A soft, radiant white light pulsed from Ash's crumpled form, slicing through the heavy silence that blanketed the village square.
The gaping wound in his stomach, where the Soul-Eater King's limb had pierced him, shimmered and faded, leaving only dark bloodstains soaked into the muddy ground.
His wild hair, damp with sweat, framed a face that lifted with a calm, almost eerie resolve, his patched tunic clinging to his chest, torn at the shoulder.
He rose smoothly, a cold, terrifying certainty replacing the fear that had once ruled his heart.
The Essence of the Unchanged Soul surged within him, a truth he felt deep in his core. The trembling that had shaken him was gone, replaced by an unshakable knowledge of his identity.
His gaze shifted to the Soul-Eater King, its jagged granite form towering near the longhouse, obsidian glinting dully under the gray, oppressive sky.
His eyes locked on its head, where the granite spikes pulsed with stolen energy, a weak point revealing itself in the rhythm of its movements.
He saw the vulnerability, the key to undoing it, and a plan sparked in his mind.
"I have a plan!" he yelled, his voice ringing out across the square, sharp and clear, cutting through the lingering echoes of battle.
Nearby, Blackthorn fought the last lesser Soul-Eaters. His faded cloak flapped, bloodied from battle, gray-streaked hair damp with sweat.
He thrust his sword into a chittering beast, then sliced another down, turning at Ash's call.
Lyra, her dark tunic stained with ichor, her braid loose, finished her foe with a dagger strike and joined him.
Borin, in a mud-streaked shirt, crushed his last opponent with a ground slam and hurried over.
Sven, his scarred face under a tattered cloak, faced the remaining monsters.
Blackthorn glanced back and barked, "Sven, handle them with your men!"
Sven nodded, his voice firm as he rallied the few standing militia, "On me—let's finish this!" He turned to secure the area, his men following with weary determination.
Ash faced the group, his patched tunic still damp.
"Its weakness is the head, my essence let me see it," he said, pointing at the King with a steady finger.
"Two hard strikes in the same spot, and it's game over. I can bait the King with the first strike, drawing its focus, then create an opening for Captain Blackthorn to make the final blow." His voice carried a quiet, unyielding determination, his plan clear and focused.
Lyra nodded, her eyes sharp and assessing. "That's a solid plan," she said, a hint of approval softening her tone as she glanced at the towering monster.
Blackthorn face etched with doubt and concern, he stepped closer, his sword still gripped tightly. "Can you really do this, Ash?" he asked.
Ash bent down to pick up his short sword that had fallen in the mud when he was stabbed, the blade still marked with his own blood and the earth's grime.
As he straightened, meeting Blackthorn's gaze, the sword began to glow.
The blade elongated, transforming into a majestic weapon, its hilt adorned with a pulsating white gem that seemed to breathe with a life of its own—a sword befitting his true essence.
The Mighty Men stared, awestruck, their breaths catching at the sight, and they nodded their agreement to the desperate strategy.
Blackthorn turned to Borin, his voice firm and commanding. "Charge up for a big hold—we'll need it to pin that thing down."
Borin, wiping sweat from his forehead, grinned slightly, his sturdy frame steady. "No problem," he said, his tone confident as he began to focus his earth essence.
The ground beneath him trembled faintly, a low rumble building as he gathered his power, his hands pressing into the soil.
Lyra, Ash, and Blackthorn moved forward, engaging the Soul-Eater King in a tense, drawn-out dance.
Lyra darted in with her daggers, striking at its legs to draw its attention, her movements swift and precise, ducking under a sweeping arm that sent a gust of wind past her face.
Blackthorn swung his katana, Iron Resonance humming with each strike, aiming for its arms to keep it off balance, the blade clashing against granite with sparks flying, his muscles straining with each blow.
Ash circled, his glowing blade flashing as he tested its defenses, feinting and dodging, the monster's roars shaking the air with every missed swing.
The fight stretched on, the ground quaking with the King's fury, its massive form swaying as it tried to crush them.
Sweat beaded on Ash's brow, his heart pounding, his breaths coming in short gasps as he held his ground, waiting for the right moment.
The King's stance shifted, planting its feet firmly, its arms raised in a solid, unyielding position—perfect for Borin's hold.
Just as the monster's next swing threatened to go wrong, its arm arcing dangerously close to crushing Lyra, Borin acted.
With a deep, guttural grunt, he thrust his hands downward, and the earth surged upward.
Thick stone tendrils erupted, wrapping around the King's legs and gripping its raised hands, locking it in place with a resounding crack.
The hold was strong, the monster's good stance aiding Borin's success, its roars turning to frustrated growls as it strained against the bonds, its purple energy flickering.
Ash seized the opening, lunging forward with his glowing blade. He drove the weapon into the King's head with a powerful, deliberate strike—Hit #1.
