Everything happened in less than a second.
One moment, Indra faced death under the colossal paw of the Dormant Terror, a monument of bone and hatred about to crush him. The next, the universe dissolved into silver.
A ghostly flash tore through the night sky, bathing the Vallencourt Forest in a pulsating, cadaverous light. It was as if a second moon, furious and sick, had been born and exploded simultaneously. From this light, silver rays fell—not like lightning, but like heavy, distorted tears of a mad god. They didn't cut the air; they rotted it, leaving behind a trail of violent static and a hum that was less sound and more manifest pain.
The energy pressure that followed wasn't physical; it was metaphysical. It didn't crush bones; it crushed souls.
An agonizing chorus erupted from the horde of Lesser Creatures and Imps. No longer howls of hunt or cries of fury, but piercing shrieks of pure existential suffering. Their grotesque forms contorted, as if the energy sustaining them was unraveling from within. Several simply vanished, dissipating into clouds of black dust and silver sparks under the devastating touch of the rays.
Indra was no exception.
As a mere Awakened, without an Inner Core to anchor his own energy, he was little more than a paper boat in a cosmic tsunami. The first wave of pressure hit him like an ethereal punch to the chest. Every muscle in his body locked instantly, numbed by a current of pure agony. It was a hallucinatory, bizarre pain, as if millions of ice needles were piercing not his flesh, but the very fabric of his soul, tearing and shattering it into a billion dissonant fragments. His scream was lost in the roar of the storm, an insignificant sound before the apocalypse.
The Dormant Terror, which moments before was the incarnation of terror, recoiled. Its massive body trembled, and a growl of pain and surprise—a sound very different from its previous arrogance—escaped its throat. Its red eyes, once fixed on Indra with sadistic pleasure, now scanned the sky with something resembling... fear. It was obvious: even a creature of that magnitude would suffer under the Silver Storm, and a direct hit from one of its rays would likely disintegrate it.
Why? The question echoed in Indra's mind, even through the fog of pain. The Storm had already happened just before they entered the forest. It was too early for another.
The answer came with the cruel clarity of a blade. The Silver Storm was born from the residual energy of dead creatures. Over the last three days, hundreds of Academy students had reaped hordes of Dormants in the Intermediate Layer. The massacre had fed the storm, making it be reborn earlier. This one, however, was weaker—fueled only by the energy of Dormants, not higher-category creatures. But "weaker" was a relative concept. For Indra, it was like comparing being crushed by a mountain or a continent; the end result was the same.
Last time, Sophie had protected him with a force field. Now, he was alone. He had witnessed the storm's devastation over the past days, seen ancient trees reduced to charred splinters and rocks pulverized. It was an ironically epic end to his short career as a Paranormal: first chased by a bear from hell, then obliterated by one of the most dangerous phenomena of the Other Side. It wasn't entirely shameful.
But a deep sorrow saddened him. His last sight would be that distorted, insane muzzle, not Sophie's serene, perfect face. If only...
A silver ray, denser and more alive than the others, struck him square in the chest.
The world exploded into white.
Indra waited for the darkness, the end. Instead came a terribly familiar sensation.
It was the same feeling as the first time. A rending agony, yes, but intertwined with something else. A strange heat at the epicenter of the pain. His body was a battlefield: cells were vaporized by the chaotic energy and, in the next instant, reconstituted by a force that seemed to emanate from his own blood, his own will. It was a cycle of destruction and rebirth happening millions of times per second. The pain was immeasurable, but so fast and absolute that his brain couldn't process it, leaving behind only a profound, almost hallucinatory strangeness.
Strangeness. Not what he expected to feel on the threshold of death.
In the eye of this hurricane of sensations, a spark of lucidity ignited. He was a Cultivator. His art was that of calm in chaos, of the right breath amidst turbulence. This tragedy... could be an opportunity. The Storm was a cauldron of raw, unfiltered energies. If he could somehow isolate Qi from this chaos, or transform all that heterogeneous energy into pure Qi...
He could form his Inner Core.
