The invasion struck without mercy or warning, a sudden cataclysm of pain that buckled Tyler's knees and sent him crashing to the rough, crunching floor of the tree's hollow heart.
It engulfed him completely, dragging him into a realm of torment so vast and absolute that coherent thought fractured like glass under pressure. Hands clutched his head desperately, fingers digging into scalp and hair as though physical force could anchor a mind threatening to scatter into the surrounding dark. His eyes—still burning from the tree's blood—felt as though they boiled within their sockets, heat radiating inward to sear brain and bone alike.
The agony arrived so violently, so all-consuming, that his jaws snapped shut in the first convulsion, teeth slicing clean through his tongue.
Blood flooded his mouth in warm, coppery waves, but he scarcely noticed amid the greater storm. The pain in his mind and eyes eclipsed everything, a blinding white-hot blaze that drowned sensation, drowned reason, leaving only the raw, animal struggle to endure.
He tried to scream, lungs heaving for release, but no sound emerged—only silent, convulsive rolling across the splintered wood, body twisting in futile attempts to escape what came from within. In every life he remembered—the fleeting modern one ended by screeching metal, the ancient one pierced by divine light, the repeated nightmares of burning skies and golden judgment—he had never touched suffering like this.
Instant death would have been a kindness he might have craved if not for the iron will that refused to break, clinging desperately to the fraying edges of sanity with everything left. Something ancient and immense pressed against his thoughts, trying to claim space, to overwrite what was his. It was strong—overwhelmingly so—and he held it back by mere fingertips, every heartbeat a battle where error meant surrender.
The pressure built until trembling hands released his head, pushing weakly against the floor to rise to his knees. Breath came in ragged gasps, sweat mingling with drying blood on his face. Driven by blind instinct to end the burning, he lifted both hands higher.
Fingers pierced the soft orbs without hesitation, digging deep until they burst in wet, yielding release. For a fleeting moment, relief washed through him, the boiling ceasing as thick liquid streamed down his cheeks.
But the respite shattered almost immediately.
The fluid swirled in the ruined sockets, coalescing with unnatural speed, solidifying into new eyes that ignited hotter than before—embers forced into living flesh, searing his skull from the inside out. Agony returned tenfold. He clawed again, popping the fresh orbs in frantic desperation, only for the cycle to repeat, regeneration merciless and immediate. No matter how many times he destroyed them, they reformed, each rebirth dragging fresh waves of fire through nerves already raw.
Through the fracturing haze, one image burned repeatedly into his mind: a world swallowed by flame and endless screams, blood-red skies torn open like wounds, a single shadowy figure hovering serene above the ruin—golden, symbol-marked eyes gazing down with the indifference of absolute power.
Rage rose amid the torment, blood boiling in veins already scorched. Jaws clenched until teeth groaned, fury lending strength where pain sought to steal it.
He threw his head back and unleashed a roar—raw, guttural, born from depths he hadn't known existed. The sound echoed through the vast hollow, shaking the black wood around him. Deep cracks spidered across the scarred trunk, the ancient tree quaking as though fearing what it had awakened.
Then everything stilled.
Pain vanished as abruptly as it came. The tree dissolved into nothingness. Darkness folded away like receding tide.
Cold iron pressed against his back once more, the damp chill of the cave seeping into skin, the thick stench of rusted metal and rotting flesh coating his lungs like familiar poison. He was back in the cage.
Eyes remained closed, reluctance heavy in his chest. Though the agony had fled, its memory lingered fresh and raw, scars on the soul too tender to ignore. Sweat traced slow paths down his forehead, cooling as it kissed the bars below.
Breath came fast and labored, body numb and drained as though the ordeal had hollowed him further. He leaned fully into the iron's support, unwilling to move, accepting the stillness. There was nowhere to go, after all.
A stray thought drifted through the exhaustion, wry and distant: Curiosity kills the cat... or was it killed? Why am I wasting breath on proverbs now?
He dismissed it, letting fatigue claim him completely. After such violation of mind and flesh, rest was no luxury—it was survival.
Time blurred. Minutes stretched into hours, hours deepened into days of dreamless void that slowly knit together what had been torn. Three full days passed in unbroken sleep, rejuvenating starved body and battered spirit until strength returned, tentative but real.
When eyes finally opened, gaze drifted instinctively to the neighboring cage.
Andrea sat with her back pressed to the bars, lost in thoughts that pulled her deeper than usual. Her expression carried a grim weight, tropez eyes shadowed in ways that unsettled him deeply. Cold indifference had always been her armor; this new gravity felt like a fracture, something dangerous seeping through.
He regretted the impulse immediately, but words formed anyway.
