NOVEL NEXT Chapter 39: Before the plan execution
Inside the empty room, dimly lit by the soft, pulsating glow of the essentia crystals arranged in a precise circular formation on the ground, a solemn air hung thick like a shroud. In that room stood Zephyrion, Nihara, old man Obsidar, Nyxander, and Umbrazel, their faces painted with resolve, the weight of their mission bearing down on their shoulders.
"Let us begin," Obsidar intoned, his voice low but with resonant, deep rumbles that almost echoed like a bell struck in the heart of a cavern. The words seemed to ripple across the space, stirring the silent tension.
Zephyrion turned to the stalwart form of Umbrazel, who stood as attentive as a watchful sentry beside him. Pressing a reassuring hand to Umbrazel's shoulder, Zephyrion's face flickered a scintilla of disturbance in his forehead furrows furrowed by an unwanted weight that would yet unfold. "I'll call upon your duty to safeguard the clan one final time," he said in words weighted down by concern that only a father should carry.
"You need not concern yourself," Umbrazel replied, his head bowing slightly in respect. "This too is for the benefit of the clan. Focus solely on achieving what must be done." His words were calm yet resolute, a steady anchor to Zephyrion's turbulent thoughts.
Zephyrion nodded slowly and turned to face the glowing formation, its light pulsating like starlight caught in a quiet rhythm. Then he turned to his son, Nyxander, and they exchanged a fleeting glance of unspoken understanding. Zephyrion gave him a firm, slow nod, to which Nyxander returned one of his own, short but oozing silent determination.
Not having any hesitation, Zephyrion moved forward towards the formation. The glow appeared to grow stronger as he stepped across the outer circle and into the first, took his place, folding his legs beneath him to sit down, solid and unwavering as any mountain rooted upon this earth.
Nihara followed, pausing only to cast a warm, reassuring smile toward her son before stepping into the formation. The soft light bathed her figure as in greeting. She sat down with ease, with the grace of one accustomed to doing so, upon Zephyrion's lap, leaning back against his chest, a picture of perfect balance and unity. She crossed her legs effortlessly, laying the backs of her hands upon her folded knees, while her fingers curled over like the petals of a closing flower.
Zephyrion was firm and steady, stretching his arms forward from behind her, his palms laid lightly on her open hands. Together, they drew a deep, synchronized breath, their bodies aligning to the rhythm of the formation as if merging into its energy.
Obsidar stepped into the square within the outer circle, his every step deliberate, opposite Zephyrion and Nihara. His eyes, sharp and aged like weathered stone, met Umbrazel's. "We will proceed now. Make sure nothing disturbs us," he commanded, leaving no room for doubt in his tone. Then, his gaze shifted to Nyxander-stern, piercing. "And remember-stick to the laid plan.
Yes, understood, said Umbrazel and Nyxander as one voice, while their tone was even, the weight of the moment hung heavy in the air.
Obsidar sat cross-legged in the square formation, straight and resolute as any sentient watch post. His right hand rose across his chest, palm facing downward, while his left hand rested across his belly, palm upward, each gesture deliberate and precise.
In an instant, the essentia crystals answered, their faint glow surging into brilliance as the concentric circles of the formation lifted and transformed into radiant barriers, shimmering like liquid silver each, forming its own layer of protection. A double barrier now encased them, humming with energy that vibrated at a power both very old and deep.
Zephyrion and Nihara turned into the central nodes of this formation as their figures bathed in the cascading energy. They were the source, the vital core needing this essence to heal the latent internal injuries of Nihara. Crystals would work as anions, conducting pure streams of energy, while Obsidar, as a regulator, worked like a cation, regulating the balance so the flow was neither too fierce nor too weak.
Energy assimilation initiated. A soft humming, like the first notes of an orchestra, quiet yet full of immense potential, stirred the air.
With light footsteps, Umbrazel and Nyxander turned to leave the sanctified chamber. As the heavy door was about to close, Nyxander suddenly stopped. He looked back and cast a lingering gaze on his parents shining in radiance, and Obsidar steadfast in light at the crystal formation. The image seared into his mind, one of wonder and solemnity.
With one last, almost reluctant glance, he pulled the door shut, sealing the room and the three within it.
For the next twelve days, the relentless rhythm of training echoed through their lives like a war drum. Under the sharp and watchful eyes of Umbrazel, Vacuros honed his fists, refining techniques with the precision of a blade being sharpened on a whetstone. Every punch he threw cracked through the air like a whip, his movements fluid yet powerful, channeling the raw energy of a storm. His every strike was a dance of discipline, a symphony of strength and focus, each blow carving his path toward mastery.
Meanwhile, Nyxander plunged deep into the depthless dimensions of his father's independent training world-a world forged for growth and trial. The atmosphere was thick and heavy there, the air itself brimming with almost tangible energy, testing his resolve with every breath. The ground beneath his feet shook with latent power, reminding him of the ancient forces that shaped this domain.
Every movement he performed-every turn, every shift, and every strike-was like fighting the world itself; it would seem that this dimension, too, came to defy him and push him to his limits.
And both fighters were after the same goal, their body and mind sculpted by the constant hammer of effort and will. Not only did they work at building up their capabilities, but also in perfecting the art of efficiency, the aim being to reduce further the time and concentration needed to launch their talents into full force. Their wills were set as stone.
Every one of the numerous strikes Vacuros made seemed to rumble like thunder; though his hands were blistered and bruised, his eyes showed resolve. Umbrazel stood close, periodically slicing the air with his voice like a finely honed blade as he guided and corrected.
Whereas Nyxander moved in a world of silence, save the hum of raw energy and the pounding of his heart as companions, his fists were a blur of speed, each strike filled with power that shook the very fabric of the world around him. His body was drenched in sweat; his breath came in short bursts, while his spirit burned fiercer with every moment spent within that grueling realm.
Although both their ways were apart, the struggles confronted them from different sides with similar methods. Two warriors bound together by common purpose, chiseling their respective legends in blood, sweat, and unyielding fire from within.