Hero Of Broken History

Academy Grounds

The Academy burned.

From a dozen vantage points across the grounds, fires rose into the morning sky. Smoke twisted in columns that merged into a single dark pillar, visible for miles. The sounds of battle echoed between buildings—steel on steel, screams, explosions that shook foundations three centuries old.

In the main courtyard, Dean Aldrich fought Sister Elara, steel magic creating forests of gleaming spikes that rose and fell like breathing metal. Near the northern gate, Professor Harwick held a defensive line with twenty students against thirty Church knights. In the library district, books burned as combat magic ignited centuries of knowledge.

And in the eastern district, in a storage room with walls cracked and ceiling half-collapsed, Avian Veritas was losing.

Eastern District - Storage Room

Blood ran hot down Avian's left side, soaking through his shirt. The cut across his ribs wasn't deep—Ashera's blade had been going for his throat, he'd twisted just enough—but it was the seventh wound in as many minutes and his body was starting to notice the accumulation.

His right shoulder throbbed where Gorath's hammer had caught it on a glancing blow. Not direct impact—that would have torn the arm off—but the shockwave had done enough damage. The joint felt wrong, grinding when he moved.

Blood in his mouth from a split lip. Vision slightly blurred from the hit that had rocked his head back into a support beam. Left knee screaming every time he put weight on it, legacy of the rooftop collapse.

Mana reserves at forty percent and dropping. Each gravity manipulation cost more when fighting exhausted.

Lux flickered at the edge of the room, electricity unstable. She'd taken two hits from blessed weapons, and even spirit wolves had limits.

This is going badly.

Gorath advanced from the left, hammer held low. Seven feet of muscle and blessed armor, moving with the patience of someone who knew time was on his side. His expression was calm, professional. Just doing a job.

Ashera circled from the right, twin blades catching light from burning buildings outside. Dark skin slick with sweat but breathing steady. She'd been pressed harder than Gorath—Avian had managed to open a cut along her forearm, score a shallow hit across her ribs—but nothing that mattered.

They were fresh. He'd been fighting since dawn.

They were two. He was one.

They had the advantage and they knew it.

"You're good," Gorath rumbled. It wasn't a compliment, just assessment. "Better than expected. But you're bleeding out."

"Noticed that, thanks."

"Stand down. The Archbishop wants you alive. Stop fighting and you won't get hurt anymore."

Avian laughed, tasted copper. "You really think I'm that stupid?"

"No." Ashera's voice was almost sympathetic. "But we had to offer."

They moved as one.

Gorath's hammer came in high, forcing Avian to raise Fargrim to block. The impact sent shockwaves through his arms, shoulders screaming. Ashera came in low during the block, blades seeking his exposed side.

Avian decreased his weight with gravity, let himself slide backward faster than normal friction would allow. Ashera's blades kissed air where his kidney had been.

He reversed the gravity, pulled himself forward with increased weight behind the motion. Fargrim swept toward Ashera's throat—

Gorath's hammer intercepted, divine energy flaring. The blessed steel drove Fargrim aside, the force sending Avian stumbling.

A crate caught his heel. He went down hard, rolled desperately as Ashera's blades stabbed where his chest had been. Splinters exploded around him.

Getting sloppy. Tired. Slow.

He came up swinging, Fargrim forcing them back a step. Used the breathing room to create distance, gravity pulling him backward through the hole in the wall they'd made earlier.

Into the corridor. Narrower space. Better odds.

Except both Lightbringers followed without hesitation, and narrow spaces meant nowhere to dodge.

Ashera's blade caught him across the shoulder, shallow but painful. He felt hot blood begin to flow, adding to the collection. His counter-strike forced her back but didn't connect.

Gorath's hammer came from his blind side—how did he get there so fast—and Avian barely twisted in time. The weapon passed close enough that the wind of its passing made his hair stand on end. It hit the corridor wall instead, and stone exploded.

The shockwave threw Avian forward into Ashera's range.

Her blade came up toward his throat. Killing blow. No time to dodge. No room to maneuver.

Avian did the only thing he could—he increased his weight dramatically and let gravity manipulation pull him down instead of back.

He dropped like a stone, faster than falling should be, the added mass accelerating his descent. Ashera's blade passed overhead by inches.