"I'm already regretting this," he muttered beneath his breath, then cleared his throat, forcing voice and face into careful neutrality. Weakness was the last thing he could afford to show.
"So what's dragged you into an even worse mood than usual?"
She offered only a short, sidelong glance before staring downward, drawing his eyes to follow.
Three figures in gleaming silver armor stood far below on the cave floor, long swords sheathed but ready, helmets with thin visors concealing any hint of expression. They murmured in low tones, voices deliberately hushed—the mark of secrets not meant for prisoners' ears.
Her response came quietly, laced with anger she barely suppressed, chilling the space between cages.
"We're being transferred North."
She hesitated, mouth opening and closing once before words emerged again—this time with direct gaze.
"If someone had to stab you in the shoulder, which one would you choose?"
The question landed absurd and ominous, hanging heavy in the damp air. He swallowed the sharp retort, kept tone even.
"Neither."
Her tropez eyes lingered a moment longer, unreadable depths swirling, before drifting back to the guards.
She's cracked, he thought, unease twisting tighter in his gut. Why the hell would I pick a shoulder to get stabbed?
He turned away, summoning the forbidden screen with focused will.
The air rippled with that familiar instinctive warning—a cold tug whispering look away, forget this ever existed—but he pushed through as always.
Dark light bloomed in the gloom, a rectangular screen of pure black radiance that swallowed surrounding torchlight. Smoky black aura bled from its edges, coiling into reality like tendrils of living shadow. Ancient dark runes framed it, shimmering pale against the void.
He focused on the central display.
Name: Tyler
Given Name: None
Grade: Dormant
Aspect: Envy's Sin
Treasures: None
Seals: 1
A faint curl touched his lips—change, finally.
He delved deeper into the Aspect dark runes. New symbols shimmered forth.
Aspect: Envy's Sin
Aspect Grade: Divine
Tier: VIII
Meaning eluded full grasp, but instinct hummed approval—power, vast and dangerous.
He pressed into the Tier runes. Another set emerged, heavier with promise.
Abilities: Eyes of Truth (claimed)... (unclaimed)...
Seven remained locked, taunting repetition.
Acceptance came with a short exhale. He focused on the sole claimed ability.
Eyes of Truth:
Ability Description: (Lust turned to her sister and asked with a smile,
"Hey Envy, I heard of your feat yesterday, but even for you, fooling the Gods is honestly just poking the fire with your bare hands... I know you're strong, but I was a little worried."
Silthya let out a low giggle.
"Come on Estoria, I simply gave them what they wanted—the truth... but as the saying goes... too much of anything is bad, and just like that the Gods doubted my truth and turned to one lie that made a bit more sense than the truth I had given...)
The cryptic exchange left him staring, rereading until headache bloomed. Silthya—sister to Lust, Sin strong enough to toy with Gods using truth as weapon. Questions piled higher, aching behind regenerating eyes.
He shook them off. Answers would come through action.
"...to test it out."
The dark screen glitched and vanished.
Reluctance warred briefly, but necessity won. She was the only one likely harboring secrets similar to his.
He glanced sideways, careful not to stare.
Hesitation dissolved. Eyes of Truth activated.
Vision shifted. A new screen overlaid reality—fiery colors radiating heat that prickled skin even from afar, shimmering runes dancing like flames straining to form words.
Name: Andrea
Given Name: Hell's Lost Flame
Grade: Awakened
Class: Fiend
Aspect: Hell's Wrath
Treasures:
Cores: 1
Seals: 2
Curiosity pulled him toward her abilities—
The cage lurched violently, bars rattling as focus shattered. The fiery screen glitched away.
Steel screamed as supports gave. Heart icing over, he lunged for the nearest bar—too late.
The cage plummeted, wind roaring into a howl that filled ears and whipped hair into chaos. He glimpsed Andrea—shock widening her eyes, rage boiling cold as she clung desperately.
He gripped iron with white knuckles, praying silently to uncaring gods for survival. The ground rushed upward, inevitable.
Impact thundered through bone and flesh. The cage cratered stone, flipping wildly before settling sideways in twisted ruin. Bones vibrated on the edge of shattering, muscles stretched and burned as though tearing free. His starved body contorted into angles never meant for living things, every nerve screaming for numbness he could not grant.
Blood filled his mouth; he coughed red paste, struggling upright to avoid choking. Lungs heaved, insides quivering from the shock.
Mocking laughter echoed from the approaching guards.
"Bastards planned this..., rage simmered through the haze,"I swear—
Words drowned in another cough. He spat crimson, wiped his mouth on the ragged, faded shirt.
The three silver-armored figures drew closer, visors impassive. Andrea lay motionless in her more devastated wreckage—bars engraved with faintly shimmering runes that whispered of stronger bindings.
"I knew she weighed more than she looked...