The shockwave's flames died down, leaving the clearing scorched black and the air suffocating with heat. The Molten Horror towered above them still, its veins glowing brighter, rage burning hotter. But something had shifted—the cracks on its chest pulsed erratically, unstable, vulnerable.
Eryndor's boots dug into the dirt. His arms still smoked from blocking the fire, skin blistered, lungs raw. But his eyes locked on the pulsing core beneath its ribs. That was the end. It had to be.
"Lyanna!" he barked, voice ragged. "Aim for the crack. Everyone else—keep it off her!"
She nodded without hesitation, drawing her bowstring until her fingers bled.
The Horror roared, surging forward, but Callen was there. He darted under its swing, twin blades flashing arcs of steel. Sparks flew as he carved into its joints, forcing the beast's weight to falter. The earth-gifted girl slammed her palms into the ground again, stone pillars stabbing up into its legs, buying a heartbeat of stillness.
Eryndor charged.
Lightning wrapped him like a second skin, his movements faster than thought. He weaved through the Horror's counterstrikes—every dodge, every parry was Eightfold Flow in motion, his grandfather's voice echoing in the back of his skull: Absorb. Redirect. Break them where they're weakest.
He hit the side of the beast, fists a blur—Crackling Palm, Lightning Jab, Pulse Step: Third Flow. Each strike chipped the molten hide further, widening the crack. The Horror bellowed in agony, stumbling back.
"Now!" Eryndor shouted.
Lyanna loosed. The silver arrow whistled through the dark, gleaming in the firelight.
But the Horror twisted at the last moment—the arrow glanced, not piercing deep enough.
"No!" someone screamed.
The beast's jaws opened, molten light building for a killing blast.
Eryndor didn't think. He threw himself upward, climbing its body like a madman, claws slashing past his ribs, horns tearing the air beside his head. Lightning flared under his skin, muscles screaming as he launched himself high above the monster's chest.
The world slowed.
He twisted mid-air, fists cupped together, aura compressed into a single catastrophic burst.
"Break—!"
He brought both fists down on the crack, lightning detonating in a deafening Thunderclap Strike.
The explosion tore through the Horror's chest. For a blinding instant, fire and lightning clashed, and the monster's scream split the forest. Then its molten core ruptured, glowing veins bursting one by one.
The Horror collapsed with an earth-shaking crash, flames sputtering out, body crumbling into molten rock and ash.
Silence followed.
The students stood frozen, eyes wide, weapons trembling in their hands. The monster that should've wiped them all out was gone—felled by their hands, but led by the boy who now staggered in the smoking crater of its corpse.
Eryndor dropped to one knee, chest heaving. Every muscle screamed, his body burnt and bruised. But his lips curled into a faint, tired smirk.
"Told you…" he rasped, looking at the others. "Together."
Lyanna rushed to him, dropping beside him, relief spilling down her cheeks. Callen let out a shaky laugh, sheathing his blades. The quiet girl simply stared at Eryndor as if seeing something she couldn't name.
For the first time since entering the wilds, the group felt a fragile kind of unity.
They had survived the impossible.
But Eryndor knew the truth as he looked at the Horror's broken body, lightning still sparking weakly across his arms.
This was just the beginning.