A heavy, eerie silence gripped the air, broken only by the soft crackle of burning thatch drifting from a nearby roof.
Blackthorn and Lyra stood frozen near the old mill, their breaths shaky, eyes locked on the Soul-Eater King.
The monster towered above them, its once-sleek obsidian body now clad in jagged granite ripped from Finn's stolen essence—a cruel, lifeless shadow of their friend.
Its first step shook the ground, carrying Finn's immense strength but none of his warmth, a hollow echo that sent a shiver down their spines.
The village square, littered with broken stakes and streaked with dark blood, stretched out under a gray, heavy sky, the river glinting coldly in the distance.
Every instinct screamed that moving forward meant a sure, brutal end.
Blackthorn's weathered hands clenched into fists, his voice low and rough with a mix of rage and sorrow. "It's wearing him."
His faded dark cloak hung loosely over his broad shoulders, gray-streaked hair tied back tightly, framing a face etched with lines of exhaustion.
Lyra's eyes glistened with unshed tears, her quiet tone trembling with a rare edge of fear. Her braid swung slightly, the edges of her dark tunic stained with the grime of battle.
He nodded, his jaw tight. "We can't win this. We fall back and warn the others."
She hesitated, glancing at the towering figure. "How do we get past that thing?" Her voice cracked with doubt.
He forced a tight, grim smile. "We outrun it—we slip away and get to the others, this is out of our hands, alone."
With a sharp hand signal, he said, "To the longhouse—now!"
They broke into a run, Lyra darting through shadows with agile grace, her movements a blur, while Blackthorn struck out with his sword, each swing precise and forceful.
The Soul-Eater King didn't chase, its slow, deliberate steps herding them like prey, a silent promise of doom hanging over every stride.
Their flight through the village was a tense, desperate dance.
The narrow paths between sagging thatched roofs and overturned carts were slick with mud, the air thick with the smell of smoke and blood.
Lyra used her Essence of Umbral Step, slipping from shadow to shadow to avoid the scattered lesser Soul-Eaters, their chittering forms skittering in the corners.
Blackthorn followed, his sword humming with the Essence of Iron Resonance, shattering a clawing beast that lunged too close.
His breaths came in heavy gasps, the weight of Finn's loss pressing on his chest. "Keep moving," he muttered, more to himself than to her.
Lyra nodded, her eyes scanning ahead. "The longhouse isn't far from here"
They pushed forward, the King's distant thuds a constant reminder of the threat behind them.
They burst into the village square near the longhouse, a sturdy wooden building with a steep roof standing firm against the chaos.
Ash, his tunic clinging with sweat, Borin, his sturdy frame in a mud-streaked shirt, and Sven, his scarred face set under a tattered cloak, struggled against a swarm of lesser Soul-Eaters.
Their chittering filled the air with a frantic hum, claws scraping against shields.
The line weakened as the monsters suddenly retreated into the shadows, leaving an unnatural quiet.
The silence was suffocating, heavier than the fight.
Blackthorn's face darkened, his voice cutting through with urgency. "Something big is coming, it got Finn! Ash, get to the longhouse meet Elis there, you're not a knight, this is not your fight."
Ash, his wild hair damp with sweat, nodded, his chest tight with unease, and ran, the battle noises growing louder behind him—the Soul-Eater King's deep thuds, the clash of steel, and the fading, desperate cries of the knights.
As he ran, the sounds pulled at his heart like a physical force. His boots pounded the muddy ground, each step a struggle against the fear rising in his throat.
He slowed, then stopped, his breath catching, chest heaving with panic.
His eyes lifted to the Soul-Eater King first.
The monster roared—a deep, guttural sound that shook the air, its jagged granite teeth bared, its obsidian limb still dripping with a knight's stolen essence.
The roar echoed in Ash's bones, a sound of pure menace that made his stomach twist.
His legs trembled, his hands shaking as he stared at the effortless power, the cold void where a soul should be.
His heart pounding with terror. Then his gaze shifted to the others.
Blackthorn swung his sword with fierce determination, his movements steady despite the odds.
