Tsaral didn't hesitate.
He lunged.
His blades flashed in the moonlight, twin streaks of silver cutting through the oppressive darkness. He aimed for Teleu's legs—not to kill, but to cripple. To bring him down. To capture him as the spirit demanded.
But Teleu moved.
Not with the calculated precision of a Scholar. Not with the disciplined form of a trained Warrior.
He moved like a beast.
His body twisted unnaturally, bones cracking as the demonic spirits inside him forced his limbs to bend in ways no human should. He dropped low, impossibly low, his spine arching backward as Tsaral's blades whistled over his head.
And then he lunged forward.
CRASH.
Teleu's fist drove into Tsaral's ribs with the force of a battering ram. The impact wasn't just physical—it carried spiritual weight. Dark energy exploded outward from the point of contact, and Tsaral felt his ribs crack, the vengeful spirit's protection barely holding.
He was thrown backward, his boots skidding across the garden stones, tearing up dirt and grass.
Tsaral's eyes widened. That strength—
Teleu didn't give him time to think.
He was already moving, closing the distance in three bounding steps. His movements were wrong—jerky, animalistic, like a puppet with too many strings being pulled in different directions. But they were fast. Impossibly fast.
Teleu's hand lashed out, fingers curled into claws. Dark smoke trailed from his fingertips, and within the smoke, the faces of demonic spirits shrieked.
Tsaral raised his blade to block—
CLANG.
Teleu's bare hand caught the blade.
Blood spurted from his palm as the edge cut deep, but Teleu didn't flinch. Didn't pull back. His black eyes stared at Tsaral, empty and infinite.
And then he smiled.
His grip tightened.
CRACK.
The blade shattered.
Fragments of steel exploded outward, glittering in the moonlight. Tsaral stumbled back, staring at the broken hilt in his hand.
Impossible.
Teleu's other hand shot forward, grabbing Tsaral by the throat.
His fingers were cold—freezing—and where they touched, Tsaral's skin began to blacken, spiritual necrosis spreading like frostbite.
Teleu lifted him off the ground effortlessly, his arm trembling with barely contained power. The demonic spirits inside him howled louder, their voices escaping through his mouth in a distorted chorus:
"Flesh. Blood. HEART."
Tsaral gasped, his hands clawing at Teleu's arm, but it was like trying to pry iron bars apart. His vision blurred. His lungs burned.
I'm going to die.
No.
NO.
He couldn't fail. Not here. Not now. If he died, his soul would be dragged to that cabin. To those chains. To that eternal slavery.
Tsaral's eyes snapped wide, and he screamed—not with his voice, but with his soul.
Through the connection, he called to the vengeful spirit.
HELP ME.
The Ethereal Drift — The Cabin
The vengeful warrior spirit's hollow eyes flared.
It felt Tsaral's desperation. His fear. His failure.
The spirit rose from its chair, the wood groaning beneath it. Its spectral blade dragged across the floor with a sound like grinding bone.
It had invested too much in this hunt. Too much energy. Too much attention.
It would not let its vessel die here.
Not when the prize was this valuable.
The spirit raised its blade and thrust it into the floor of the cabin.
BOOM.
The entire Ethereal Drift shuddered. Reality rippled outward from the cabin like waves on water.
And in the garden, the barrier Tsaral had erected—the invisible wall trapping sound and spiritual energy—cracked.
The Garden
Tsaral felt the surge of power flood into him.
Not a trickle. Not a stream.
A torrent.
The vengeful spirit was no longer holding back. It was pouring everything it could through their connection, forcing more energy into Tsaral's body than it was designed to hold.
Tsaral's eyes turned fully white, glowing like twin stars. His aura exploded outward, a wave of dark energy that shattered the ground beneath him.
His muscles bulged, veins standing out like cords. Blood began to seep from his nose, his ears, the corners of his eyes—his body was breaking under the strain.
But he didn't care.
He raised his remaining blade and drove it into Teleu's forearm.
SPLURCH.
The blade punched through muscle and bone, bursting out the other side in a spray of blood and black ichor.
Teleu's grip loosened.
Tsaral twisted free, gasping, and kicked Teleu in the chest with all the spirit's power behind it.
CRACK.
Teleu was launched backward, his body crashing through the stone fountain, shattering it into rubble. Water mixed with blood sprayed into the air, raining down across the garden.
