His cry was no longer human. It was the howl of a broken soul, of a heart torn to pieces, of a mind on the edge of madness. This cry seemed to tear the very fabric of reality, opening a breach toward something more primordial, more essential than daily existence.
An explosion of invisible but palpable energy burst from him, unleashing in concentric waves of terrifying power. The air vibrated, compressed, then dilated violently, hurling Nemeor and his soldiers against the stone walls like mere rag dolls. The Abjured, despite their power, struck the rocky walls brutally, their dark armor cracking under the violence of the impact, emitting a crystalline sound that almost resembled a cry of pain.
The entire cavern seemed to groan under the pressure of this unleashed force, as if the mountain itself felt Arthur's suffering and responded with a silent but profound lamentation.
Nemeor, thrown like the others, straightened with deliberate slowness that betrayed not pain, but surprise mixed with unhealthy curiosity. His mask, barely scratched by the impact, reflected the reddish glow that now emanated from Arthur. His crimson blade sprang forth again, a serpent of fire ready to strike, while his feet struggled painfully to advance against the savage wind of energy swirling around the young man.
- "Impossible..." he murmured through his mask, his voice betraying emotion for the first time, not fear, but an almost scientific fascination, like that of a researcher confronted with a phenomenon that defies all his theories.
Arthur stood at the center of a true storm of Impulse. His hair, whipped by invisible winds, floated around his face like a crown of darkness. His bloodshot eyes fixed on Nemeor with hatred so pure, so absolute that it seemed to transcend the limits of simple human emotion to become a cosmic force.
The air around him vibrated, creating a visual distortion similar to heat rising from a road in midsummer. The walls trembled, cracks appearing in the millennial rock like veins on an old man's skin. Particles of dust and pulverized rock danced in the air, illuminated by the reddish aura emanating from Arthur, creating around him a halo of destruction.
Nemeor advanced another step, then another, each movement seeming to cost him considerable effort. His black silhouette stood out against the rocky wall like the shadow of an ancient predator. But the Impulse surging from Arthur was too powerful, too savage, too devouring. It was the raw essence of human pain transformed into devastating force.
- "It's... too powerful!" Nemeor murmured, his steps making him retreat despite his iron will.
His mask, usually impenetrable, suddenly seemed fragile against the storm raging before him. For the first time, the Abjured appeared hesitant, almost vulnerable.
Arthur screamed again, a cry that seemed to come not from his throat but from the depths of his being, from that secret place where the soul touches infinity. His anger, far from being exhausted, intensified further, fueled by the image engraved in red-hot iron in his memory—that of his father, decapitated before his eyes.
A second explosion, even more violent than the first, shook the entire gallery. The shock wave propagated in concentric circles, each wave more destructive than the previous one. Nemeor was violently thrown once more, his body brutally striking the wall with a sinister crack. Even through his mask, one could sense his stupefaction, his anger, perhaps even—for the first time—a hint of fear.
The walls, subjected to titanic pressure, began to yield. First small fragments of rock, then larger pieces collapsed between Arthur and his pursuers, gradually forming a natural barrier, a physical barrier between hunter and prey.
The roar of collapsing rock filled the space, deafening, primordial, like the rumble of the world's foundations. Dense, suffocating clouds of dust rose, creating an opaque curtain that momentarily separated the two camps.
Arthur, tears tracing clear furrows on his dust-covered face, remained alone at the center of this hurricane of pain and uncontrolled power. The ground under his feet cracked in star patterns, as if the earth itself could not contain the intensity of his suffering. The walls continued to tremble, stalactites detaching from the ceiling to crash to the ground in metallic crashes.
Then, as suddenly as it had come, the storm calmed. Silence fell back, as brutal and deafening as the chaos that had preceded it.
Arthur felt the Impulse withdraw, not gradually but all at once, like a brutal ebb after a devastating wave. All that force, all that fury, all that power that had inhabited him escaped from his body, leaving him empty, hollow, like a shell abandoned by the life it had sheltered.
