The wind whispered low across the smaller island, tugging at the edges of Jasper's coat as he stood beneath the pale glow of the fractured sky. This place was quieter—detached from the camp, a lonely shard of rock and earth adrift in the void. Only a handful of trees grew here, their bark tinted violet-blue, their leaves shimmering faintly like dying embers. The grass beneath his boots was soft, glowing faintly purple against the gray-blue stone below.
His blade cut through the air with a sharp whistle.
The katana met straw with a heavy thunk, biting deep into the dummy's neck. Again—another swing, clean, precise, fueled not by anger but something colder. Each strike tore more straw loose, spilling to the ground in small showers.
He stepped forward, eyes narrowing, and drove the sword through once more. The edge cleaved the neck clean this time—the dummy's head tumbled free, rolling to his feet before coming to rest in silence.
Jasper exhaled, chest heaving faintly, then plunged the blade into the dirt beside him. His left arm—metal, gleaming faint blue—whirred softly as it settled at his side. He climbed up onto the bark of a fallen tree, reaching for the small water bottle he'd carried out here.
The first swallow burned cool down his throat. He wiped his mouth, glancing back toward the camp in the distance. He knew the risk of leaving. Out here, he was a beacon. If Evodil wanted to find him, it would take the god all of a breath to appear. Then again… if Evodil wanted them dead, he could find any of them, anywhere.
Jasper tilted his head, flexing his new arm, the faint hum of the servos syncing with his heartbeat. "Shiny bastard," he muttered under his breath, lips twitching.
No more fear. No more freezing in place while the god of chaos loomed over him like a storm. If they met again, Jasper swore he'd make him remember the strike of a mortal. That humans weren't toys, weren't pawns—they could cut back.
He looked down at his reflection in the polished steel of the blade.
In Menystria, he was the only one left who could. The only hu-man reckless—or stubborn—enough to stand before a god and still call it a fight.
After a short break, Jasper pushed himself upright again, rolling his shoulders to shake off the stiffness. He strode back toward his blade, fingers of the left arm twitching as the servos hummed to life. The metal digits wrapped around the katana's hilt, grip firm, deliberate. With a sharp pull, the sword tore free from the earth, scattering loose soil across the purple grass.
He ran the blade clean across the hem of his red shirt, wiping off the dirt and dust until the edge caught the faint light again.
The arm wasn't his. He knew that. It would never feel like his own skin, no matter how smooth the movement, no matter how tight the grip. But it was Noah's work, Noah's design—his way of saying that leaving Jasper in that ruined dome had never been the plan. If he'd escaped, they'd have bought themselves time. If not… they'd have lost more than a fighter. And yet, even broken, Jasper had dragged a few souls out of the rubble. A few was enough. Sometimes, a few made all the difference.
He turned back toward the heap of straw dummies stacked beside the tree line—Noah's gift, though Jasper liked to imagine each one wearing Evodil's ugly grin. He reached for one—
A sound.
A soft rustle of leaves. The faint crunch of a stick snapping under a boot.
His body tensed. Someone was here. Out on this isolated shard, far from the others.
He didn't think—he moved. The blade came up in a smooth arc, tip cutting through air as his stance shifted. Then, in one motion, he hurled it toward the noise. The steel whistled, cutting through the air with deadly precision, aimed to strike before whoever it was could blink.
A voice cut through the silence—sharp, unimpressed, familiar.
"Your stance is too tight. Killing intent's all over the place. And if that's your form, you'd be dead before the blade even landed."
Jasper's breath hitched.
The sword stopped mid-flight, caught effortlessly between two fingers before the figure even stepped into the light. Shadows peeled back to reveal James—his coat trailing behind him, eyes burning faintly orange even in the half-dark.
The God of War stepped forward, flipping the katana once before driving it into the ground between them.
"You're easy to find," he said. "And easier to kill, if you're going to start throwing blades before asking who you're aiming at."
Jasper let out a long sigh, his shoulders loosening as the tension bled away. "Didn't think the literal God of the Sun would be skulking in the shadows," he muttered, a faint chuckle slipping through the sarcasm.