He calmed, forcing his mind to find a point of stillness at the center of the storm. The pain didn't lessen, but became background noise, a price to be paid. He remembered Sophie's words about the Mental World—a Dantian of the soul, an inner sanctuary where one could achieve absolute concentration.
He closed his eyes, blocking out the spectacle of horror around him. He visualized his own essence, his deepest self, detaching from the agonizing flesh and entering a space beyond the physical. To his surprise, it was almost intuitive. As a Cultivator, his soul was already more familiar territory than for others. It was like sinking into tranquil, deep waters after being dashed against the rocks.
He opened his eyes—or the consciousness that replaced them—onto a vast ocean of white.
There was no horizon, no sky, no solid ground. Just an infinite plain of a milky, tranquil substance under his feet, blending with the white mist around. It was his soul. Empty. Peaceful. His.
The peace lasted a breath.
Silver sparks, identical to the rays of the outer world, began to appear in the white, like ink stains on an immaculate canvas. Chaotic, destructive electricity was penetrating his sanctuary. It was time.
Indra sat in the white nothingness, assuming a meditation posture. He wouldn't fight the invasion; he would tame it.
He began to circulate his Qi, but not as before. He didn't force a single technique. Instead, he became a conductor before a discordant orchestra. Each spark of invading energy was an out-of-tune instrument.
Harmonious Spiritual Flow calmed the most violent sparks of blue Mana, smoothing their sharp edges. Pulse of the Inner Essence found the heartbeat of red Aura, synchronizing its brute fury with a controllable rhythm. Breath of the Latent Soul whispered to the green vital energy of Prana, guiding it to heal the fissures the other energies opened in his soul. Serpentine Core Current enveloped the purple Demonic Energy, containing its corrosion and extracting its raw potency. Rhythm of the Tranquil Core established the foundation, the constant metronome upon which the entire chaotic symphony could be organized. Alexia's "right breathing" was the fuel, the oxygen keeping the conductor alive. And Sword Harmony... Sword Harmony was the revelation.
He realized the fundamental error. His imperfect technique tried to force rigid techniques to adapt to his way of using energy. It was folly. The Aura of Warriors demanded aggression. The Mana of Mages craved complexity. The Ether of Elementalists danced between the physical and the arcane. He shouldn't change the techniques; he should change the energy for each one, shaping it like a goldsmith shapes different metals.
The Storm was the perfect forge. Every type of energy was there, exposed, raw. He could experiment, feel how each reacted, learn its language.
Slowly, painfully, he began to absorb not into his body, but into his understanding. Each new energy he mastered, he fused into his growing repertoire, not as a patchwork quilt, but as a metal alloy, each element strengthening the whole.
Until only Sword Harmony remained. He expected resistance, as it was of Elven origin, a strange way of manipulating energy. But the opposite happened. Because it was different, because it didn't fit any human patterns, it became the key. It was no longer a sword technique; it was a principle of balance, the art of finding perfect resonance between opposing forces. It was the final piece, the catalyst that united all the other dissonant techniques into a single, new thing.
And then, it was complete.
Within his Mental World, a new technique was born. It wasn't just a fusion; it was an evolution. A unique melody only he could conduct, perfectly tuned to the chaotic symphony of his own being.
In the outer world, his body, bathed by the silver ray, began to glow with a pure, stable white light. The cycle of destruction and reconstruction ceased. The pain vanished, replaced by an overwhelming fullness. At the center of his being, where there was once only dispersed potential, a point of infinite light coalesced, solidifying into a perfect, pulsating core.
The roar of the Storm and the monsters seemed to recede, muffled by the absolute silence that now reigned within him.
Indra opened his physical eyes. The forest was still being devastated, the bear was still there, but none of it mattered.
He had Graduated.
The calm that descended upon Indra was of a supernatural nature, an ocean of stillness at the center of a hurricane. He didn't fully understand the complexity of the technique he had forged in the crucible of his soul and the Storm—the Silent Heart of the Inner Vortex—but an unshakable certainty settled in his spirit: now, he could fight.
