Aether paused, his breath ragged but deliberate, the exhaustion of the battle tempered by his intense focus.
He hovered mid-air, his body bathed in the afterglow of exertion. The world below seemed frozen as he observed the fallen foes sprawled across the ground, their figures motionless yet emanating faint traces of resilience.
"That was their running speed?" he muttered, his voice barely audible over the fading hum of energy in the air. Slowly, he descended, each movement deliberate, his form gliding with an almost spectral grace.
"How long was it—one second? Two?" Aether continued, his voice laced with disbelief. "It felt like an instant."
His observation was cut short as the figures below stirred, rising with unnatural speed. The faint glow of Rigor's flame still clung to his body, though half of it had been extinguished, leaving embers flickering defiantly.
Rigor's lips twisted into a humorless smile. "Hah," he breathed.
The silence shattered when Valen's laughter erupted beside him, sharp and unrestrained. "Hahahahahaha!" The sound grew louder, more manic, echoing across the scorched grassland.
"Who would've thought the Mysticals were that obnoxious," Valen scoffed, his voice dripping with derision as his gaze shifted toward the distant light—a vibrant, radiant blue that pulsed with a power beyond comprehension.
"Very bold," a voice boomed, deep and resonant, as though the air itself carried its weight. "To insult one in its presence."
The words sent a ripple through Aether. His eyes narrowed, searching the light, but all he could perceive was its overwhelming brightness, a luminescent blur that consumed his vision.
"I don't see it," Aether admitted, his voice almost a whisper. "Just… a light."
"The war is over," the voice declared, its tone imbued with a finality that seemed to shake the heavens.
"That much is obvious," Valen quipped, a smirk tugging at his lips.
"You're insolent," the Mystical retorted, its tone both chastising and amused.
"Yeah, yeah," Valen replied dismissively, waving a hand. "Still, thanks for the war. You showed up late, though. Their king was a bit—"
"A bit?" the Mystical interrupted, its light intensifying, casting long, dancing shadows. "Do not mistake its crown for sovereignty, Phoenix-bearer. Infernal Princes wear thrones of borrowed shadow—their true masters watch from beyond the stars." The Mystical intoned.
"An Infernal Prince—the only one in this realm your equal. Its lineage traces back to the Calamities themselves... and it fought like one. Honestly, its skill set was far more diverse—versatile, even. Dangerous too, compared to your… one-note flame gimmick. Though, I'll admit, your fire has incredible destructive potential. Still, the prince gave us quite a fight. Ask your brother—one claw, and half his side was gone."
"I know," Valen replied evenly.
"You're the first Illuminated One," the Mystical continued, its focus unwavering. "The only one of your race to ascend, untethered by the dominion or control of the Copies. You stand above them. You move not through space or time—but across recognition. The moment someone knows you're coming, you're already there. So tell me, I wonder... Did you sense no... see me watching your fight?"
Valen turned his back on the light, crouching to touch the grass. His crimson cape fluttered behind him, catching the faint breeze as he began to unbuckle the blood-stained plates of his armor.
"You seem simple-minded, you do not know the true motive of the demon you killed," the Mystical mused, its voice almost contemplative. "Yet… I must admit—you are a genius."
Valen said nothing, letting the words hang in the air as he removed each piece of armor with meticulous precision.
Beneath the battered steel lay a body forged through relentless trials, every sinew honed to beyond perfection. His movements were deliberate, almost ceremonial, as he shed the last remnants of his battle gear.
"What is your name?" Valen finally asked, his voice steady, his gaze unwavering as he faced the light.
"The comprehension eludes your linguistic paradigm," the Mystical intoned, its vocalization threading between semiotics and metaphysical resonance. "Your mortal language can't grasp this. Kol-Ric isn't just words—it's the fabric of our being."
Valen's expression didn't falter. "Es le vasae torva ri lo?" he said flatly, his voice carrying an unspoken challenge.