James drove the katana into the dirt beside him, the blade sinking deep enough to hum. "And yet here we are," he said, stepping past him toward the bark Jasper had used earlier. As he sat, his warhammer began to form across his lap—volcanic rock bubbling into shape, veins of molten light threading through the blackened metal. The same weapon Jasper had seen crack mountains. The same one he'd watched slam into Evodil's face again and again.
Jasper turned, brow furrowed. "What are you doing here? I'm training. Don't need a babysitter."
The god snorted, one corner of his mouth tugging up in something too dry to be a smile. "I'm your father. I'll watch if I want to." His gaze flicked up, steady, unmoved. "Noah gave us the date. Four days. Then we storm the manor."
Four days.
Jasper's hand tightened unconsciously, metal fingers flexing with a faint whir. He didn't reply—just nodded once, silent, and reached for the sword.
It was wedged deep, more than before. The blade resisted, roots of dirt gripping tight. He had to brace his stance, use both arms, flesh and steel alike, to wrench it free. The ground split slightly with a dull crack as he tore it loose.
With the weapon back in hand, he turned to the ruined dummy. The headless torso sagged forward, straw spilling from the torn neck. Jasper unclipped it from the stand, tossed it aside, and grabbed another from the heap nearby.
The new target locked in place with a metallic click. He pressed it once to make sure it held. Then, without looking back, he stepped forward and began again.
This time, his strikes landed on the arms—clean, controlled arcs meant to disarm, not kill. Each hit rang out like a drumbeat, the rhythm of someone trying to rebuild not just skill, but trust in his own strength.
James watched, arms crossed, eyes tracking every motion like a hawk that couldn't help itself.
"Your footwork's sloppy."
Jasper gritted his teeth, adjusted his stance.
"Grip's uneven."
He shifted the sword.
"Your hair's too long, get it out of your eyes."
Jasper flicked it back, jaw tight.
"And that shirt—red? Really? You planning to wave a flag at Evodil next time?"
Each comment landed sharper than the last, the rhythm unrelenting.
Finally, Jasper snapped. He groaned loud, pointing at the dummy with both hands, exasperated. "Then you do it!" he barked, tossing the katana toward his father.
The blade spun through the air—James caught it one-handed, inches from his leg, raising a brow. "And you can't throw either," he said dryly.
He stood, the bark creaking beneath his weight as the warhammer across his lap dissolved into ember and smoke. Without a word, he handed the weapon's reformed handle—its weight still heavy with divine heat—to Jasper.
The boy blinked, brow furrowing. "You're serious?"
"Always."
Jasper hesitated for only a second before wrapping both hands around it. The metal thrummed like a heartbeat, faint lines of molten orange crawling along the cracks.
He stepped toward the dummy, muscles tensing—then the weight hit him.
Too heavy. Way too heavy.
The hammer dragged him forward, boots sliding in the grass before he crashed down face-first, handle slamming into the dirt with a dull thud. A muffled groan followed as he lifted his head, spitting out a mouthful of purple grass.
Behind him, silence.
Then—huff. Not stern, not disappointed. Just amused.
Jasper pushed himself up onto his elbows, glaring back over his shoulder. "What—funny to you now?"
James didn't answer. Just stood there, katana resting against his shoulder, a faint grin threatening the edge of his usual scowl.
Jasper groaned again, rubbing his forehead. "First Noah, now you… I swear, every god in this damn sky thinks I'm the punchline."
James didn't answer—only let another quiet huff slip through his nose, the sound enough to confirm he'd heard every word. His boots shifted against the grass as he turned toward the dummy, rolling his shoulders once before lifting the katana into both hands.
The stance he took wasn't one Jasper recognized. It wasn't the rigid, heavy-guard form James had drilled into him years ago. This was different—fluid, measured, blade raised in front of his chest, point angled toward the straw man's neck, knees bent just enough for a quick pivot. Chūdan-no-kamae, the classic middle guard—balanced, unyielding, and alive.
No words. Just breath.
Then James moved.
