripheral darkness like a black blur, a massive trunk of muscle and scales moving faster than the eye can track. Comtois barely manages to turn his shoulder, bracing for the inevitable, before the impact crushes into him with the force of a runaway carriage.
The world flips into a kaleidoscopic nightmare of grey sky and black water. He flies through the lashing rain, through the shattering branches of a sacrificial pine tree, and finally slams across the ground hard enough to carve a jagged trench through the soaked, yielding earth.
Mud explodes around him in a spectacular spray of filth. He tumbles like a ragdoll, his limbs hitting the earth with dull thuds, rolling through the debris of the storm until he finally stops, half-submerged in a pool of stagnant, brown water. For a long, ringing second, the only sound in the universe is the high-pitched whine in his ears, the rhythmic pelting of rain against the mud, and the ragged, shallow sound of his own breathing.
The distant roar of the serpent vibrates through the ground, a triumphant sound that shakes the water from the leaves. Comtois slowly, painfully, pushes himself upward, his fingers clawing into the silt. Mud drips from his chin in thick, sluggish clumps.
"…Right. Rain buff."
He spits out a mouthful of dirty water, his eyes flashing with a renewed, albeit frustrated, spark of defiance.
"Need to stop the weather or drag the lizard somewhere dry. Great. Amazing. Easy problem."
The Drakolimne suddenly turns, its serpentine neck snapping with a terrifying, fluid grace that sends a spray of lake water spiraling into the gale. It does not look back at the man who just struck it; instead, its dual-colored gaze fixes upon the dark silhouette of the tree line where the forest meets the shore. It looks toward the dense, rain-choked forest, toward the frantic movement of shadows retreating into the pines, toward Ryong and Lei, and most dangerously, toward the prone, unconscious form of Teufel.
Comtois's eyes widen as the realization hits him like a physical blow, his pulse hammering against his ribs in a frantic rhythm that matches the drumming rain.
"Oh no you don't."
The air shudders and groans as teleportation cracks again, a violent displacement of atmosphere that leaves a vacuum in its wake. Several yards away, deep within the grasping shadows of the undergrowth, Ryong Min Ki and Lei Delun are struggling through the rain-soaked brambles, their boots slipping on slick moss and treacherous clay as they desperately drag Teufel's dead weight between them. Teufel's heavy armor hangs in jagged, scorched ruin, yet the magical alloys are already groaning as they partially restore themselves, the metal slowly knitting together and weeping liquid silver even as lingering stains of dark corruption cling to the surface like a spreading blight. Ryong pants heavily, his chest heaving with every agonizing step while he clutches his precious notebook under his coat to shield it from the deluge, his knuckles white against the leather binding. Beside him, Lei glances backward constantly, his eyes darting toward the lake where the monster had been, his breath coming in sharp, jagged plumes of mist.
Then, with a sound like a gunshot, Comtois appears directly in front of them. Mud sprays outward in a violent, circular arc from the pressure of his sudden arrival, splattering the boys' shins and the surrounding ferns. Ryong jolts so violently he nearly screams, his heart leaping into his throat as he stumbles over a stray root.
"WHY DO YOU KEEP TELEPORTING WITHOUT WARNING?!"
Comtois offers a sharp, reckless smirk that doesn't quite reach his panicked eyes, his hand already tightening around the hilt of his humming blade.
"Because dramatic entrances matter."
The levity of the moment is obliterated as the ground behind them erupts in a fountain of peat and shattered timber. The Drakolimne bursts through the first line of trees with the momentum of a falling mountain, its massive scales grinding against ancient wood as sturdy pines snap like dry twigs beneath the sheer weight of its advance. Rainwater trails behind its cresting spine like torn, silver banners whipping in a hurricane. Comtois doesn't hesitate; he slams Morito's sword downward into the muck, burying the steel deep into the heart of the earth.
The earth answers his call with a subterranean roar that rivals the thunder. An enormous wall of jagged stone and compacted soil erupts upward from the ground between the serpent and the boys, tearing the very forest floor apart as it rises. Tree roots snap free from their ancient moorings with the sound of snapping cables, and mud rains sideways in thick, heavy clumps as the massive barrier launches itself toward the charging Drakolimne. The serpent twists its long, muscular body in mid-air, scales shimmering with a sickly light as it dodges the primary mass of the stone.