Hit the floor hard, stones cracking under the impact. Rolled sideways, came up gasping.

Twenty percent mana. Maybe less. Can't keep this up much longer.

Both Lightbringers advanced, coordinating without words. They'd fought together for years, decades maybe. Every movement flowed into the next, each covering the other's openings.

Avian gave ground, step by bloody step. His breathing had gone ragged. Everything hurt. The wounds were accumulating faster than he could compensate for them.

I'm going to die here.

The thought came with strange clarity. Not fear, not panic. Just recognition. He'd pushed as hard as he could, fought as well as exhaustion allowed, and it wasn't enough.

Again. Dying again. At least this time I'll remember it.

Gorath's hammer swung. Avian parried desperately, Fargrim meeting blessed steel. The impact drove him back another step. His foot caught on debris. He stumbled—

Ashera's blade pierced his left shoulder.

Not deep. Maybe an inch. But it was through muscle and the agony was immediate and overwhelming. Her blade withdrew, already moving toward his throat for the finish—

Something in Avian's mind clicked.

A memory. Not his—Dex's. The final battle with the Demon King. Bleeding from a dozen mortal wounds, body failing, victory impossible.

The Blooddrinker aspect. Every wound dealt could heal wounds received.

He'd been fighting wrong. Fighting defensively, trying to survive, accumulating damage and healing none of it.

Wrong approach. I don't need to survive their attacks. I need to hurt them more than they hurt me.

The shift in mindset was instant and absolute.

Ashera's blade came for his throat. Instead of dodging, Avian stepped into it. Accepted the cut across his collarbone—shallow, his armor taking most of it—as the price of position.

Drove Fargrim through her thigh.

The demon blade bit deep, punching through blessed armor like it was paper. Ashera screamed, genuine shock and pain. Her leg buckled—

And Avian felt it.

The drain. The pull. Her blood flowing into Fargrim's endless hunger, and with it, vitality. Power. Life itself being drawn through steel and into his body.

The cut on his collarbone stopped bleeding. The edges began to knit together, flesh crawling as it healed faster than natural. The throbbing in his shoulder dulled, bones straightening.

There it is. There's the monster I remember.

Ashera stumbled back, shock written across her face. The wound in her thigh poured blood, blessed armor unable to stop the demon blade's work. "He's—what—"

Gorath's hammer came down like divine judgment.

Avian didn't dodge. Couldn't, not without releasing the healing drain from Ashera. So he took it. Let the hammer catch his ribs on the left side, below the arm.

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Bones cracked. The impact drove air from his lungs, sent him flying sideways. He crashed through a crate, splinters tearing at his back.

But Fargrim stayed in motion. As he flew, as his ribs broke, the blade carved a deep line across Gorath's forearm—the part exposed between gauntlet and vambrace.

The drain hit again.

Deeper this time. More desperate. The demon blade had been starved for months, dormant and half-awake. Now it was feeding.

Avian's broken ribs began to crack back into position. The sensation was nauseating—grinding, popping, bones forcibly resetting themselves. His shoulder joint ground back into place with a wet sound. The cuts across his torso began to close, blood flow stopping.

He pushed himself up from the wreckage of the crate, breathing hard but breathing clear.

Both Lightbringers stared.

"What the fuck," Gorath rumbled, pressing his hand to his wounded arm. Blood seeped through his fingers. "That's not—that's demonic—"

"The blade," Ashera gasped, favoring her wounded leg. "He's healing from our blood."

"Vampiric weapon," Gorath said, understanding dawning. "Blooddrinker class. I've heard of them but never—"

"Never fought one," Avian finished, smile spreading across blood-stained teeth. Not a grin—something darker. Like the God of Death himself had decided to wear a human face. "Yeah. Surprise."

He advanced.

The dynamic had shifted. They'd been pushing him back, accumulating damage, wearing him down. Now every exchange where he landed a hit meant he got stronger while they got weaker.

Classic attrition warfare. The kind Dex had perfected over centuries.

Ashera tried to circle, but her wounded leg made her movements stiff. Avian pressed her, Fargrim seeking more blood. She parried desperately, giving ground.

Gorath tried to capitalize on Avian's focus, hammer swinging for his exposed back—

Lux intercepted, lightning crackling. Not enough to hurt a Seventh Tier Lightbringer, but enough to force him to adjust his swing. The hammer passed wide.