The impact reverberated, a sharp, resonant crack cutting through the chaos, and the King roared, its guttural cry shaking the square to its core.
It thrashed violently, breaking free of the earth hold with a shuddering jerk, and swatted Ash away with a massive arm.
He hit the ground hard, rolling to a stop, pain flaring in his side and ribs, his vision swimming for a moment, but the monster's focus locked onto him, rage burning in its void-like eyes.
The King's fury unleashed a horrifying act.
It opened its maw, a dark vortex forming as it absorbed the essence of its remaining lesser Soul-Eaters.
Their chittering cries turned to silence, silvery wisps vanishing into the monster in a haunting, swirling display that chilled the air.
It grew larger, its form crackling with violent purple energy, the granite spikes lengthening and glowing with an eerie menace.
The team froze, horrified, as the King's power surged beyond anything they'd faced, its presence dominating the square.
Borin raised a defensive earth shield, the ground splitting as a thick wall rose before them, and they retreated behind it, hearts pounding with dread and disbelief, their breaths shallow against the stone.
Ash pushed himself up, wincing but resolute, his patched tunic now smeared with fresh mud and blood. "I can still fight," he said, his voice firm despite the ache spreading through his battered body.
Blackthorn, his face grim, turned toward the shield's edge and yelled, "All hands on deck, Sven!" His voice carried over the wall, a desperate call to action.
The team nodded, steeling themselves against the growing fear, their resolve hardening.
They engaged the empowered King, but the battle turned brutal.
The monster's swings were thunderous, a backhand sending Lyra crashing unconscious against the wall, her daggers clattering to the ground in a metallic ring.
Borin tried to bind it again, but a stomp shattered his earth, knocking him down with a groan, his sturdy frame trembling under the impact.
Sven and his men (knights) charged in, their blades flashing, but they fell under the King's relentless assault, their cries fading into the dust, their bodies strewn across the square.
Blackthorn swung his katana, Iron Resonance humming with each strike, but a glancing blow from the King's arm left him gasping, blood seeping from his back, his footing unsteady.
Ash stood alone, the last one up.
The King's massive hand closed around him, its grip crushing, lifting him off the ground.
His ribs creaked, pain flaring as he struggled against the cold, unyielding hold, his vision blurring at the edges, the glowing sword slipping in his grasp.
The monster brought its void-face close, a dark maw pulsing with purple energy, ready to consume him.
Ash's strength faded, his heart racing with panic—until a flicker of resolve ignited.
We can't lose, that is the only way we'll win,he thought, his power stirring, a desperate vow forming in his mind. His vision steadied, his grip tightening on the blade.
Blackthorn, blood dripping from his back, staggered forward with a roar that echoed with defiance and pain.
He drove his katana, fueled by Iron Resonance, into the exact spot Ash had struck—Hit #2.
The blade sank deep, and Ash's power surged through the wound, a blinding white light clashing with the King's purple energy in a dazzling explosion.
The monster wailed, a high-pitched sound of agony piercing the air, its form convulsing.
Then it shattered, obsidian and granite exploding outward, collapsing into inert shards across the square.
The immediate threat was gone, the air stilling with an exhausted, hollow hush.
The Mighty Men slumped, their breaths heavy and ragged.
Blackthorn leaned on his sword, wincing, his face pale and drawn with exhaustion.
Lyra stirred, groaning as she sat up, rubbing her head with a shaky hand, and Borin rubbed his side, grimacing as he caught his breath, his sturdy frame trembling.
Ash stood amid the debris, his glowing blade fading back to the simple short sword, the white gem dimming to a faint glow.
For a moment, it felt like victory—a hard-won triumph against an overwhelming foe—until a faint, agonized cry reached Ash's ears, a sound no one else heard.
His heart skipped, a chill running down his spine. He turned and saw it: a shimmering, translucent soul kneeling where the King had fallen.
It was a man, his form wracked with sorrow, hands reaching out not to attack, but to plead for help, his translucent fingers trembling with desperation.
Ash stepped closer, drawn by an inexplicable pull, his chest tightening with every hesitant step, his breath shallow and uneven.
The figure's form sharpened, revealing a chiseled jawline shadowed by faint stubble, a high forehead creased with lines of torment, and those deep brown eyes—haunted, piercing, and achingly familiar—locking onto his with an intensity that froze the blood in his veins.
The weight of recognition crashed over him, a tidal wave of shock and loathing, his heart pounding as the truth seared into his mind.
"Father," he whispered, the word trembling with dread and rage, escaping his lips in a broken, disbelieving murmur.
Then a fleeting memory flickered—his father's cruel eyes glaring, a cold hand raised in anger—before fading, overshadowed by the raw emotion of the moment.