The Gralkins turned.
Dozens of them.
All eyes were locked on Ash.
Their dead lay motionless in the dirt, necks releasing blood as it soaked into the earth. The silence around their fallen didn't last long.
Their eyes flared with fury.
Muscles flexed. Limbs tensed. Their growls rippled through the air like thunder in a hollow cave.
Ash stepped forward, dragging the sword with him. His grip tightened around the hilt until his knuckles paled.
"Damn creatures."
His voice didn't tremble. It cut through the noise like steel drawn across stone.
They were fast. The Gralkins charged, hands low, swords drawn out, ready to tear him apart.
But Ash didn't back away.
He raised the sword.
It felt heavier than it should. This body is soft, unfamiliar, and shaking just to stay upright.
Still, he held the blade firm.
Let them come.
He'd always fought like this—outnumbered, outmatched, one foot in the grave. His sword had never failed him. Because he made sure it wouldn't.
Ash had been born with power, but was stuck. While the others ascended, leveled up, and rose through the stages, he remained stuck. A stage one failure.
But he didn't give up.
He trained. Not just his soul but his body as well.
While others channeled soul energy, he broke his bones on stone walls and bled into the dirt until every motion, every strike, became instinct.
He trained under one of the deadliest warriors in the world.
His mother.
She didn't teach him to fight so he could win.
She taught him to survive.
To endure.
To become a sword himself.
She gave him every style she knew—carved into books, whispered in bruises, etched into muscle memory.
And Ash devoured them all.
By thirteen, he moved like a blade. By fourteen, he wielded every weapon he touched like he was born holding it.
Even at stage one.
Because his vessel was strong.
He was Tier 5.
Strong enough to crush stone barehanded. Fast enough to catch arrows mid-air. Durable enough to fight until his bones cracked and still not fall.
But this body—
This new one—
It felt like wet paper wrapped in skin. Every breath burned. Every motion dragged. His balance shifted like it belonged to someone else.
He wasn't afraid.
But this was the first time in years… he felt slow.
Still, there was a sword in his hand.
That was all he needed.
He adjusted his stance—not the one he'd use in his own body. A weaker one. One meant for staying grounded with broken knees and failing legs.
Ash stared at the charging Gralkins.
Then at the cages.
Then, the boy was still tied down beside the dirt.
His grip on the sword tightened.
'I might need his help after all.'
He turned, drove the blade clean through the ropes at the boy's ankles and wrists, cutting fast, clean, and without hesitation.
He pivoted to face the monsters, already shifting his stance.
But the boy's hand latched onto his wrist.
"Tachyros. What was that? Just—how did you do that? The sword… When did you take sword lessons? I thought you were just into books."
Ash didn't answer.
He didn't have time for answers.
The Gralkins were already too close.
He ripped his arm free and moved.
The air shifted with his steps. Light on his feet, grounded through the knees, he slid into a stance that bent with the body's limits—not his own. This body was weaker, but not useless. He could work with it. He had to.
He remembered the first kill—the one where he snapped the creature's arm just before taking its blade. That wasn't luck.
It was a technique. A martial art called Bone Rhythm.
His mother's voice whispered from the past:
"Bones break when force meets alignment. You don't need power—only the right angle, the right moment, and the will to strike without hesitation."
Ash let the words fade.
No distractions.
The first Gralkin lunged, wide arms raised, claws eager.
Ash slipped under the swing. No wasted movement.
The blade kissed the side of the Gralkin's neck. Skin parted. Blood sprayed.
The body dropped.
He didn't stop.
He moved again, each step syncing to a beat only he could feel. The second technique took over—his rhythm shifted, smooth as water, sharp as broken glass.
Blade Rhythm.
This is a martial art under the core art.
Rhythm art.
Blade Rhythm is a flow-based style built on momentum. Weak arms could still kill if they never stopped moving. No brute strength. Just rhythm.
Another Gralkin rushed forward.
Ash turned on his heel, twisted low, then let the motion swing him upward.
