"YOU!"
The corruption's shriek split the chaos of the chit sagar—a sound of pure agony and rage that seemed to tear through the fabric of the mind-sea itself. The waves that had been calming shuddered, recoiled.
"Ashan! You're not doing the right thing! Stop fighting! Give in! Deny your pathetic existence! Embrace me! ACCEPT ME!"
Thunder answered. Bolt after bolt struck the writhing mass of corrupted flesh, each impact painting the chit sagar in flashes of blinding white. The thing tried to claw its way out of the dark maw that had swallowed it—tentacles reaching, grasping, stretching—but the sea held firm. Water coiled around it like living chains, dragging it back with each surge.
Ashan watched. He did not move. Did not speak. Did not close his eyes. He simply watched—as the corrupted form's speech dissolved into gibberish, into grunts, into nothing. Watched as the thunder raked its being, lightning after lightning, until nothing remained. Not charred flesh. Not scattered remains. Just absence.
The sky cleared. The sea calmed. Ashan gave one final look at his restored chit sagar—at the peace he had fought for, however temporary—and exited.
The evening breeze touched his face. Below, steel still sang. He had been gone for seconds. It felt like years.
What a horrific experience. His hand clenched into a fist, knuckles white. And it's not over. One slip—one moment of weakness—and he'll return.
He held the thought for a heartbeat, then released it. Let it drift away on the evening air.
He leaned out the window, eyes finding the battle below.
.....
Toric's chest heaved in ragged rhythm. Blood traced paths through the grime on his face, painting him in hues of red and brown. His clothes hung in tatters, revealing a patchwork of wounds—some shallow, some deep, all bleeding. None showed signs of slowing.
Across from him, Thruston stood like a mountain carved from patience. A deep gash ran across his torso, weeping crimson. A few bruises marked his arms. Nothing more. He swung his mace lightly and began the slow walk toward his opponent.
The street held its breath. Dale watched from where he sat on the ground, eyes bright with anticipation. Toric's followers stood frozen, unable to look away from the execution unfolding before them.
Thruston loomed. Toric's sword hand trembled.
"Kill him, Thruston!" Dale's voice cut through the silence. "KILL THAT BASTARD!"
The recruits' gazes flickered toward him—disgust, fear, hatred—but no one moved. No one spoke.
Thruston raised his mace high. "Good fight."
The weapon began its descent.
Is this it? Am I really going to die here?
No. Wait. The Captain. I completed his task. He said he'd—
The mace stopped mid-swing. Thruston's eyes went wide. A new wound opened across his chest—deep, violent, appearing from nowhere. Blood sprayed.
"What—" He coughed, red misting the air. "WHAT—"
"Die, you bald bastard!"
Toric moved without thinking. His sword found the opening and drove forward. Steel parted flesh, slid between ribs, found the heart. He withdrew. Clean. Fast.
Thruston's massive body crumpled, hitting the ground with a sound like a falling tree. His blood pooled around him, dark and spreading.
Dale's scream split the air. "WHAT?! HOW?! IMPOSSIBLE!"
No one understood. One moment, Thruston was victorious. The next, he was dead. The how remained a mystery. But the result was clear.
"WOOO!" Holt's voice cracked with sudden joy. "CAPTAIN WON! CAPTAIN TORIC WON!"
"WE'RE THE STRONGEST!"
"WE DID IT!"
The spell broke. The recruits erupted—cheering, shouting, celebrating—their terror transformed into triumphant relief.
"Oh no." Dale tried to scramble away. Hands caught him. Dragged him back. The beating began.
Thank the Storms. Toric's internal voice was calm, measured, nothing like the roaring crowd. The Captain saved me. Again.
He looked at Thruston's body—at the impossible wound that had appeared from nowhere. But how many times can I depend on him?
His grip tightened on his sword. He looked up. At the tavern window, a boy watched. Grey-white swirls spun slowly in his eyes. Toric bowed—just slightly, just enough, hidden from the celebrating crowd.
"Hey! Stop beating him and finish it." Toric's voice cut through the chaos. He held out his sword toward Holt. "Here. Behead him."
Holt stared at the weapon like it might bite. "Me? I don't think I can—"
"Do it."
Holt took the sword. His hands shook. He looked at the blade, then at Dale's beaten form.
Dale was a wreck—forehead streaming blood, clothes shredded, hair matted and wild. But his mouth still worked. "Shit! Fuck! You're all dead! All of you! When the Master hears—when he comes—he'll kill everyone! Everyone you love! Everyone you—"
A shadow fell across him. He looked up. His eyes went wide. "No... no, you won't... NO! NO!"
The sword descended. The head rolled. Blood fountained.
Holt dropped the weapon and staggered to the side, vomiting. His hands wouldn't stop shaking. His brothers appeared at his shoulders, steadying him.
Toric watched without expression. "Bear it. You'll see much more of this."
.....
Farewell, father.
Ashan watched Dale's head separate from his body. Watched the blood spray. Watched the life leave eyes that had, perhaps, once looked upon an infant with something other than rage.
Thank you for letting me be born into this world. For giving me the chance to pursue immortality. And thank you—truly—for showing me that I still have far to go. That I must become strong enough to bear the weight of my own philosophy. Strong enough to repay my debts of gratitude.
No emotion touched his face. No, that wasn't right. He felt them—the roil of disgust, insecurity, rage—but he held them. Controlled them. Refused to be swallowed.
A person can drown in their emotions. Or they can destroy them entirely. I reject both paths. I will feel. And I will control. Completely.
The grey-white swirls in his eyes spun once—a final acknowledgment—then stilled.
Below, the celebration continued. Above, the evening sky darkened toward night. And in between, a boy who was not a boy watched it all, learning, growing, becoming.