Solvane's body was no longer his own.
It felt like a borrowed shell—cracked, bleeding, and barely holding together. His limbs twitched involuntarily, his chest heaved in jagged bursts, and his vision pulsed in and out like a flickering flame. The pain was no longer sharp—it was constant, dull, and suffocating. A blanket of agony that refused to lift.
He didn't remember speaking.
"Please… stop."
The words had slipped out, uninvited. He hadn't meant them. He didn't want to die. Not truly. But he didn't want to carry the weight either—the unbearable pressure of legacy, of duty, of being a prince in a kingdom that saw him as weak.
Was death the only escape?
He looked up at the masked man. The iron veil revealed nothing—no emotion, no humanity. Just a cold, unfeeling surface that mirrored Solvane's despair.
"What did you say?" the man asked, voice tinged with disappointment. "You want me to stop? You don't want to die?"
Solvane's throat tightened. He tried to speak again, but his voice cracked like dry wood.
"Please… I don't wanna—"
Before the sentence could finish, the man's hand shot forward, wrapping around Solvane's neck like a steel collar.
"A Golden Asper… scared of death?" he scoffed, his laughter echoing through the hall like a cruel melody. "What a joke."
With one hand, he reached down and yanked out one of Solvane's ribs.
A torrent of blood erupted, painting the floor in red.
Solvane screamed—a sound so raw it tore through the air like shattered glass. His voice was broken, shredded by pain. Even the act of screaming felt like his throat was being forcefully expanded, stretched beyond its limits.
His face, battered and torn, began to heal—just enough for him to breathe again. Shallow, hoarse breaths. But the relief was fleeting.
Another rib was torn free.
Then another.
And another.
Each time, the pain multiplied. His body convulsed, twitching uncontrollably. His vision blurred, edges darkening. He was failing. Dying.
Just as his eyes began to close—
SPLAT.
A resounding slap crashed against his face, jerking him back into consciousness. The force of it rang in his ears, louder than any scream.
"I… I can't die," Solvane whispered, barely audible.
The masked man leaned in, sneering.
"What was that, kid?"
Solvane looked up.
His pupils—once dull now dyed crimson. A glow pulsed behind them, faint but unmistakable.
"I said… I can't die. Not this time."
His voice was louder now. Firmer. Not a declaration of strength—but of refusal.
The masked man chuckled, amused. "A fool like you thinks you can still decide your fate?"
He raised his fist again, ready to end it.
But Solvane moved.
He shoved the man's hand away from his throat—skin tearing off in the process, blood spraying across the floor like a burst artery. The pain was unbearable, but he didn't stop.
He stumbled back, fists clenched, a gaping hole in his chest where ribs had once been. His breath came in short, sharp bursts. His legs trembled. His body screamed for rest.
But he was still standing.
The masked man launched forward again, faster than before.
But this time… he hit nothing.
Only air.
Solvane had moved.
A mistake? Maybe.
But it was movement. It was defiance.
The masked Asper turned instantly, already preparing to strike again.
And Solvane—broken, bleeding, barely alive—was still standing.