Rune of Immortality

Jacob had assumed evading the monster would be simple, he had counted on it being simple. But as the chase dragged on, that illusion quickly crumbled. The creature wasn't slowing down; it was adapting.

With every passing minute its movements became sharper, faster, more deliberate, as though intelligence itself was beginning to bloom within it. What had started as a mindless pursuit was turning into a hunt, one where the prey was being studied, understood, cornered.

A quiet unease began to creep into Jacob's chest, settling there like ice. He had imagined that they could keep ahead of it, circling the labyrinth of this place while uncovering whatever secrets it hid. But that thought was becoming laughable now. The thing was too close, close enough that every breath felt borrowed, every turn pointless. Running had become an act of denial, a refusal to face the truth that escape might no longer exist.

Still, he ran. Not because he thought he could win or survive, but because he felt something ahead, a faint presence, not comforting or powerful, but compelling in a way he couldn't explain. It was not salvation he chased but curiosity, the strange pull to see what lay beyond the next corner, to reach whatever waited there before the beast could catch them.

The sound of pursuit grew louder. Heavy, rhythmic, relentless. He had already abandoned all attempts at misdirection; weaving through hallways and doubling back no longer fooled it. It had grown too aware, too focused. Now Jacob could only run in a straight line, pulling Mathew behind him with chains of fire while carrying Joey over his shoulder, each step more exhausting than the last.

It occurred to him, briefly, how absurd it was, that he was dragging one man and carrying another while trying to outpace a creature that could tear through him. But he pushed the thought aside. Mathew had to be protected, and Joey, despite his frail appearance, was valuable. For him to have survived this long meant he had strength or knowledge that might prove useful later. So Jacob ran for his own sake as much as for theirs.

An hour passed, maybe two, time lost its meaning in the endless corridors of the library. Then at last, the space ahead began to change. The walls warped, the shelves bending in unnatural ways until they formed an arched doorway framed entirely by leather-bound books. The wood that shaped it looked soft and pliant, as though it had been melted and forced into place.

At the centre stood a door, massive yet fragile, made from dark, rotting wood riddled with holes. It looked ancient, so decayed that a single touch might be enough to reduce it to dust.

Jacob stopped, breathing hard, the chains still glowing faintly beneath Mathew as Joey stirred weakly on his shoulder. Behind them, the sound of the pursuing creature echoed through the halls like the beating of a colossal heart.

Whatever lay beyond that door it would have to do.

Jacob approached the door with caution, his hand settling on the brass handle as though it might crumble beneath his touch. The metal was cold, yet smooth, and with the faintest turn the door gave way, swinging open far too easily for something that looked so ancient.

The motion was effortless, silent, almost graceful and for a moment he found himself staring, faintly surprised that it hadn't disintegrated the moment he touched it.

Without hesitation he stepped through, pulling the door shut behind him before turning to take in the room beyond. What he saw drew a quiet, thoughtful sound from his throat, a low hum that carried both curiosity and a kind of subdued amusement.

The room was filled with portraits and sculptures, all depicting the same pair of figures over and over again, their likenesses repeated to the point of obsession. The first was a beast, immense and striking, unlike any creature Jacob had ever seen or read of. Its head was that of a lion, its mane falling in thick, flowing waves that reached its knees, sculpted with such precision that the stone seemed to ripple like living hair.

The body beneath that regal head was humanoid, tall, broad, and dressed in what appeared to be a lab coat, the carved details of its folds and seams so meticulous that Joey, still half-conscious, might have sworn he could feel the texture of the fabric just by looking at it.

From the creature's back extended two pairs of arms, four in total, each arm crafted with care, each muscle defined. In one hand it held a lantern, the flame within captured mid-flicker, and in another a book, its pages half-open as if disturbed by an invisible breeze.

Beside it, in every sculpture and painting, stood a young man. Human or at least he looked human. His clothes were plain, unremarkable, and his face even more so: a face so simple it was almost unsettling.

Not ugly, not deformed, but lacking any individuality, as though it were a model awaiting the final details that would make it a person. He barely reached the beast's waist, yet in every depiction the creature's hand rested gently on his shoulder, their poses identical, standing side by side, facing forward.

But what truly unsettled Jacob wasn't the subjects themselves; it was what had been done to them. Across every portrait, every statue, and every surface on which the beast's image appeared, words had been scrawled, jagged, uneven, and written in a language he could not read.

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He couldn't decipher the symbols or guess at their meaning, but as he studied them, he felt something strange stirring beneath his skin, a weight that pressed faintly against his mind.

He couldn't understand the words. But he could feel them, their anger, their grief, their desperation, emotions so raw and heavy they almost hummed in the air.

They were words carved from rage, pure, festering hatred etched into stone and canvas alike, each stroke heavy with loathing and contempt. All of it was directed toward the beast, and the emotion that lingered was so vivid, so violently alive, that Jacob could feel it even now, millennia later, pressing upon his chest like an invisible weight.

The air itself seemed to pulse with fury, thick and oppressive, flooding his mind with thoughts that were not his own, emotions that clawed at his composure and urged him toward anger he didn't understand.