He lunged forward, the ground cracking faintly under his step, sword carving through the air in a single horizontal flash. He twisted with the motion, body turning as though avoiding invisible strikes—phantom blows Jasper couldn't see. Every cut that followed was sharp, purposeful: a slice across the shoulder joint, another at the knee, one through the side of the torso—each aimed at the places that crippled without killing, tearing apart balance, breath, will.
Jasper blinked, sitting upright in the grass, brow furrowed. He never taught me that. Each motion flowed into the next, precise, instinctive. He'd seen his father fight before, but never like this—never restrained, never surgical.
The final strike came quick. A clean upward arc that caught the dummy's neck, severing it entirely. The straw head spun, tumbling through the air before sailing clean off the island's edge into the void below.
James let the silence hang, sword lowered at his side. He didn't gloat, didn't lecture. Just turned, extending the weapon back toward Jasper.
The boy took it with his left hand, metal fingers closing around the hilt. James offered his other arm next, steadying him as Jasper hauled himself upright.
The warhammer flickered back into existence in the god's free hand, resting against his shoulder as naturally as if it were weightless. Jasper, still sore from his earlier fall, rubbed at his jaw with a scowl.
"Show off," he muttered under his breath.
James didn't deny it.
Jasper didn't go back to the dummy. The fight had drained out of him for now. He walked back toward the tree, sitting on the bark with a low grunt, the wood creaking beneath his weight. His katana followed—a sharp shhk as he stabbed it upright into the soil before him.
The canteen came next. He twisted the cap open and took a slow sip, the cool water washing down the heat still burning in his throat. Beside him, James rested his hammer across his knees, thumb brushing along its volcanic head like he was polishing a relic. The faint glow within the cracks pulsed once, then dimmed.
For a while, neither spoke. The island was still, save for the whisper of purple leaves in the wind. Then Jasper coughed lightly, hand raised to his mouth—metal catching the light.
"Hey," he started, tone uncertain but steady. "How do your powers actually work? Not the flashy parts, the… real thing behind it." He flexed his arm slightly. "Noah told me pieces, but it's all vague. And… weird."
James didn't look up right away. He rolled his shoulders back, placing the hammer down beside him without dismissing it. The weapon landed with a low thud, sparks rippling faintly across the ground before fading.
"'Weird' is one word for it," he said, rubbing at his jaw. "You're talking about Vestiges, right?"
"Yeah. Those." Jasper leaned forward, elbows on his knees. "Everyone's saying gods have them, that they're like… souls, or weapons, or both? Which is it?"
James grunted, eyes on the horizon. "Both. Neither. Depends who you ask." He gestured vaguely at the hammer. "A Vestige's not something you forge, or earn, or build. It's already in you—just waiting for the right moment to crawl out."
Jasper frowned, brow knitting. "So, what… like a parasite?"
"More like a second voice." James tapped his temple. "A piece of something that remembers you better than you remember yourself. Some talk. Some don't. Some… try to take over if you let them."
Jasper's metal fingers drummed against his thigh. "And if they do?"
James gave a low hum, thoughtful. "Then you stop being you. The Vestige wears your skin. Weapon disappears because you become the weapon. Happens to the weak-minded—or to the ones that get too close to what they really are."
"What they really are?"
James finally looked at him, eyes a dull ember. "Your domain. What makes you divine. The more you lean into it, the more it leans back. Power for a price."
Jasper tilted his head. "And yours?"
"Mine's called Dawn Bringer." He said it quietly, the name alone heavy. "Tied to this hammer. Conscious. Loud. It doesn't speak in words—it moves. Reminds me what I'm supposed to be."
"Which is?"
James huffed, leaning back. "A god who ends wars. Or starts them. Depends on the day."
Jasper looked down at his hands—one flesh, one steel. "So you don't control it. You… work with it?"
"That's the trick," James said. "You don't own a Vestige. You coexist. Step too far in, it burns you out. Step too far away, it dies. Balance is all you get."
"Sounds exhausting," Jasper muttered.
James let out a quiet, amused grunt. "You get used to it. Or you don't. Either way, it's the price of being what we are."