But Comtois is already moving, a blur of motion against the grey backdrop of the storm. He isn't standing behind the safety of the wall he just conjured; instead, he is clinging to the leading edge of the rising slab, his fingers dug into the cracks of the stone. The instant the Drakolimne swerves past the flying barrier, Comtois launches himself off the stone slab like a kinetic missile.
"SURPRISE, GECKO!"
He crashes shoulder-first into the Drakolimne's neck with a sickening thud, the impact rippling through the creature's thick hide and sending the massive serpent spiraling sideways through a cluster of pine trunks. Trees explode into jagged splinters upon contact, wood pulp flying through the air like shrapnel.
One entire cedar, hundreds of years old, is torn free from the earth by the serpent's flailing weight, its root ball dragging a ton of soil into the air before crashing back down. The Drakolimne smashes across a rocky slope, its scales sparking against the granite, and it lies stunned for half a heartbeat as the world settles.
Then its blackened eye locks onto him, and the very chemistry of the air changes. The temperature plummets instantly, turning the warm breath in Comtois's lungs to ice. A concentrated beam of pale blue ice erupts from the creature's yawning maw, but it is not a narrow stream; it is a wide, massive torrent of absolute zero.
Everything in its path freezes instantly, the transformation so rapid it bypasses the liquid state entirely. Grass crystallizes into brittle glass, rain hardens midair into a suspended curtain of hail, and entire trees flash-white with a thick coat of frost that makes the wood groan and shatter.
Comtois teleports repeatedly to evade the freezing death, his body flickering in and out of existence like a glitching ghost. Left. Right. Upward. Backward. Each jump cracks the air with a percussive boom, but the beam sweeps after him with terrifying speed, carving a path of winter through the heart of the summer storm. The freezing edge of the beam catches his shoulder as he reappears, and pain detonates through his arm like a million needles. Ice crawls instantly across the shoulder plate of his armor, sealing the joints in a rime of white frost.
"AH— okay okay okay not fun!"
The beam slices sideways, shearing straight through a cluster of ancient pines as if they were nothing more than stalks of dry wheat. The forest trembles under the assault, but then, something deeper and much older trembles back. The ground heaves and rolls as roots the size of pythons erupt upward from the deep loam.
Two massive Ents emerge from the darkness of the inner woods, their towering forms silhouetted against the lightning. They are ancient and gnarled, their bark-like bodies creaking with the weight of ages older than human kingdoms. One of the giants turns its hollow, glowing eyes toward the destroyed trees, the fallen brothers of the glade, and then slowly shifts its gaze toward the Drakolimne.
Silence falls, a terrible, heavy silence that weighs more than the storm. Then, with a speed that belies their size, both Ents move. Massive, moss-covered roots whip through the rain like leviathans.
The Drakolimne barely has time to hiss before the first root slams into its side hard enough to crack its heavy scales and send a spray of yellow blood into the mud. Another root wraps around its neck with a crushing grip, while a third coils around its thrashing torso.
The second Ent steps forward, its massive wooden feet shaking the earth, and punches downward with a fist the size of a merchant's cart. The impact shakes the forest floor to its bedrock, causing the very puddles to jump. Birds flee screaming into the storm, their wings beating a frantic rhythm against the wind.
Comtois immediately points a muddy finger toward the fray, his face lighting up with a manic, desperate joy.
"YES! GET HIS ASS!"
The Ents roar in a sound that is not animal, nor human, but the voice of the forest itself—a deep, resonant vibration that rolls through every tree and vibrates in the marrow of anyone standing nearby. They drag the Drakolimne backward across the soaked earth, lashing out with roots that strike like whips. Yellow blood sprays through the rain, coating the ferns in a sickly, glowing film. The serpent thrashes violently, its black eye pulsing with a dark, rhythmic light.
Suddenly, corruption-laced magic erupts from the serpent's body in a concussive wave. A wall of water and dark energy explodes outward, and the roots holding it snap like overextended twine. The Drakolimne twists free with a serpentine hiss, its tail whipping out with such force that it catches one Ent across the torso. The ice-coated tail strike shears through the ancient wood, and the Ent loses an entire arm to the blow. The broken wooden limb crashes through the forest canopy, taking smaller trees down with it.