The blade found the soft gap beneath the jaw. Steel cracked into flesh. Another one fell.
The sword wasn't sharp. Iron, dull, blackened along the edge. Useless for severing arms or splitting torsos. But Ash didn't need wide swings.
He needed ends.
Fast, clean, and final.
Strike the neck. Pierce the skull. Slip the blade behind the ribs, just under the arm.
Not a fight. A dance.
He danced through them—silent, precise.
Steel hummed through the air.
A Gralkin screamed.
Ash turned with it, shoulder low, blade carving through a second throat.
Blood hit his cheek.
His breathing stayed steady.
He never stopped moving.
Because stillness meant death. Focus was everything.
And right now, he knows nothing about his skill. If he had any. Flet like stage 1. No armor. Just rhythm, instinct, and a dull sword.
But that had always been enough.
Back at the place Ash had killed the first two gralkins
The blonde boy stood frozen.
His hand gripped a bloodied sword he'd taken from one of the fallen grakin. His eyes weren't on Ash anymore—they were wide, locked in awe. What he'd just seen wasn't training. It was survival carved into steel.
He stepped back.
"I'll just get in the way."
He turned and bolted in the other direction—toward the prisoners.
Some were still tied to poles like he had been. Others sat slumped in cages, too weak to scream. But further back—he spotted it. A figure, twice his size, chained to a wooden cart. Even asleep, it radiated danger. Muscle stacked over muscle. And yet, it hadn't stirred.
His lips curled into a grin.
He knew what he needed to do.
————
Ash drove his blade into another throat, then another. The sword sliced clean through the neck, windpipe, and spine. They dropped like sacks of meat.
He'd lost count. Maybe thirty now. Maybe more.
The voice from the soul space whispered after each kill, echoing in his skull like a broken bell.
"[Vanquished.]"
Again.
"[Vanquished]"
It repeated. Cold and Constant. Without end.
He stepped toward the next one, sword already mid-swing—then stopped.
A clawed arm yanked the Gralkin away just in time. His blade missed by a breath.
Ash narrowed his eyes.
Blood dripped from the newcomer's mouth, thick and fresh. The stench said enough.
Another Godborn—devoured.
He knew this because this one was different. Taller. Denser. Its aura burned hotter than the rest.
Tier 2.
Ash had seen the pattern before. The more these things ate, the more powerful they became. Godborn blood didn't just feed them—it changed them.
Well, it didn't matter.
He'd killed one before.
The creature turned to the others, voice low and guttural.
"Why are you standing around? Go feed on the Godborns. We grow stronger together. With more power, we'll—urk—"
The words stopped.
Steel slid through its throat.
Ash twisted the blade.
The Gralkin's eyes bulged. It collapsed in silence, twitching once before going still.
Ash stood over the body, sword dripping.
"Talk too much."
The rest of the creatures flinched.
They didn't scream or roar. They scattered. Some sprinted toward the prisoners. Others turned and stayed behind—ready to die just to keep Ash busy.
He shifted into a low stance.
They moved in.
Then a voice cut through the chaos—sharp, feminine, and very familiar.
"Tachyros! The black branch! Get rid of the black branch!"
The words hit him like ice.
He didn't turn to look. Just scanned.
Fast.
Eyes cutting across the battlefield.
'Black branch…'
He'd seen it before.
A memory flickered. The winged man with a smile that didn't reach his eyes… holding something dark and twisted in his hand.
Ash's gaze locked on it—There it was.
The black branch.
Dark as ash, twisted like roots torn from the underworld. But along its surface, faint golden symbols shimmered—etched into the bark like veins of light trying to escape. It was beautiful in a way that made the stomach turn, like staring too long at a still corpse with smiling lips.
A Gralkin held it.
Bigger than the rest.
Its body rippled with packed muscle. Thick scars crisscrossed its chest and arms—some fresh, others like old stories. Maybe it had survived hell. Maybe it came from it. Ash didn't know. And right now, he didn't care.