He turned to glance behind him. Mathew was already lost to it. His eyes were wide and bloodshot, veins crawling up his neck as he thrashed against the chains, each violent jerk scraping his skin raw. Though Jacob's flames had been dulled to prevent burning, the chains were still solid, still merciless, and they cut into Mathew's flesh as he struggled. The sound of metal rattling echoed through the chamber, sharp and desperate.

Jacob let him be. Mathew was not in danger, not yet at least, and the wounds he was inflicting on himself would do little more than bleed. His gaze moved instead to Joey, who, to his surprise, seemed almost unaffected.

The boy's expression was calm, distant even, his eyes fixed on the paintings and sculptures that filled the room. There was no trace of anger in his face, no distortion of emotion. He simply looked fascinated, as though trying to piece together the story behind what he saw.

Turning back to the rows of defaced art, Jacob exhaled slowly. Beyond the door he could still feel the presence of the creature, the rank nine. It lingered nearby, pacing perhaps, unwilling or unable to enter this place. That alone was enough to tell him this room was significant. It was the only sanctuary they were likely to find, and though the air was thick with centuries-old hatred, it would have to serve as their refuge for now.

With that thought, Jacob released the chains binding Mathew, though before the man could even find his balance, Jacob raised a hand and drew a rune midair. A faint white shimmer spread outward, forming a barrier around himself and Joey.

Mathew stretched his shoulders, his breath heavy, but when he turned toward Jacob and saw the barrier, something in his eyes shifted, rage tightening like a coil. Then, without a word, he lunged forward, throwing himself at the barrier like a cornered animal, his fists striking against it with dull, rhythmic thuds.

Joey stared, startled and silent, glancing between Mathew's furious form and Jacob, who now sat down with his back against the inner wall of the barrier, completely unbothered. His eyes were fixed on one painting in particular, the only one that remained untouched by vandalism.

It was a portrait of the beast.

Its face, though distinctly leonine, held an undeniable elegance, a strange nobility that transcended its monstrous form. The mane framed its features like a crown, and in its expression there was both power and serenity, an unshakable confidence that seemed to command reverence. Even in paint, its presence was overwhelming.

Jacob felt it, the pull, the authority, the quiet dominance that made the air itself feel heavier. The emotion emanating from the painting was stronger even than the hatred scrawled around the room. For a fleeting moment, Jacob felt the absurd thought that if this being were standing before him now, he might not have been able to resist bowing his head in acknowledgment.

The presence he felt radiating from that painted face, it was unmistakable, the faint, lingering essence of someone who had once stood at the divine rank, a being who could only be compared to a god.

And though countless ages had passed, that presence had not faded. It still pressed on the world around it, heavy and suffocating, and Jacob despised that fact. He hated that after millennia, a mere likeness of such a being could still bend his thoughts, could still reach into his mind and twist the rhythm of his emotions. It meant he was vulnerable. It meant he was weak. And that was something Jacob Skydrid could not accept.

He had never felt so small before, not when facing monsters, not when standing before nobles or the Grand Scholar, but here, in front of a painting, he felt it deeply. The difference between what he was and what that being had been was vast, almost incomprehensible.

He thought briefly of Yggdrasil, and though that entity was divine in its own right, it had never made him feel this way. Yggdrasil's presence was calm, nurturing, annoying at times, distant but never oppressive. This, however, was domination in its purest form.

With a quiet sigh, Jacob forced his eyes shut, pulling his attention away from the painting before the sensation rooted itself too deeply. He sat still for a moment, letting his heartbeat steady, then reached into his coat and produced several small bottles filled with shimmering liquid. Passing them toward Joey, he muttered, "Drink them. Recover your strength. That thing is still waiting outside."

Joey hesitated, his hand hovering above the potions, then turned his gaze toward the door. His face was unreadable, his tone quiet. "What are our chances of beating it?"

"About fifteen percent," Jacob replied without hesitation. He had already run the numbers in his mind, fifteen percent was generous.

For a long moment, Joey said nothing. His expression didn't change, but his hand moved toward his satchel. He rummaged through it until his fingers wrapped around something solid. When he pulled it free, Jacob's eyes immediately widened.

A small white pebble, glowing faintly with dense mana, the air around it rippling with restrained energy.

A Rank Ascension Stone.

A slow smile crept across Jacob's face. "You're willing to ascend here?"

Joey nodded silently, meeting his gaze. It was clear what he wanted to know: What were their odds now?

Jacob went quiet, thinking it through, then answered, "If we use your ascension properly, if you can hold on in the site long enough, we might actually kill it."

That was all Joey needed to hear. He nodded again, grabbed the bottles, and began drinking them one after another, his breathing steadying as the potions mended his body. When the last bottle was empty, he turned back to Jacob, his voice calm and measured.

"When you get out," he said, "if you find a statue holding a book, give that book to me."

He extended his hand, waiting.

Jacob didn't hesitate. He hadn't seen such a statue yet, and in truth, he didn't particularly care about whatever book it held. If it meant survival, he could promise a hundred books. He clasped Joey's hand firmly, sealing the deal without another word.

And just like that, between two exhausted survivors surrounded by ruin and fear, an agreement was forged, their single, fragile chance at survival.