His legs, suddenly deprived of the supernatural force that sustained them, gave way beneath him. He collapsed heavily to the ground, his knees striking the stone in an impact that sent flashes of pain through his already exhausted body. Breathless, his body covered in cold sweat, trembling like a leaf in the storm, Arthur felt as if his soul had just been torn from him.
An immense, vertiginous void opened within him. The Impulse, in withdrawing, seemed to have carried away with it a part of his very essence, leaving him incomplete, broken beyond any possible repair.
Tears continued to flow without his being able to control them, leaving burning furrows on his face soiled with dust and dried blood. Each breath was agony, each heartbeat renewed suffering.
Arthur slowly raised his hands before his face, observing them with a mixture of horrified fascination and disgust. They trembled so violently they seemed to belong to someone else, to a stranger whose movements he could not control. These hands that had held his father's head, that had felt his warmth fade away, that still bore traces of his blood.
His mind, stunned by exhaustion and grief, wandered at the edge of consciousness. Fragmented images flashed before his eyes—his father smiling while explaining the principles of the Impulse; Jonas showing him how to repair an engine; the two sharing a silent but comfortable meal on Scrapra. These memories, once sources of comfort, were now sharp blades that lacerated his already tattered heart.
- "Father..." he murmured, his voice barely audible, broken like trampled glass.
This simple word echoed in the cavern's silence, imbued with desolation so deep it seemed capable of darkening light itself. It was not a call, Arthur knew no one would answer, but rather a farewell, a final tribute murmured at the edge of an abyss of despair.
But this silence was suddenly broken by a dull sound that resonated against the rocky walls, a violent impact that made the ground tremble under his knees. Arthur abruptly raised his head toward the pile of stones that had formed between him and his pursuers. A second shock, more powerful, more menacing still, made the stacked rocks vibrate, some small fragments already detaching to roll toward him.
They were still there.
The evidence struck him with the force of a physical blow—this respite was only temporary. Nemeor and his Abjured would not give up, would never surrender. The rocky barrier would not hold them long.
- "No... no, damn, no..."
Arthur feverishly wiped his eyes, trying to chase away the tears that blurred his vision. The survival instinct, that primal and tenacious force, began to take over his despair. He had to act. Now. Before the barrier gave way completely.
His gaze fell on his father's headless body, lying a few steps from him like a disjointed doll. The survival bag, the one Jonas had hastily prepared on Scrapra in anticipation of their flight, was still attached to the motionless torso. Arthur extended a trembling hand, his fingers clumsily closing on the rough straps.
He pulled the bag toward him, delicately detaching this dead weight from the body that had carried it. Each movement was torture, not physical but spiritual, manipulating his father's body thus seemed a profanation, an ultimate betrayal.
His tears redoubled, uncontrollable, creating an aqueous veil that transformed the world into a blurred and deformed watercolor. His breathing became increasingly erratic, interrupted by sobs he could no longer contain.
With clumsy gestures, made imprecise by grief and exhaustion, he opened the bag and searched inside. His fingers encountered the cold metal of rappelling equipment, carabiners, ropes, harnesses. These familiar objects, which he had manipulated hundreds of times during their exploration expeditions, now seemed foreign, almost hostile.
His trembling hands slipped on the straps, unable to maintain a firm grip. The metal buckles clinked together in nervous tinkling, like a funeral chime marking the end of one era and the beginning of another, infinitely darker one.
Behind him, the blows against the rocky wall intensified, more frequent, more determined. Larger stone fragments began to detach, rolling toward him like messengers of imminent threat.
In the chaos of his thoughts, a sudden clarity, he could not leave his father here, at the mercy of these monsters. The idea of what they might do to the body, the possible profanations, was unbearable.
Arthur turned his moist gaze toward Jonas's head, lying on the rocky ground. His father's eyes, still open, seemed to fix on him with an expression of surprising, almost supernatural peace. Despite the horror of the situation, something in that frozen gaze seemed to say:
- "Continue. Survive. Don't stay here for me."