He cut through the last Gralkin in his way and sprinted.
The creature was distracted, watching chaos unfold at the cages—blonde boy running, prisoners screaming, confusion spreading.
Ash closed the gap.
The sword rose.
Steel aimed for Gralkin's wrist.
It struck through flesh—and stopped.
Ash's eyes widened.
The blade cut through but somehow it was stuck.
The black branch pulsed next to him.
Either the blade was too dull… or he was too weak.
The creature turned its head.
Ash let go of the sword.
Too late.
The Gralkin's fist slammed into him. A heavy crack followed—bone snapping under weight and fury.
Ash hit the dirt hard.
Pain lit up his chest and spine. His ribs screamed. One arm refused to move. Breathing hurt. Not like usual. Not like training.
'Damn this tier 1 body'
He'd grown up with a Tier 5 vessel. Pain had always been dulled, healing faster than most. But here—now—everything hurt. Every breath clawed at his throat.
The Gralkin stepped forward, boots crunching bones beneath its feet.
It raised the branch. The blade stuck on his arm. Blood dripping out of it.
"Godborn."
Its grin widened.
"You can't kill me while I carry this."
It turned slightly, gaze sweeping the battlefield—toward the corpses Ash had left behind.
"Still… I didn't think you'd last this long. No soul skills. Weak vessel for a titan. And still, you carved through my pack."
Its hand moved to the sword at its side.
"That deserves respect."
It drew the blade. The metal hissed like it was hungry.
"But you still die."
The Gralkin raised its blade. Lips stretched into a grin. It angled the point downward—aimed straight for Ash's chest.
Then—
Something slammed into its side.
A loud crack tore through the air as the Gralkin's body launched off its feet and crashed against a wall of jagged stone. Rocks split beneath the weight.
Ash blinked.
Breath caught in his throat.
A shadow loomed over him.
It wasn't the Gralkin.
It was something else.
Twice his size. Skin the color of old blood. Two glowing gold eyes burned above a sharp face, and from its bottom jaw, two fangs curved upward like hooked knives. It stood there, muscles tight, chest heaving, snarling like a storm caged in flesh.
Ash recognizes this scene, which he had seen before, back on the asteroid with the space creature.
But this one, though, wasn't looking at him.
It stared at the Gralkin.
Unblinking. Eye Burning with rage.
Ash bared his teeth.
His voice caught in disgust.
Even now, with his limbs weak and blood pooling beneath his body, he didn't want help from something like that. Not from a creature. Not from anything that crawled out of the dark and called itself alive.
'Let me die. That would've been better.'
But the creature ignored him.
It moved like a hammer. It struck the Gralkin before it could rise. Then again. And again. Each blow landed with sickening weight. The Gralkin tried to speak—something about power, about gods—but its words were crushed under another strike.
Its skull caved inward. Then silence.
Ash stared.
Eyes wide.
The black branch slipped from the Gralkin's limp hand and hit the dirt.
The air shifted.
A red-haired boy sprinted past the others, dove low, and snatched the branch off the ground. He didn't hesitate. With a sharp turn, he hurled it into the distance.
Ash couldn't see where it landed.
His vision was fading.
"Tachyros! Tachyros!"
A voice, sharp and distant, pierced the haze.
Ash turned his head toward the sound.
Blurry shapes filled his view—beams of light, flashes of fire, shadows flying through the air. The Godborns had broken free. They were fighting back. The cages had been torn open, the poles dropped, and the Gralkins were being torn apart.
A few tried to run.
They didn't get far.
An arrow made of light struck one through the back. Another burst into flame mid-sprint.
"Tachyros!"
He turned again.
The voice was closer now.
Running feet. A figure is drawing near.
Blonde hair.
A familiar face.
The boy knelt beside him, lips moving. Hands grabbing his shoulders.
But Ash couldn't hear the words.
Couldn't feel the ground.
Everything was spinning, slipping.
The sky above him darkened.
Then—
Nothing.