Jasper gave a faint smirk, leaning back on his palms. "Glad I'm not a god, then."
James raised a brow. "Not yet."
Jasper's ears perked at the words "Not yet."
His smirk grew wide—too wide. "Wait, wait, wait—not yet? You mean there's a chance? I could—" He leaned forward, eyes gleaming, "—actually become a god someday? After all this?"
He was already half lost in the idea, his voice gaining that unrestrained edge it always carried when hope turned into daydream. "Think about it! A human god—one of us who actually understands what being human means. I could help rebuild, like… fix things. Make a world that actually works. A city that doesn't burn every decade."
James turned his head just enough for the light to hit his eyes—a slow, heavy stare that cut through Jasper's enthusiasm. "No."
The word hit like a hammer.
Jasper blinked, grin faltering. "…What?"
"Humans don't become gods," James said, tone flat, unmovable. "You can grow strong, sure. Stronger than most. But divinity isn't muscle or willpower—it's a weight. One your body can't bear."
Jasper slumped slightly, exhaling through his nose. "…You're no fun."
"I'm realistic."
"Maybe Noah would figure something out," Jasper muttered, crossing his arms. "He could build me a body that could handle it. Or, I dunno, rig up some weird switch—human to god—bam. Transformations. Powers. Like a—"
James groaned, rubbing his temples. "…Don't say it."
"—like a game," Jasper finished, grinning now just to push him further. "You know, levels, upgrades, boss fights—"
James let out a sound halfway between a sigh and a growl, leaning back on the bark. "Of course. Of course you'd bring that up."
Jasper shrugged innocently. "Hey, it's how my brain works."
"It's rotting your brain," James muttered, glaring up at the empty sky. "Pixels and noise. You talk about 'stats' one more time, and I'll—"
"—train harder?" Jasper offered.
"—throw you off this island."
Jasper snorted. "You'd miss."
James cracked one eye open, a ghost of a smirk flickering at the corner of his mouth. "Not twice."
Jasper rose from the bark, rolling his shoulders once before reaching for the katana. The blade came free with a crisp whisper, both his hands tightening around the hilt—one warm flesh, the other cold metal, a reflection of what he'd lost and what he'd learned.
He stepped forward, planting his boots firm in the soil. Slowly, deliberately, he raised the sword before his chest, mimicking the stance James had used earlier. His posture was close, almost right, but not quite.
James noticed immediately. Of course he did.
The god moved beside him, silent at first, then tapped Jasper's foot with the toe of his boot. "Left. Half step."
Jasper obeyed, shifting slightly.
James adjusted his grip next, nudging his elbow. "Relax the wrist. If you tense up, the blade drags."
Another correction—his shoulders, the angle of his back.
For once, Jasper didn't groan or snap back. He just breathed, jaw tight, enduring it. Each small fix drew him closer to that balance he'd seen—fluid, centered, lethal. When James finally took a step back, he gave a quiet nod. "That's it."
Jasper exhaled through his nose, eyes narrowing on the wooden stand before him. The dummy it held was ruined, headless, spilling straw from its neck. He didn't replace it. He didn't need to.
He moved.
The katana flashed, cutting through air and splintering wood. His first strike went for the arm, the next for the legs, each blow sharper, cleaner than the last. He pivoted, twisting his hips into the swing as he brought the blade up toward where a neck would've been, sparks spitting off the edge.
With every strike, his rhythm steadied—his purpose tightening like a noose. Then—
A flicker.
Light crawled along the blade's length, first pale blue, then shifting into searing white, fire coiling around the steel like a living thing. His Oath—Solaris Imperial—answered him, the flame burning bright against the twilight sky.
Jasper grinned.
He swung again. Harder. Faster. The final arc came down with a clean crack, the stand splitting in two, the ruined dummy tumbling free to the dirt.
Breathing heavy, Jasper lowered the blade, watching the faint smoke rise from the charred wood. Then he turned, eyes meeting James'.
His voice came steady, sure. "Next time we see him—Evodil's the one losing something."
The flames around his sword pulsed once, like the vow had settled into steel.