Crimson Ascension

Ground shattered under Draven's feet. Chips of stone shot in all directions alongside chunks of flesh, black fur, and blood. Draven stepped back as the hexbeast roared with pain, sending three congealed spheres of blood striking at the creature's head. That'd have done some damage—it was the most amount of pain he'd ever released on a single target.

When the dust settled, he saw the beast. Alive. Chunks of fur and flesh fell from it, trailing to the ground where they piled up like mounds of nightmare and shadows. One of its eyes was gone. Bone stuck out from a broken arm and leg. It was in a terrible state, barely holding on, but still alive.

Abyss take me. He felt his muscles tearing apart; the hexion destroying his body from the inside out. Though his reserve was still mostly untouched, with one-third of it spent to avoid death, he knew extending the battle further was beyond wise.

The Ruler of Shadows looked up, the remaining yellow eye devoid of fear, filled with a rage that Draven couldn't understand. Was this the madness that Helvan talked about? Even though Draven's group had been the one to attack it first, it had also chosen to give chase, to exact a petty revenge upon an intrusion that had cost it nothing.

The shadows from the surrounding gathered around the creature's mouth as it planted its hands in the ground, assuming a four-legged posture. Hexion vibrated in the air, twisting into a whirlpool that inevitably gathered in front of the Ruler's open jaws. Draven understood what it intended to do, for a similar thought flitted through his mind.

A last attack to decide it all.

Draven's reserves dwindled by the second, drained to repair the self-inflicted damage. Steam rose from his cracked skin, crimson light shining through like molten metal underneath. He couldn't afford to let go of the Amplification, or reduce it—the Ruler waited for his power to drop, for an opening to appear in his defenses. Instead of retreating, Draven doubled down.

He raised his right hand forward, opening the palm facing the hexbeast. The blood that stained the ground quivered at Presence, droplets floating in the air and gathering into a revolving sphere that hovered in front of his palm—the same attack he attempted in their last battle.

Hexion flowed from his astra, violent and destructive, gathering into the revolving mass of power. Draven condensed it, agitated the mass of blood and hexion, clenched his fingers around it until it was no bigger than a fist. The sphere burned in front of him, rays of crimson light illuminating the surroundings like the birth of another sun.

A guttural howl escaped the Ruler's jaw. It opened its mouth wide and bit down on the gathered energy. Black light shone through its teeth, draining the world of all colors. It inflated its chest, raising its head into the air as if offering the attack as tribute to the Fallen God himself, then snapped it down, releasing a burst of darkness that tore the ground apart where it passed.

Draven unclenched his fist around the sphere, pointing his index finger forward, and released the hexion collected in a relentless wave of congealed blood.

The air exploded where darkness and blood met. Strands of stray hexion shot in all directions, bisecting trees, carving the ground like a mad sculptor. For one moment that seemed to stretch to all eternity, Draven's attack matched the might of a Median Ascendance hexbeast. For a single instant, they stood at a stalemate.

In the next one, the Ruler of Shadows vanished.

Without a master to guide its flow, the wave of darkness exploded as the pillar of blood burst through it, barreling in the distance to strike a distant rock formation, obliterating it on impact. Draven pivoted to the side, expecting the beast to appear behind him. Yet, for a moment, there was nothing there.

Hot pain carved through his muscles, stopping at the bones. He turned around to see the Ruler of Shadows, mangled beyond recognition, towering over him, its dark claws attempting to impale him. The Hemomorph's Mantle surged around his flesh, shielding it, pushing the creature's claws out of his flesh.

The hexbeast stumbled. Its sole eye drooped with exhaustion—with fear. It knew it had failed. It knew there would not be a second chance, so it did what all predators did once faced with certain death. It grinned. The darkness undulated like the currents of a stream, revolving around their master with increased violence.

It was a desperate attack that would cost its life.

Draven didn't give it a chance. He stepped forward, closing the distance with amplified speed, and congealed a crimson needle in front of his fist. The Ruler threw an exhausted swing, its claws tearing through the air with a fraction of the power they once possessed. Draven ignored them, but Morph didn't. The armour's tail flashed like a whip, its blade glistening in the air.

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The Ruler's severed arm fell onto the ground with a wet thump.

Before it could roar, Draven punched it in the chest, driving the crimson needle deep within its flesh. It was an anchor—a beacon amidst darkness to help guide his will. The darkness around the hexbeast whined on the verge of disaster.