Avian's blade found Ashera's sword arm, carved deep into the muscle. She screamed, one blade dropping from nerveless fingers.

Drain.

The lingering pain in his knee vanished. The split lip sealed. The bruises across his back from earlier impacts faded to nothing.

"Fall back!" Gorath shouted, grabbing Ashera's shoulder. "We can't fight him like this!"

They retreated, moving in coordinated fashion despite injuries. Avian pursued—

And saw it through the hole in the exterior wall.

The infiltration team. Five Church soldiers in nondescript armor, moving with purpose through the smoke and chaos. Two hundred yards away, entering the old administration building.

The one that connected to the vault system.

The Eyes of Potestas.

Avian stopped pursuing, mind racing. He'd pushed the Lightbringers back, but they weren't beaten. Both were wounded but still combat-effective. If he kept fighting them, the infiltration team would reach the vault.

If he went after the infiltrators, Gorath and Ashera would kill him from behind.

If he did nothing, the Church got the Eyes.

Dean said: "Some things are bigger than one student."

The Eyes are worth more than me. But if I die here, who stops them later? Who finishes this?

Fuck.

The decision crystallized in an instant. Sometimes you couldn't win. Sometimes you could only choose which loss to take.

Avian gathered every scrap of remaining mana. Fifteen percent. Maybe less. Enough for one big move.

Gravity manipulation. Not to escape—to create a barrier.

He focused on the corridor between himself and them. Made gravity pull sideways into the walls. Stone groaned, then cracked. The entire section of corridor began to collapse inward, walls buckling, ceiling caving.

The Lightbringers saw it coming. Gorath roared, trying to reach Avian before the collapse finished. Ashera's blades flashed, trying to cut through falling stone.

Too slow.

The corridor imploded. Tons of stone and debris crashed down between them, sealing the passage. Dust exploded outward in both directions.

Avian was already running.

Not toward them—toward the vault. Lux dissipated back into ring form, unable to maintain manifestation. His mana reserves hit zero, the gravity field collapsing. Behind him, he heard Gorath roar as they extracted themselves.

Legs pumping, lungs burning, using the healing from Fargrim to push through exhaustion. Blood still on his clothes but the wounds beneath mostly closed. His body was a map of recently-healed tissue, bones that had been broken minutes ago, muscles that should have been too damaged to use.

But he was alive. Moving. Functional.

The infiltrators have a head start. Minutes, not seconds. They're probably already at the vault door.

He crashed through the administration building's entrance, took the stairs down three at a time. The underground passages were dark, lit only by emergency crystals that pulsed with fading light.

Footsteps behind him—distant but closing. The Lightbringers pursuing. They'd dig through the rubble faster than he'd like.

Avian pushed harder.

The passage opened into the vault level. Six heavy doors, each sealed with multiple locks and wards. Five were undisturbed.

The sixth—the one marked with script so old it predated the Empire—stood open.

Fuck. They're inside.

Avian burst through the doorway.

The Vault

The chamber beyond was circular, maybe thirty feet across. The walls were bare stone, the floor inlaid with silver script that formed geometric patterns of stunning complexity. A single pedestal stood in the center, and on it—

Nothing. The Eyes of Potestas were gone.

Five Church infiltrators stood around the pedestal. The leader—a grizzled man with sergeant's markings—held a small box. Inside, two crystalline artifacts glowed with internal light.

They'd already taken them.

All five turned as Avian entered. Hands went to weapons—blessed daggers, short swords, one with a mace.

"Lord Veritas," the sergeant said calmly. "Step aside. We have what we came for."

"Put them back."

"Can't do that. Archbishop's orders."

"Then I'll take them."

The sergeant sighed. "Boys, he's one of the priorities. Try to take him alive if possible."

Four infiltrators advanced. Avian raised Fargrim, still slick with Lightbringer blood.

They came at him together, coordinated. Fourth and Fifth Tier fighters, well-trained but not exceptional. Under normal circumstances, Avian could have handled all five without breaking stride.

But he had zero mana, a body held together by recently-completed healing, and exhaustion that made his hands shake.

