The ichor-born came fast, faster than my mind could track.
They poured from the walls in a flood of horror, grotesque shapes writhing and slithering over one another like a living nightmare. Limbs bent backward, jaws split wider than humanly possible, eyes rolling and swiveling in directions that made my stomach twist. Their shrieks scraped through the Rift like broken glass dragged across bone, rattling every nerve in my body.
Lysander didn't hesitate. His blade flashed in a streak of silver light, fire roaring down the steel, cutting through the first wave of creatures like they were nothing more than mist. The ichor-bodies hissed, writhing, dissolving into smoke under his strike. But for every one that fell, two more surged forward, clawing and slithering like some perverse river of black flame.
I spun, fire snapping from my veins, igniting the shard-blade in my hands. Arcs of searing light tore through the darkness, cutting down three, four, five ichor-born at a time—but the Rift was insatiable. It pulsed, breathed, ate, vomiting more horrors into our path with every heartbeat.
"Damn it!" I shouted, slicing a clawed hand from one as ichor sprayed across my cheek, sizzling against my skin. The smell was thick, metallic, bitter, like rust mixed with scorched iron. My arms trembled under the weight of my own adrenaline and fatigue.
Lysander's storm raged beside me, wild, uncontrollable. Silver fire streaked with black veins, twisting along his aura as if the ichor inside him was clawing to escape, to merge with the world outside. Every time he struck, the bond jolted, flooding my senses with his fury, his fear, his raw, burning need to survive.
"Lysander!" I yelled, heart hammering so hard it felt like it might burst my chest.
His eyes flicked to mine for a fraction of a second—just a fraction—and I caught a glimpse of the man beneath the storm. Silver fire blazing, ragged, alive. And then the black veins surged again, crawling outward across his gaze, and his blade swung too hard, cutting not just through the ichor-born, but through the walls themselves.
The Rift screamed in response, the sound like a chorus of nails on slate, shaking dust and stone loose around us. I felt the ground tremble beneath my boots as ichor geysered from fissures in the floor, splashing against the walls and ceiling. My fire erupted instinctively, a shield of heat and light wrapping around us, but it was fleeting, barely keeping pace with the chaos.
Lysander's voice came ragged through the turmoil, torn, half his own, half the ichor's whisper: "Stay with me!"
I lunged, cutting down two creatures that lunged for his back, my fire snapping around him, burning ichor from his armor. The bond between us flared against my chest, hot, alive, pulling me forward, trying to tether him to me—but it wasn't enough. Not yet.
The Rift wanted him. It pulsed in rhythm with his heartbeat, coiling around him like a predator, whispering, insidious: "He belongs. He burns with us. You are only fuel."
And then… another voice. Not the Rift. Not the System. Something older, colder, higher. It pressed against my skull, heavy as if the weight of the world itself had been dropped on my mind:
"Subject 001 detected."
Lysander froze mid-swing. His blade hung in the air, silver fire flaring sharply, pulsing against the ichor-laced black veins crawling under his skin. The Rift pulsed, responding to this new presence, like it had just noticed its prey had a hunter.
"The Stain resonates," the voice hissed through the emptiness, vibrating in the bond. "Potential: elevated. Observe."
I staggered, knees almost giving out, vision blurring as my fire guttered. My chest heaved, air thick with smoke, ichor, and the metallic tang of panic. And yet, Lysander… he didn't fall. He straightened, jaw set, silver fire roaring brighter, searing against the ichor crawling under his skin like a second heartbeat.
His voice tore from him, ragged, torn raw: "Get… out… of me!"
He drove his blade into the floor. The Rift screamed in response, cracking and shaking, ichor erupting in waves, walls splitting, shadows boiling, creatures shrieking and disintegrating under the combined force of his fire and mine. For a moment, silence fell—but it was fragile, the kind of silence that hums with threat.
The Watcher's presence lingered, vast, unseen, something calculating beyond the Rift itself. And then, in the core of the ichor orb, the black heart of the Rift, I saw it begin to take shape. Tall. Faceless. Dripping with ichor and crowned with black fire.
This wasn't a swarm anymore. This was a boss.
Lysander panted, sweat streaking his face, shoulders trembling as the bond vibrated violently between us, caught between his fire and the ichor's stain. His body shook—but he stood. Still fighting. Still mine to fight with.
I tightened my grip on the shard-blade, fire crawling to the surface. I met his gaze, burning, desperate. "Then we kill it before it kills you."
