The freefall ended with a violent shock that shook the very foundations of the abandoned factory.
In that split second between life and death, Eric's knightly instincts won over his hatred. He spun his body in mid-air, his back facing the ground. With his left hand, he activated a magic circle to soften the impact; with his right—in a gesture he himself could not explain—he pulled Sin's head tight against his chest to protect him.
CRASH!
The magical shield shattered into thousands of glowing pieces like stardust before fading away. Both men hit the concrete floor, covered in coal dust and scrap metal. The sound of the silver armor striking the stone was a harsh, metallic scream that tore through the silence of the basement.
"Cough... cough..."
Sin coughed violently as dust filled his lungs. He felt as though a steam carriage had just run over him, but he was alive. He was lying on a "cushion" made of steel and muscle. Beneath him, Eric groaned in pain, his chest heaving.
But that moment of weakness lasted no more than two seconds.
As soon as he regained his senses, Eric roughly threw Sin aside. He struggled to his feet; one of his silver shoulder plates was crushed, revealing an undershirt soaked in blood. The physical pain only seemed to fan the flames of anger in his deep blue eyes.
He lunged forward, grabbing Sin by the collar and slamming his back against a cold, rusty iron pillar.
"Where is the stone?" Eric roared, spit and blood hitting Sin's pale cheek. "Do you think I'll play hide-and-seek with you all night, Veylan? Give me the Mirrakyn, or I will break every one of your fingers until you beg to speak."
Sin's feet were lifted off the ground. His throat was squeezed, and air became scarce. But instead of scratching at Eric's hand in panic, Sin's long, slender hands calmly rested on his opponent's armored wrist. His cold fingers searched for the gaps in the armor, touching Eric's pulse directly.
"Your heart rate... is chaotic..." Sin whispered, his voice hoarse but terrifyingly calm. A provocative half-smile touched the corner of his lips. "160 beats per minute. Pupils dilated. Muscles twitching uncontrollably. You are trembling, Eric."
"That's from the fall!" Eric shouted, tightening his grip until Sin's face turned red from lack of oxygen.
"No..." Sin strained his neck, bringing his face inches from the knight's, his dark eyes piercing into his enemy's soul. "You are trembling with fear. You fear the thing you are hunting. You fear that what I said about your brother is the truth."
"Shut up! I am the Emperor's sword; I know no fear!"
"Even a sword trembles when it is about to strike a mountain," Sin whispered, each word like a needle stabbing Eric's pride. "The Mirrakyn is not just a mindless stone for your brother to put on his crown. It is the brain of the Constellation Era. It is conscious. And right now... it is 'waking up' because it senses your chaotic mana."
As if to prove Sin's words, a mysterious purple light began to leak from his breast pocket. The light gave off no heat, but it made the air in the basement feel as heavy as lead. A low humming sound echoed, vibrating with the hiss of the surrounding steam pipes.
Eric froze, unconsciously loosening his grip. He stared at the light. He felt something entering his mind—not an attack, but an invitation. An invitation full of power, but also full of death.
"The Emperor told me... it was only a power source..." Eric muttered, his gaze wavering. His iron-clad faith was starting to crack.
"The Emperor lied," Sin said, taking a deep breath of air, his voice becoming firmer than ever. "If you take it to the palace, you won't create a new empire. You will wake the 12 Ancient Calamities. Do you have the courage to be the destroyer of the world, Silver Knight? Or are you just a blind hound?"
In that moment, time seemed to stop. Eric looked at Sin—the man he considered weak, useless, a "refuse" without magic—who was now standing there, adjusting his collar with the dignity of an uncrowned king. The hatred in Eric slowly transformed into something more complex: respect, and deep down, a desire to conquer. He wanted to crush that pride, but he also wanted to claim that intellect for himself.
The tension between them was no longer just enmity. It had the color of a sexual collision, the deadly attraction between two opposite poles of a magnet.
Sizzle... sizzle...
Suddenly, the sound of melting metal came from the ceiling.
"They are here!" Sin exclaimed, his calm disappearing.
The steel ceiling above them turned red-hot and began to drip like candle wax. A large hole appeared. Dark figures wearing crow-mask masks dropped down—the assassin squad of the Secret Society, a third party also hungry for the Mirrakyn. Without a word, they threw poisoned blades at the two men.
"Dammit!" Eric cursed. His warrior instincts took over; without thinking, he swung his sword, creating a wall of wind that blew the weapons away.
He turned to Sin, his eyes burning: "The exit?"
Sin didn't hesitate, pointing into the deep shadows of a sewer tunnel half-blocked by coal waste: "Tunnel number 7. It leads straight to the outskirts, to the Old Church."
"Go!"
Eric didn't wait for Sin to react. He slid his arm around Sin's waist, lifting him like a sack of goods, and bolted.
The escape was a chaos of magic and darkness. They ran through narrow, damp, and foul-smelling tunnels. Eric had to cut through iron bars with his sword while running, while Sin, held tightly in his enemy's strong arms, constantly gave directions based on his superhuman memory of the city's underground maps.
"Turn left! Careful, steam trap!"
"Get down!"
Their bodies slammed against each other with every step. The scent of Eric's masculine sweat and blood mixed with the clean herbal scent on Sin, creating an intense sensory mix. In this life-or-death situation, the line between enemy and friend was erased. They became one: Eric was the legs and the sword; Sin was the eyes and the brain.
Adrenaline pumped through their veins. The fear of death transformed into a wild excitement. When Eric kicked open the rotting wooden doors to enter the main hall of the North Rivan Cathedral, both were soaked—by rain, sewer water, and sweat.
Eric dropped Sin onto the cold stone floor. He turned back, using the last of his strength and magic to seal the great doors, blocking the crow-masked assassins outside.
The space fell into sudden silence. Only the sound of rain hitting the broken roof and the heavy gasps of the two men remained.
Sin leaned against the altar, his chest heaving, hair sticking to his forehead. He looked at Eric. The knight looked exhausted, his armor scratched, but the look in his eyes was brighter than ever—a hungry, wild gaze, no longer hidden by royal manners.
The last string of logic snapped. Without a word, Eric lunged forward, pushing Sin hard onto the cold stone altar. And this time, Sin did not use his knowledge to push him away. He reached out, pulling the enemy's collar down, beginning the sweet sacrilege that fate had arranged.