The first infiltrator lunged with blessed daggers. Avian parried, but the counter-strike was slow. The infiltrator got inside his guard, dagger scoring across his ribs.

Shallow. Painful. But Avian had been trading worse just minutes ago.

He reversed his grip on Fargrim, drove the pommel into the infiltrator's face. Bones crunched. The man stumbled back—

Fargrim took his throat.

Drain.

The cut on his ribs stopped bleeding, began to close. His shaking hands steadied. The demon blade sang its satisfaction.

The second infiltrator came in with a mace, blessed steel glowing. Avian tried to dodge but his exhausted body was too slow. The weapon caught his left side, just above the hip.

Agony. The blessed steel burned through his minimal aura defense. He felt something tear internally, hot blood flooding his side.

But his blade found the infiltrator's chest, punched through armor and into the heart beneath.

Drain.

The internal injury healed. The burns from blessed steel faded. His breathing cleared.

This is it. This is how I survive. Kill them fast enough that the healing outpaces the damage.

The third infiltrator had a blessed short sword. He came at Avian in a flurry of precise strikes, forcing him back. One cut opened Avian's forearm. Another sliced across his thigh.

But Avian's counter-thrust took the man through the gut. The infiltrator's eyes went wide, shocked.

Drain.

Cuts closing. Blood loss stopping. Bones that had been cracked re-solidifying.

The fourth infiltrator, seeing his companions die, tried to run past Avian toward the exit. Smart play—get out, warn the others, cut losses.

Avian threw Fargrim.

Not a trained technique. Not proper form. Just raw desperation and gravity magic—he had just enough control left to guide the blade through the air.

The demon sword caught the infiltrator between the shoulder blades. The man fell, blood spreading across ancient stone.

Drain.

Even from distance. Even through the throw. The demon blade fed, and Avian felt his exhaustion lift slightly. Not gone—he was still running on fumes—but manageable.

He walked to the body, pulled Fargrim free. Turned to face the sergeant.

The man held the box with the Eyes in one hand, blessed mace in the other. His expression was resigned.

"You're going to kill me," he said. Not a question.

"You chose to be here."

"I chose to serve the Church. Seemed like the right thing at the time." He looked at the bodies of his men. "They were good soldiers. Following orders."

"So was I, once. Didn't save me either."

The sergeant set the box down carefully on the pedestal. Raised his mace in both hands.

"Come on then, boy. Let's finish this."

They met in the center of the chamber.

The sergeant was older, more experienced, fighting with the calm of someone who'd accepted death. His mace came in steady combinations—head, ribs, knee, back to head. Professional. Efficient.

Avian's exhausted body struggled to keep up. The mace caught his shoulder, and he heard something crack. His ribs took another hit, freshly-healed bones breaking again.

But Fargrim carved deep into the sergeant's side, then his sword arm, then across his chest.

Drain. Drain. Drain.

Each wound healed as fast as he took new ones. The sergeant's attacks grew weaker as blood loss took its toll. His movements slowed. The blessed mace felt heavier with each swing.

"Heh," the sergeant coughed blood. "Vampiric blade. Clever. Couldn't beat you straight."

"Nobody beats vampiric straight. That's the point."

"Archbishop's going to be pissed."

"Tell him yourself."

The final strike took the sergeant through the heart. The man died with his eyes open, mace falling from nerveless fingers.

Drain.

One last pulse of healing. Avian's broken ribs reset. The crack in his shoulder sealed. The cuts and burns and a dozen other injuries closed, leaving only bloodstained clothes as evidence they'd existed.

He stood alone in the vault, surrounded by five corpses, holding a demon blade that dripped blood onto silver script.

And on the pedestal, the box containing the Eyes of Potestas.

Avian approached slowly. His whole body trembled—not from injury now, but from exhaustion so deep it felt like his bones were made of lead. The healing had fixed the damage but not the fatigue. He'd been fighting at maximum output for what felt like hours.

But the Eyes were here. Right here.

His whole body trembled—not from injury now, but from exhaustion so deep it felt like his bones were made of lead. The healing had fixed the damage but not the fatigue. He'd been fighting at maximum output for what felt like hours.

But the Eyes were here. Right here.

He reached for the box containing the Eyes of Potestas.

His fingers touched the crystalline artifacts.

The world STOPPED.