Elian had no idea how long he had been running, until his lungs burned as if aflame, and his legs felt as heavy as lead. He was forced to stop, collapsing at the base of a massive, half-shattered tree ripped apart by the shockwave. He panted violently, nearly coughing up his own insides.
He ducked into a relatively dense patch of charred forest. Though the area was still in disarray—many trees broken or scorched—it offered some cover, shielding him from the wide, open plains trampled by gods themselves.
Only after confirming that no pursuers were nearby did he allow himself a brief moment of relief, soon drowned by the pain coursing through his body. Scrapes, bruises, blisters burned into his flesh by the scorching earth, and the cracked skin of his palms—all searing reminders of what he had just survived.
He opened his hand and looked at the dark golden fragment that had saved his life. In the dim light filtering through twisted branches, it appeared matte, edges sharp, the faint glow at its break almost vanished—flickering occasionally, too quickly to trust. Heavy and icy to the touch, it bore no ornamentation or runes, only rough marks left by war.
What exactly was this? A fragment of that ancient god's weapon?
Elian carefully pressed it into his chest and hid it. This thing could not be exposed to anyone.
Then, he tried to sense the faint warmth in his lower abdomen again. It was still there, like a startled, slender fish, swimming gently within him. When he focused, it seemed slightly clearer.
[…Qi sinks to Dantian…Intent guards Yuan One…]
The cryptic information resurfaced. This time, Elian did not blindly imitate—it became a conscious repetition of the unique breathing method.
Inhale… drawing some ineffable, thin energy from the air into his body, sinking it into the place where the warmth stirred.
Exhale… expelling exhaustion and panic.
The process remained clumsy and agonizingly slow. The energy he could draw in was minuscule, the growth of the warmth nearly imperceptible. Worse, the ambient energy in this ruined land was chaotic and wild, mixed with the lingering holy flames and abyssal corruption, making even a small intake dizzying and nauseating.
He had to carefully filter and guide it, progressing at a snail's pace.
Yet it was not entirely without effect. At least it slightly eased his fatigue and pain, keeping his mind sharp. More importantly, it offered a subtle, indescribable comfort—here, in a ruin abandoned by gods, he was not completely powerless. A small, genuine spark, entirely his own, was quietly taking root within him.
Gurgle…
A rumble from his stomach broke his meditation. Hunger and thirst hit him hard. He had nothing with him when he fled—water and food were urgent concerns.
Struggling to stand, he knew he had to find something before nightfall. Perhaps the forest held wild fruit or a stream, as long as they were not tainted by the divine war.
Elian moved cautiously through the blackened trees, alert to every sound. Smoke mingled with a strange metallic, ozone-like scent. Not far ahead, he heard the faint sound of running water.
Relief surged. He quickened his pace, brushing aside a clump of scorched underbrush, and found a narrow stream. The water was murky, carrying ash and debris, yet it still flowed.
He did not hesitate. Dropping to the bank, he cupped the water and drank greedily. It tasted strange, but at least quenched the fiery thirst burning in his throat.
As he relaxed slightly, a stifled sob carried on the wind.
Elian froze, lowering his body, hiding behind the bushes, peeking carefully.
Upstream, behind a large stone, two small figures huddled together. A boy and a girl, both seven or eight, wearing tattered clothes, faces streaked with tears and dirt. They shivered in fear, holding each other tightly.
Clearly, they were survivors, perhaps fleeing from nearby villages destroyed in the calamity.
Elian's chest tightened. He could barely survive himself—how could he help others?
Before he could decide, heavy footsteps and coarse voices came from another direction.
"Sounds like water here! Damn, I'm parched!"
"Hurry! Search this patch of forest, see if anything's left. The temple knights and abyssal troops already cleaned out the good stuff!"
Another group of "vultures"! From their voices, at least four or five of them.
The two children froze instantly, even forgetting to cry, their bodies trembling harder.
Elian's heart nearly stopped. Instinctively, he held his breath, pressing himself lower.
The scavengers appeared on the opposite bank, wearing rags and brandishing weapons, eyes scanning for prey. They quickly discovered the stream, cursing and squatting to drink or wash.
A leader-like figure stood, his gaze catching the slightest unnatural movement behind a stone downstream—where Elian and the children hid.
"Huh?" He squinted. "What's behind that rock? Check it out!"
A subordinate chuckled, drawing a short blade, stepping toward the stone.
"Little rats, stop hiding. Come out nicely, maybe Grandpa's in a good mood and'll give you a treat!"
From behind the rock came a suppressed whimper from the girl, betraying her fear.
Elian felt ice run through him. His hands dug into the dirt. He could not face three scavengers before, and now there were four or five! To step out would be suicide.
Reason screamed: stay still, stay silent, wait for them to leave…
But…
His mind flashed to the crossbow bolt, the one-eyed man's greedy, cruel gaze, the dissipating divine corpse that had protected him…
The cold fragment in his arms.
And the faint warmth in his body, still stubbornly flowing.
The scavenger drew closer, face twisting with a cat-and-mouse amusement.
Elian's breath grew heavy, some raw emotion overpowering fear. Slowly, deliberately, he pulled the dark golden fragment from his chest. Its icy weight steadied his trembling hands just slightly.
He had only one chance.