He looked up. The Silver Storm had vanished as suddenly as it arrived, leaving behind a heavy, violet night sky, like a cosmic bruise. But the shadow in the blue moon still writhed, an eager, expectant serpent of darkness. His own body was now the only source of light, wrapped in a mantle of pure white energy. His eyes, once black as onyx, glowed with the cold, deep luminescence of alabaster, a direct reflection of the unique technique pulsing in his newly formed core.
The mantra echoed in his mind, a silent symphony he hadn't learned, but remembered:
"In the center of nothing, I hear my name. In the silence that spins, my strength remains. Let the void nourish me, Let the vortex guide me. Heart without noise, Soul without fear."
Each word mentally recited, synchronized with a rhythmic breath, tuned the flow of his Qi, activating the inner rotation that sucked in the residual energy from the chaotic environment. The technique not only amplified his power; it was a beacon of absolute serenity, even before the abyss.
He was, finally, a true Paranormal. A Graduate.
But the adversary before him remained. A Dormant Terror. Six Inner Cores against his one. The power difference was an abyss that not even the Silent Heart could easily bridge. Victory would not be a gift; it would be a bloody conquest, torn out with nails and teeth at the absolute limit.
The bear seemed confused, its bloody muzzle sniffing the air. Then, slowly, the grotesque, insane smile reappeared on its distorted face. It was no longer the look of a predator at helpless prey, but of a gourmet appreciator before a rare delicacy that had inexplicably developed claws. The hunt had regained its value.
What it didn't perceive was that the prey had become a rival.
The bear rose again on its hind legs, a tower of muscle, bone, and hatred, casting a shadow that swallowed Indra. Its roar was a challenge that made the very air tremble.
Indra planted his feet on the devastated ground, assuming Dew Step. His Jian rose, no longer a strange weight, but a natural extension of his arm, of his will. There was no more need to force the fusion of techniques; the Silent Heart had already harmonized them into a perfect, intuitive whole.
They faced each other. A brief moment stretched into an eternity. Indra's white, calm eyes against the bear's red, fervent eyes, two constellations of pure opposing will shining in the darkness: one, the will to survive; the other, the will to destroy.
The silence broke.
The bear's left paw came down like a divine pestle, meant to crush mountains. Indra moved. Amplification. His muscles sang with power, every fiber infused with white Qi, not a joule of energy wasted. He didn't block; he evaded. Used Lion's Contained Roar in a precise diagonal cut, deflecting the colossal paw aside with a metallic crack. The movement created an opening. Scarring Thrust. Indra's blade pierced like a dart of light into the nerve of the bear's left shoulder, the point his sharpened perception had identified. The beast roared in pain and surprise. Indra, already in motion, used the momentum of the fall to release Candle and Shadow, an avalanche of quick, precise blows on the monster's left hind leg.
It was a white storm of steel. For the first time, fetid black blood gushed from the creature's bony plates, steaming in the cold air.
Indra landed and retreated with the grace of Dew Step, never turning his back. The bear's right paw, driven by pure hatred, came down in retaliation. Indra was already expecting it. Stinger's Return. A massive wave of white Qi exploded from his sword, colliding with the paw mid-air and halting its advance with a resounding impact. The beast recoiled, perplexed.
The distance revealed Indra's work. The Dormant Terror's left flank was devastated. Shattered bony plates mixed with black, pulsating flesh. The forelimb hung useless. The beast's dominant side was neutralized.
The bear's red eyes, once insane, now held only mortal hatred, focused exclusively on Indra. The beast tried to advance, leaning on its left hind leg, but fell with a roar of agony—the tendon hit by Indra had failed. The advantage seemed to be with the young Cultivator.
It was an illusion.
With a final surge of primordial fury, the bear launched itself forward, using its colossal mass as a battering ram. Its open mouth, a portal of spear-like black teeth, shot toward Indra, ready to devour him. The charge was brutal, desperate, and covered the distance in the blink of an eye.
The Silent Heart did not waver. The calm remained. Indra spun to the beast's vulnerable right side. Amplification ceased. In its place, Channeling. All his Qi, concentrated and purified, converged on the edge of his Jian, which began to vibrate with a high-pitched hum, so sharp it seemed to cut the air itself.