Comtois's grin fades as he watches the monster right itself, its wounds already smoking as they begin to close. The Drakolimne is still too strong near the water. It is too fast for its size. It is far too durable to be brought down by simple force.
He wipes the freezing rain from his face with a mud-caked glove, his eyes darting across the chaotic battlefield as the gears of his mind grind against the roar of the storm. Thinking. Then he suddenly freezes, his breath hitching as a jagged fragment of memory slices through the adrenaline.
He sees Aldo standing before the blackened ruins of the destroyed village, the smell of ash mingling with the ghost of a lecture about how monsters depend entirely on their specific habitats to maintain their dominance.
He remembers the way Aldo manipulated the terrain itself, twisting the environment until the predator became the prey through a tactical habitat inversion. Comtois slowly looks upward toward the swirling, charcoal storm clouds that are currently fueling the serpent's regenerative power, and then he turns his gaze toward the huddle of Ryong and Lei.
A smile spreads across his face again, but this one is worse—much worse—than the reckless grins from before.
"…Oh this is such a terrible idea."
Ryong sees the shifting shadows of that expression and immediately looks alarmed, his hands tightening on the straps of his pack as he instinctively takes a step back.
"No. Whatever you are thinking, no."
Comtois teleports beside them in a crack of displaced air, the sudden vacuum causing their wet cloaks to snap forward.
"Quick question. Help me remove Teufel's armor and sword."
Lei stares at him with wide, incredulous eyes while the sound of snapping timber draws closer.
"Why?"
"Trust the process."
"The process terrifies me."
"Correct."
The Drakolimne crashes through another line of ancient trees nearby, the sound of splintering wood acting as a countdown timer for their lives. No time. They work with a frantic, desperate energy anyway.
Together they strip the unconscious Teufel of his heavy, enchanted armor and the damaged, blessed sword, the metal feeling unnaturally cold and vibrating with a fading celestial resonance even through their thick gloves.
Comtois grabs frantic armfuls of dry straw from a nearby supply cart that had been abandoned during the village evacuation, stuffing the plates of metal to build a crude, recognizable shape. A fake body. Ryong slowly realizes the trajectory of the plan, his face pale beneath the grime as he looks horrified.
"You're baiting it ?"
Comtois points finger guns at him with a wink that looks entirely out of place amidst the carnage.
"Exactly. Aldo would be proud."
"Aldo would call this suicidal."
"Yeah but like… Aldo did that too!"
Lightning flashes, casting a long, jagged shadow of the straw-filled armor across the mud, and the Drakolimne notices the metallic shimmer. Not perfectly, but enough to trigger a primal, corrupt rage within its blackened eye.
Comtois grabs the fake Teufel bundle beneath one arm and channels every remaining drop of power into his core. The air around him begins to distort and ripple like a heat haze, while a sudden, violent wind explodes outward from beneath his feet, forcing the pine branches to whip and groan. Rain spirals around him in a miniature cyclone as the ground cracks beneath the pressure of his mounting mana. Morito's sword pulses brighter and brighter, bleeding a crimson light that stains the falling water.
Comtois crouches slightly, his muscles coiling like high-tension wires.
"Alright ugly. Come get your boyfriend."
Then he launches upward. Not a jump, but a missile. The earth beneath him detonates in a spectacular spray of mud and shattered rock, leaving a smoking crater where he once stood. He tears through the rainclouds almost instantly, leaving a tunnel of clear air in his wake as the Drakolimne roars and follows, coiling its massive body to strike. The chase begins.
Ryong stares upward through the suffocating, charcoal tapestry of the storm, his neck craning until the muscles ache as he searches for a glimpse of the man who just defied every law of gravity and sanity.
Lei slowly lowers his hands, the trembling in his fingers finally subsiding into a numb, hollow shock that leaves him rooted to the saturated earth.
Neither speaks for several long, heavy seconds, the only sound between them being the rhythmic, violent drumming of the rain against the mud and the distant, dying echoes of a battle that has suddenly migrated to the heavens. Then Lei finally whispers.
"…What crazy thing did he just do?"
Above them, far beyond the reach of the tallest ancient pines and the jagged peaks of the mountains, the clouds explode apart in a concussive shockwave that clears a perfect, circular window into the dark firmament.