Tsaral landed in a crouch, breathing hard, blood pouring from his face. His body was screaming at him—every muscle torn, every bone cracked. He couldn't hold this much power for long. Minutes, maybe. Seconds.
But it would be enough.
He raised his hand, and the wraiths the vengeful spirit had given him earlier surged forward, dozens of them, their spectral forms solidifying as they dove toward the rubble where Teleu had fallen.
"Pin him down," Tsaral rasped. "Break his limbs. Keep him alive."
The wraiths shrieked and dove.
But then—
BOOM.
The rubble exploded outward.
Teleu rose from the debris, his body broken, bleeding, wrong. His left arm hung at an unnatural angle, the blade still embedded in it. His ribs were shattered, bone fragments visible through torn flesh. Blood poured from a dozen wounds, pooling beneath him.
But he was smiling.
And his eyes—those black, empty eyes—were locked on Tsaral.
The demonic spirits inside him were no longer just howling.
They were laughing.
Teleu raised his good hand, and the demonic spirits poured out of him—not leaving, but extending. Dark tendrils of shadow and smoke lashed out from his body, each one tipped with clawed hands, fanged mouths, burning eyes.
They collided with the wraiths mid-air.
And they devoured them.
The wraiths didn't stand a chance. The demonic spirits tore through them like wolves through sheep, ripping them apart, consuming their essence, growing stronger.
Tsaral's face went pale.
He's not just binding them. He's controlling them. Weaponizing them.
Teleu took a step forward.
Then another.
His broken body moved like a marionette, held upright by the sheer will of the demonic spirits inside him. Blood dripped from his wounds with every step, leaving a trail behind him.
Tsaral backed away, his mind racing.
I can't win this. Not like this.
Through the connection, he felt the vengeful spirit's rage. Its frustration.
Wound him. Disable him. I need his heart.
But Tsaral could feel it now—the limit. His body was at its breaking point. The vengeful spirit had poured too much energy into him. Any more, and he would rupture from the inside.
And if he died here—
The cabin. The chains. The screaming souls.
No.
Tsaral made his decision.
He turned and ran.
Not toward the palace. Not toward safety.
Toward the garden wall.
Behind him, Teleu roared—a sound that wasn't human, a chorus of demonic voices screaming in unison.
The tendrils of shadow lashed out, reaching for Tsaral, claws scraping at his back, tearing through his cloak.
But Tsaral was fast. Enhanced by the spirit's power, he leapt, his body soaring over the garden wall in a single bound.
He landed hard on the other side, rolling, gasping.
And then he heard it.
The crack.
The barrier he had placed over the garden—the one isolating the sound, the spiritual energy—it was breaking.
The vengeful spirit had poured too much power through. The structure was collapsing.
SHATTER.
The barrier exploded.
And suddenly, the noise—the roaring, the shrieking, the chaos—flooded outward.
Into the palace.
Inside the Palace
Princess Reloua sat in her chambers, reading by candlelight.
She paused.
A sound. Distant. Muffled. But wrong.
She stood, moving to the window.
And then she heard it clearly.
Screaming.
Her heart froze.
She grabbed a robe, threw it over her shoulders, and ran.
The Garden
The Garden
Teleu stood in the center of the ruined garden, his body trembling, blood pouring from his wounds.
The demonic spirits inside him raged, demanding more. Demanding flesh. Demanding blood.
But Tsaral was gone.
Teleu's head tilted, his black eyes scanning the darkness.
And then the spirits inside him turned.
Not outward.
Inward.
They had tasted his blood. His flesh. His soul.
And they wanted more.
Teleu's body convulsed. His hands flew to his head, claws digging into his scalp. Blood ran down his face as he screamed—a raw, animalistic sound of agony.
The demonic spirits were no longer just occupying him.
They were consuming him.
"GET OUT. GET OUT. GET OUT."
But they wouldn't leave. They couldn't leave. He had bound them too tightly, forced them too deep.
Teleu collapsed to his knees, his hands slamming into the ground, cracking the stone.
He hit the ground again. And again. And again.
Blood splattered across the white stones. His knuckles split open, bones breaking.
And then he heard a voice.
Soft. Familiar.
"Teleu?"
His head snapped up.
Through the haze of pain, through the chaos of demonic voices screaming in his mind, he saw her.
Reloua.
She stood at the garden entrance, her eyes wide, her face pale.
She was staring at him.
At the blood. The darkness. The thing he had become.
Teleu's mouth opened, and his voice came out—broken, layered, distorted:
"STAY AWAY."