"Enough!" Draven commanded. His authority was the will of the Archon of Blood, and in its presence, all blood was compelled to obey—even the Ruler's own.

The hexbeast shivered and stilled. Its one eye almost burst out of its socket in sheer surprise and outrage, but its body didn't move an inch. It couldn't, not with Draven's will ruling over the blood rushing inside its veins.

The Art of Ruling, he thought to himself, it's still can't fully grasp it. But an anchor makes it simpler. He looked at the hexbeast, felt his hexion restraining the blood inside the creature, and allowed a sigh to escape his lips.

It had been a close, closer than he'd imagined—Fourfold Amplification was the limit he could attempt without his body collapsing. If the Ruler of Shadows had been an actual Empyrean, Draven might not have won the fight. Humans were craftier, while beasts, intelligent as some might be, were still beasts.

Draven turned away from the hexbeast. The Ruler's mouth opened to utter a last defiant scream, but a dozen bloody spikes burst out from its body—forged of congealed hexion and blood, the constructs ripped through the creature's insides until its heart stilled.

"Dead," Draven whispered, falling to his knees.

He willed the runic circuit to cease functioning, fearing for one irrational second it wouldn't comply. But his fears were unfounded, as the runes faded from existence, their berserk power settling down into the calm currents that flowed in his body to mend the damage.

"Maker protect me… You did it." Elevalein walked out of his soul boundary. "You actually did it! A Lesser Eminence killing a Median Ascendance—if someone told me it happened, I'd call them a liar to their faces."

"Gotta say, you got me scared for a moment." Finn chuckled. He looked at the fallen beast with an uncertain frown before also approaching. "Why not ascend? Did you want to make it more dramatic or something?"

Draven laughed. The Hemomorph's tail lashed out at the Ruler's dead body, piercing its chest. Draven didn't command it, but he knew Morph's intent as well as if he might have. A second later, the tale came out bloody, tendrils of crimson wrapping around a perfect obsidian sphere the size of a man's fist. It was gone moments later, absorbed into the Az'Tenri Circlet.

"I tried, but only my soul made it to the corridor. Without a body, how could I have opened any meridians?" Draven said, echoing Morph's words.

"Huh. Now that you mention it." Elevalein chuckled. "I'm surprised none of us thought about it."

"Yes, of course. It's common sense, right? Who doesn't know that an Empyrean that can enter the Sixfold Corridor again won't be able to open meridians there?" Finn shook his head, his lips parting into an easy grin. "Happens every day. Totally normal and common sense."

The thrum in the air, the noise only Draven seemed to hear, had become simple to ignore—it was a frequent, rhythmic sound that beguiled the unconscious mind to forget about its existence. But it had become louder. Closer. When did the change happen? Draven wasn't sure, but it had changed.

He looked around, trying to locate it, a sinking feeling making his heart lurch. Might be nothing, he tried to convince himself, but the feeling wouldn't go away. It pulled at him, beckoned a part of his spirit that was deeper than flesh and even soul. He looked up, wondering why the sun hadn't come out after the Ruler had died.

All he saw was a black cloud.

"What is that thing?" He muttered to himself.

"What?" Elevalein looked up.

Finn followed his gaze, eyes widening. His heart beat with alarm, with the same dread he had felt when the Ruler of Shadows had made short work of the two Empyrean in its lair. Draven acted faster than his reasoning could dictate. Tendrils of blood latched around their wastes, pulling Finn and Elevalein away. Away from him. Away from the cloud.

Draven gritted his teeth. He had to activate his runic circuit again, dwindling reserves be damned. Something was coming, and it wasn't friendly—every raised hair in his body told him as much.

A shield of congealed blood formed around him, stronger, denser than he had ever made. "Fourfold—"

A black strand of lightning shot from the cloud, shattering the shield like it was made of glass. It pierced Draven's chest with a torrent of energy that threatened to extinguish all that he was. Morph screamed inside his soul, while Draven couldn't so much as breathe. He tried to fight it, tried to command hexion to protect him, to mend the wounds, but it was like lifting a mountain.

The thrum unfolded into an insurmountable Presence. Elevalein roared, attempting to free himself from the tendrils, while Finn stood frozen in terror. Draven looked at them and mustered the last shreds of his power to speak.

"Run."

A second bolt of black lightning struck.