Borin slammed the ground with steady resolve, raising earth to shield the faltering line.
Sven shouted orders, his voice a lifeline for the knights he led. But the younger fighters, their faces pale and weary, fell one by one, their shouts turning to silence, their bodies crumpling under the King's army.
Ash's chest ached with guilt and rage, a lump rising in his throat as he watched a friend he'd trained with collapse, lifeless. I can't leave them,he thought, his voice breaking as he whispered, "No—no, I can't run back. This is what I wanted. I have to fight."
His fear melted into a burning resolve, the weight of his own choice settling in. With a shaky breath, he clenched his fists and ran back into the battle, his heart pounding with a mix of terror and desperate hope.
Blackthorn, mid-swing against a snarling beast, caught sight of Ash charging toward the Soul-Eater King.
"Ash! Get back!" he shouted, his focus breaking as he turned.
In that moment, a claw slashed across his back, and he grunted, pain flashing across his rugged face.
He stumbled, blood seeping through his cloak, but swung his sword with a fierce cry, driving the beast back.
The Soul-Eater King didn't flinch.
Ash swung his sword, a wild, hopeless strike, but the monster's obsidian limb shot out.
Ash looked down, his breath hitching, and saw it—the limb piercing between his ribs, cold and sharp as ice.
It lifted him off his feet, the world tilting as a searing pain ripped through his body.
His vision blurred, his sword slipping from his grasp, and with a flick, the King discarded him.
He crashed to the ground, blood pooling beneath him, the taste of iron filling his mouth.
The monster moved toward the longhouse, its steps shaking the earth, ignoring the fallen boy.
Ash lay dying, the world fading to a dull hum.
The battle sounds melted into the rushing of water, a familiar, cold current dragging him down.
He was back in the river, drowning, the icy grip pulling at his limbs.
Noah's laugh and Kelvin's grin flashed before him—warm memories that tore at his heart with every beat.
I'm coming to see you, he thought.
What was I thinking in the first place. I failed everyone—Finn, the knights, all of them.
His body went limp, his strength draining away as he surrendered to death, he let himself drown, the weight of his choices crushing him.
A cold voice cut through the darkness, sharp and clear.
"Pathetic."
His eyes fluttered open in a dream, and he saw a stronger version of himself standing in the water, eyes like a raging storm, his presence radiating power.
"Wh—what are you?" Ash gasped, his voice weak and fading.
"I am what you are too afraid to be," the other him said, its voice the hum of a high-tension wire. "I am the Essence of the Unchanged Soul. The memory of what is real. And you are drowning in a world of lies."
It gestured dismissively at the fading images of his friends. "They gave you a power to remake reality itself. And you chose to die in the dirt."
"Please…" Ash begged, the last of his strength leaving him. "A second chance…"
The figure studied him, its glowing eyes narrowing. "You were a fool. But you were a brave fool. You chose to stand. That is why I am here."
It began to dissolve back into the water. "Don't mess this up for both of us. Wake up."
"Wait! What happened to the world? Why am I here? Who am I?!" Ash cried out, the questions tearing from his very core.
The voice echoed, final and absolute. "You are the Unchanged Soul. The rest… you will learn by fighting for it."
The words echoed in his mind, filling him with a strange, new purpose. The Unchanged Soul.
Back in the square, his eyes snapped open, glowing with a fierce white light.
The wound in his stomach shimmered, healing smoothly as if it had never been, though the blood on the ground remained a stark reminder. He rose to his feet, not with pain or effort, but with a strong, sure grace.
The fear that had gripped him was gone, replaced by a cold, clear certainty.
His power wasn't about fighting or shielding—it was about truth. He was unharmed. The Soul-Eater King was wrong.
The monster, now just steps from the longhouse, sensed the shift.
It stopped, its massive form turning slowly to face Ash.
The square fell silent, the air thick with tension.
The Soul-Eater King, a devourer of souls, stood opposite the reborn Ash, the Unchanged Soul, poised for a confrontation that went beyond mere strength—a battle of will and essence.
The world seemed to hold its breath, waiting for what would come next.