The bear, in its blind fury, didn't calculate. Using its mouth against a Qi-charged blade was an invitation to disaster. Scarring Thrust. Indra's Jian pierced the soft, unprotected roof of the monster's mouth as if it were water. Without hesitation, Indra twisted the blade and pulled to the side in a devastating circular motion. With a horrible sound of torn flesh and broken bone, half of the bear's upper jaw was torn off.
The roar that followed was muffled, a grotesque sound of absolute agony. The weight of the colossal body, without the support of the left side, made the beast topple heavily.
Indra saw the opening for the final blow. But he had underestimated the creature's rancorous intelligence. Even in its fall, the bear's right paw, the only sound one, rose. Using the very gravity of the fall, the beast delivered one last, desperate blow, a posthumous revenge.
Indra had time for nothing but an instinctive, incomplete Amplification. The paw hit him square on.
The world became a maelstrom of brute force. He was thrown like a toy, his body breaking through ancient trunks like twigs, plowing the earth, until impacting with a cataclysmic crash against a massive rock formation. The stone, once solid, shattered into a crater of rubble.
The pain was a solar explosion in his nervous system. When the dust settled, reality returned in fragments of agony. His left arm was a useless, deformed weight. Several ribs were fractured, every breath a stab. His right leg, the least damaged, trembled under his weight. The sound dominating his ears was not the buzz of battle, but the sinister crack of his own broken bones with every minimal movement.
And then, the second sound: the heavy, dragging, determined footsteps. The bear was approaching, crawling like an apocalyptic zombie, its body a monument to its own destruction, but its eyes still fixed on Indra with inextinguishable hatred.
Both were ruined. But Indra was on his dominant side. And both knew the next clash would be the last.
Three options flickered in his mind, each darker than the last: Amplification to defend and counter-attack risking not doing enough damage, Channeling for a final, suicidal attack risking being killed before completing it, or Projection to attack from a distance—something impossible for his shattered body to maintain.
None were good. None guaranteed victory.
Then, the fourth option emerged from the depths of his training, from Professor Owen's words: Overlay. Using multiple enhancements simultaneously. Two was difficult. Three was insanely complex, an invitation to loss of control and self-destruction.
But it was the only way. The only blow he saw a chance with was Veil Vortex, a technique that demanded all three—Amplification for the body to withstand the rotation, Channeling for the blade to cut anything, and Projection to release the energy spiral. Now, as a Graduate, with the Silent Heart governing his Qi, he could try.
It was that or die. And he refused to die.
Indra concentrated. The Silent Heart accelerated its internal rotation. Amplification enveloped his trembling muscles, an exoskeleton of white energy. Channeling converged on the Jian, making it glow with the intensity of a star. Projection… Projection would have to come at the moment of impact.
There was no time for more. The bear, with a last Herculean effort, launched itself in a final charge. Indra ran to meet it.
The bear raised its only functional paw to crush him.
Indra released everything. Veil Vortex.
A spiral of pure, destructive energy, a whirlwind that distorted the very light, enveloped his Jian. It wasn't just a blow; it was the materialization of the spinning silence of his heart, of the internal vortex made external. He became the center of a small Qi big bang.
The white flash that followed was absolute, washing away the forest's darkness for an eternal nanosecond.
When the light dissipated, the bear was still. Then, a perfectly straight, glowing line appeared down the center of its body, from head to tail. The line expanded. And then, with a final, wet sound, the creature split in two, its two halves falling to the sides in slow motion, black organs and viscera gushing out and covering Indra in a warm, fetid mantle.
Indra felt no satisfaction. He felt no pride. There was only a consuming void, the total exhaustion of every drop of energy, of every thought.
His vision darkened at the edges. The Jian slipped from his numb fingers. His knees buckled.
The last thing he perceived, before the darkness took him, wasn't the smell of death, but the silence. For the first time since he had entered that cursed forest, there were no more roars. Just the spinning silence of his heart, growing weaker and weaker, until it went out completely.