After painful hesitation, Arthur extended his hands and delicately grasped his father's head. Contact with this flesh still warm but already strangely different turned his stomach. With infinite care, as if manipulating the most precious and fragile of treasures, he placed it in the backpack, wrapping it in clothing to protect it from shocks.
His hands trembled even more violently when he closed the bag, symbolically sealing this phase of his life, enclosing in this rough canvas not only his father's remains but also his childhood, his innocence, everything that made him the Arthur of before.
A deafening crash made him startle, an entire section of the rocky barrier had just collapsed. Through the swirling dust, he could distinguish dark silhouettes beginning to force their way through.
- "I have to leave... now..." he murmured, gritting his teeth in an effort to regain control of his exhausted body.
His gaze turned upward, scrutinizing the cavern's vault. There, about three meters above, a dark opening penetrated the wall a secondary gallery, narrow but sufficient for a man alone. An escape route.
With feverish gestures, guided more by instinct and muscle memory than by coherent thought, Arthur prepared the climbing equipment. The rope, thrown toward the opening, missed its target several times, each failure increasing his panic and despair. Finally, after what seemed an eternity, the grappling hook caught firmly on the rocky ledge.
Without waiting further, drawing on energy reserves he didn't suspect he possessed, Arthur began his ascent. Each movement was torture, his exhausted muscles screaming in protest, his scraped hands slipping on the rough rope. Several times he nearly let go, held only by desperate reflex and terror of what awaited him below.
- "Come on, come on..." he repeated weakly, this desperate mantra being the only thing that kept his mind focused on the immediate task rather than on the horror he had just lived through.
Behind him, the sound of broken rock became deafening. Voices, cold and methodical, gave orders, the Abjured coordinating their breakthrough through the collapsed barrier.
In a final effort, drawing on the rage and despair still boiling within him, Arthur hauled himself into the upper gallery. He rolled to the side, panting, his lungs on fire, his heart beating so hard it seemed to want to tear itself from his chest.
Barely had he caught his breath when a deflagration of Impulse, of terrifying power, exploded what remained of the rocky barrier. The shock wave propagated to him, making the gallery where he stood tremble.
Arthur straightened painfully, his legs wavering beneath him. He turned slowly, as in a nightmare where movements are slowed by an invisible force.
Through the dust and debris still floating in the air, Nemeor stood, imposing and terrible. His outstretched hand glowed with an unhealthy light, visible manifestation of the Impulse he had just used to clear the passage. Around him, the other Abjured regrouped, their black silhouettes standing out against the light dust like ink stains on ancient parchment.
Nemeor's mask, smooth and impenetrable, reflected the faint ambient light, giving him the appearance of a demon emerged from the darkest depths of ancient legends. A reddish aura, similar to that which Arthur had emitted during his explosion of power but more controlled, more concentrated, surrounded him like a cloak of luminous darkness.
Arthur instinctively retreated, his body recognizing danger before his mind fully assimilated it. But it was too late.
The air vibrated, charged with ancient and terrible power. A sharp sound, at the limit of audible, preceded the movement. Then, in a demonstration of Impulse mastery that defied all comprehension, Nemeor and the other Abjured performed a supernatural leap, rising from the ground in a fluid and graceful movement, crossing the space separating them from the upper gallery as if they defied the very laws of gravity.
They landed a few meters from him, their black cloaks floating around them like raven wings, their masks reflecting the terror Arthur knew was visible on his own face.
- "Damn!" he swore screaming, panic flooding his system with a new wave of adrenaline.
But Arthur was now running for his life, for his father's soul, to escape this nightmarish night that had just fallen upon him. He ran toward the unknown, toward darkness, toward a destiny now as dark as the shadows surrounding him.
He ran, even though each step seemed heavier than the previous one, even though each breath was torture, even though each heartbeat threatened to tear life from him.