The Mystical shimmered, its light pulsing faintly. "O, shol thu Kol-Ric."
"Ves val thu haran va i ri?" Valen continued, his tone measured and deliberate.
A long pause followed. The light seemed to hesitate, almost considering. Then, with a booming finality: "Es i mes de Draugth os Xyphora. Thu tai vos em va alir nor. E ir miren val haran va thum."
Valen's eyes narrowed. "Lo val i haran va inor." he replied, his voice hardening as his sword, Ashbringer, alongside his armor began to glow violently.
The Mystical continued, "Sal ne men i vanar va thu. Vo val thu shol nor de i, tai vos elen thu os elen de ral thu i."
Rigor stepped closer, sensing his brother's unease. "What's wrong?" he asked, his voice low.
"It wants to follow me, so I suppose I'll have you do a compensation skill?" Valen muttered, running a hand over his face, his frustration palpable.
"Follow you?" Rigor echoed, confused. "On your… enlightenment journey? You mentioned that… what, five minutes ago?"
The Mystical's voice returned, softer but with a mischievous edge. "I can't follow you as an orb now, can I?"
The blue orb elongated, stretching into a sleek, serpentine form. The spine formed first, a glowing, translucent line that crackled with latent energy. Along its length, jagged ridges erupted—spikes of ivory white tipped with hints of yellow. These spikes lined the dragon's back, tapering off near the tail, which ended in a sharp, spear-like tip.
Next came the wings. First, the front pair unfolded—vast, triangular, and formidable. The membranes glistened like molten glass, streaked with red and tinged at the edges with the same pale white as the spikes.
The back pair followed, slightly smaller yet equally elegant, providing balance to the creature's frame. A third set of wings emerged as extensions from its forearms, wyrm-like and smaller, but perfectly proportioned to add agility to its flight.
The scales began to take shape, each one razor-thin yet impossibly tough, layering the dragon's body in a mosaic of crimson and pearl. The primary hue was a deep, rich red, like the embers of a dying fire. Along its sides, the red faded into a softer, gleaming white, with hints of pale yellow that caught the light, giving the impression of warmth and life coursing through its form.
The head emerged next, long and narrow, with a snout that extended elegantly, bearing sharp, pearl-white teeth glinting within. Its nostrils flared as it took its first breath, steam curling from its maw like smoke from a forge. Twin rows of horns crowned its head—some short and curved, others long and spiraling, giving it a regal yet savage appearance.
The eyes snapped open, blazing green like polished emeralds. The irises were encircled by golden flecks, their gaze both curious and commanding, as though they could see through the very fabric of the world.
Rigor's breath hitched. "A… dragon?"
The creature tilted its head, its glowing eyes alight with intelligence and a flicker of amusement. "Far from," it said, its voice light yet profound. "Not a dragon. Think of me as a shadow of the real thing. If a true dragon were here…" It let the words linger, the threat unspoken but understood. "This city would already be ash, reduced by nothing more than its agitation."
Finally, the dragon stirred, testing the limits of its newly formed body. It flexed its six wings, each beat sending a shockwave rippling through the air. The force rolled across the ground like a tangible wave, flattening the grass beneath and sending distant trees bending backward as if bowing to its presence.
The dragon's wings beat in perfect harmony. Each wing stroke sent powerful currents surging downward, carving furrows in the grass and sending loose leaves and debris spiraling into the air.
Then came its roar—a sound that shattered the concept of air itself. It was not merely heard; it was felt, a deep, resonant vibration that coursed through the city and sky alike. The ground trembled in response, as though even nature could not ignore the call of such a powerful being.
Valen exhaled sharply, his hand brushing the hilt of his sword. "You have a lot waiting for you," Rigor murmured, his voice tinged with awe.
Valen's gaze never left the beast before him. "I know," he replied, his voice resolute, his determination blazing as fiercely as the creature's eyes.