Martial Demons Ascension

Rhyka lowered himself to the cold earth just outside the circle of firelight. The night was quiet, the caravan hushed after a day of travel, but the weight in his chest made it feel like a storm was gathering inside him.

He crossed his legs, rested his palms on his knees, and let his breathing slow until each inhale was long and controlled. The golden lattice of Martial Essence lit up inside him, brighter than the stars overhead. He drew it inward, guiding every strand, every thread, forcing it to spiral toward the core of his being his heart.

The fire started immediately.

A searing burn welled up inside his chest, hotter than any fever, sharper than any blade. His heart didn't just beat; it hammered, every thud echoing like a drum strike in his skull. The heat spread along his ribs, crawling into his throat, even trickling into his arms as if the essence wanted to tear its way out.

But he endured.

He had endured worse.

He clenched his jaw, teeth grinding, golden eyes narrowing as he pushed more of the Martial Essence down into that furnace. Each cycle was harder than the last, each push met with greater resistance. His heart felt swollen, dense, like the organ itself was fighting him, demanding he stop before it tore itself apart.

And yet, he pressed on.

Threads of Martial Essence coiled and sank, embedding themselves into his heart's rhythm. He could feel the changes—his pulse growing heavier, his blood carrying strength with every beat. His body was being reforged from the inside out, tempered like steel.

But then… the resistance changed.

It wasn't just pain anymore. It was a wall. A barrier. The more he pushed, the more it pushed back. He felt the flow stutter, strain, and threaten to rupture. His smirk faltered, replaced by a grimace as sweat rolled down his temples.

A bottleneck.

The dread crept in quietly, coiling around his thoughts like a serpent. What if this was it? What if his body couldn't hold more? What if this painful, incomplete state was his peak?

He had no core. No spells. No bloodline. Nothing but his body and the golden truth of Martial Essence. If his path ended here, he would never reach the level of the monsters waiting in the mountain. He would never face the Rank 5 and live. He would never rise high enough to drag the goddess of sorcery down from her throne.

The fire in his chest was unbearable now, as though molten iron had been poured into his veins. His heart pounded louder, faster, shaking his ribs with each beat. His vision blurred, golden threads trembling at the edge of his sight.

But still, he didn't stop.

He forced another cycle. Another push. Another surge of essence into the heart that screamed against him.

His body quivered, muscles taut as bowstrings. His fingers dug so hard into his knees he nearly drew blood. His breath came ragged, misting in the cold air as the burn clawed up his throat.

And still, he pushed.

Because the alternative accepting a ceiling, bowing to a limit was worse than death.

For a moment, it felt like he might break. Like his chest would split open and the fire inside would consume him whole. The dread spiked sharp, telling him he was one push away from collapse.

But he grinned through it, teeth bared against the agony.

"...If this is the wall," he hissed under his breath, "then I'll break it."

The fire roared back in answer, and his heart thundered like a war drum.

The morning air was thin and bitterly cold, fog hanging low in the trees like pale curtains. The caravan stirred slowly awake merchants muttering as they checked their goods, guards sharpening blades, the creak of wagon wheels carrying faintly through the mist.

Rhyka had barely finished his morning breathing cycles when the flap of his tent was yanked open and two mercenaries pulled him out by the arm. He didn't resist. He just let them drag him into the open, his bare chest glistening faintly with the sheen of sweat from training.

And when the others saw him, conversation faltered.

Even among seasoned fighters, the sight of his body gave pause. His frame wasn't bulky like a knight's, nor gaunt like a spellcaster's. It was dense. Balanced. Each muscle seemed carved to fit the next, no wasted mass, no weakness, as though his body had been sculpted for combat alone. His skin was unnaturally smooth, almost luminous in the pale light, with golden undertones that caught the eye and refused to let go. His veins pulsed steadily under the surface, his chest rising and falling in perfect rhythm, his aura calm yet suffocating.

He wasn't flexing. He didn't need to. His existence was proof enough.

Rhyka smirked faintly at the silence, rolling his shoulders as if unconcerned by the way half the camp stared. He didn't bother covering himself. He wanted them to look. Wanted them to see what training, pain, and Martial Essence had made of him.

The main squad of Rank 3 mercenaries Cerys among them were gathered near the edge of camp. Their leader, a grizzled man with pale scars crossing his cheek, stepped forward.

"Meeting," he said gruffly. "Scouting party leaves in an hour."

Rhyka's golden eyes flicked across the group, noting the way they exchanged glances, the smirks tugging at their lips. They hadn't stopped mocking him since the first night, but it was always subtle, always controlled. Now was no different.

Cerys folded her arms, her gaze cool and dismissive. "Don't worry, pretty boy," she said, her tone sharp but almost playful. "You and your noble friend get the easy job today."

Nero stepped out from the side, dressed immaculately despite the roughness of the camp. His pale eyes were calm, detached, as if none of this touched him at all.

"The scouting party will sweep ahead," the scarred leader continued. "Devil beast activity's been too quiet. That means something's building. If we can map their routes, avoid them, or cull smaller packs before they form up, the caravan will move faster."

"And us?" Rhyka asked, his voice casual but laced with arrogance.

"You two stay," the leader said, his gaze narrowing slightly. "You'll guard the caravan itself with the rest of the camp guard. If anything gets past us, you deal with it. Understood?"

There was an edge to his tone an unspoken dismissal. Like he didn't expect Rhyka or Nero to see real combat today. Like they were just placeholders.

Rhyka smirked wider, unbothered. "Defending, huh? Figures you wouldn't want me outshining you again."

That earned a few chuckles from the mercenaries. Mocking, but faintly uneasy.

Nero didn't speak. He simply inclined his head, as if the arrangement was already beneath comment.

The leader waved them off, the mercenaries breaking into small groups to prepare their supplies. But as they turned away, Rhyka caught the way some of them glanced at him not with the earlier amusement, but with something sharper. Suspicion. Calculation.

He stretched lazily, golden eyes gleaming as the mist curled around him.

Fine, he thought. Let them scout however his inner thoughts were completely different.