His lips twisted into a grim, fierce line. "Together."
The ichor boss stepped fully free from the orb, its faceless head tilting toward us as the Rift itself whispered in unison: 'Burn.'
And we charged.
The Rift pulsed like a living heart, black veins crawling outward, pulsing in rhythm with Lysander's own turbulent fire. The Watcher's presence pressed against my mind, a cold weight that made my skull throb and my chest tighten, whispering promises of despair and inevitability. Every breath tasted like iron and ash, and the ichor around us clung to the air, sticky, corrosive, making every movement sluggish and dangerous.
From the orb at the center of the Rift, the black ichor throbbed and twisted, shadows twisting and stretching as though the darkness itself had learned to think. The shape began to coalesce into something tall, impossibly humanoid, yet grotesque. Its limbs were too long, its movements jerky yet fluid, dripping black fire that hissed as it touched the floor. Its face was featureless, smooth, crowned with a corona of dancing black flames, each flicker tasting of malice and hunger.
I swallowed the bile rising in my throat. This isn't just another wave of ichor-born… this is something bigger. Something… alive.
Lysander's silver fire flared, lashing outward like a beacon against the darkness, but the black veins beneath the surface of his skin twisted violently, as if the ichor inside him recognized its kin. I could feel the bond screaming at me, "This is the end… or worse, the beginning of something unstoppable."
The Rift itself seemed to lean toward him, walls bending, the ground quivering beneath each step of the emerging monstrosity. The ichor orb at its core pulsed violently, as though counting down, gathering every ounce of corruption to form the final predator. Shadows slithered along the floor like living oil, curling around our boots, whispering threats we could almost hear, promising pain, death, and the loss of everything we had fought for.
"Lysander…" I murmured, gripping my blade so tightly my knuckles went white. Stay. Don't let it take you. I can't bear it if you fall now.
His gaze met mine, silver burning bright, flecks of black threading through like veins of shadow. "I feel it too," he admitted, voice low, rough. "The ichor… it's trying to claim me. But not today. Not while you're here."
I can't fail him. Not after everything. My fire coiled around my veins, scorching, lashing, feeding the shard-blade until it hissed with energy. Heat blistered my palms, sweat stinging my eyes, but I forced the pain down. I needed every ounce of power, every shred of focus.
The Watcher's voice cut through again, higher, sharper, like ice scraping bone: "Potential confirmed. Subject 001… must be tested."
I flinched, feeling its presence wrap around the Rift like a predator circling prey. The black-ichor boss shifted, its faceless head tilting unnaturally toward us, limbs coiling, every movement radiating menace. The swarm of ichor-born that had preceded it seemed to melt into the floor, retreating as though deferring to this new apex.
This isn't just a fight. It's a test. And failure isn't an option.
Lysander inhaled sharply, fire licking out around him in surges, veins of black twisting and snapping under the strain. His eyes flickered with pain, rage, determination, all at once. "We end it before it adapts further. Together."
I nodded, swallowing the fear knotting my stomach. "Together," I echoed, voice steady even as my heart hammered like a drum against my ribs.
The Rift trembled beneath us, shadows coiling like vipers, ichor hissing along the walls, anticipating our next move. I could feel the psychological weight pressing against me—the knowledge that if we faltered, Lysander's corruption would merge with the Rift, and I would lose him to it forever.
The boss shifted again, tall, dripping black fire from every joint, limbs bending in impossible angles, and the orb at its center pulsed faster, sending shivers up my spine. Its presence was oppressive, smothering, like the darkness itself was alive and breathing through it.
I gritted my teeth, drawing on every shred of courage and fury. Fire licked along my arms, my shard-blade humming as if alive. Lysander mirrored me, the silver in his eyes flaring, a living counter to the darkness trying to claim him.
The Rift's shadows lunged, the ichor pulsing along the walls in anticipation of our attack. I felt the bond between us hum violently, two fires entwined, pushing against the tide of shadow, a tether and a promise.
No matter what this thing is… we fight. Together.
The ichor boss moved as one, a fluid mass of shadow and flame, advancing. Its faceless head tilted, crown of black fire flickering like a mockery of a halo. The whispers of the Rift coalesced into a single, chilling chorus: "Burn."
And with a wordless understanding, we charged, fire and steel against darkness, the Rift itself screaming in response, every pulse of ichor testing our resolve, every step pushing us closer to either victory or oblivion.