The Nameless Heir

Exhausted didn't even cover it. Battle after battle, he'd barely had a chance to breathe.

His vision blurred at the edges. Each breath made the world tilt a little more. His legs dragged, knees shaking, threatening to give out. Blood slipped down his arm and spattered on the stone, too loud in the silence.

He forced himself forward, step after step. His chest burned, his lungs refusing him air.

He staggered up to the bald man, gasping, his voice breaking as it tore out of him.

"Open this damn barrier… before I break it with your bald head."

The man lurched back, palms scraping the stone until skin tore. His breath hitched. The words caught in his throat, thin and broken with fear.

"Don't come near!"

The scythe came down, its edge biting into the stone just behind him. He froze. The cold blade pressed against his back, stopping him dead.

"Open it."

"I swear—I can't open it!"

"Useless."

He stepped past the man. The scythe rose, its edge sliding up beneath the trembling neck. One motion. Clean.

The head fell.

"What now?" Typhon asked.

"We break it."

The concept had to be the same. Someone had cast it, only denser, heavier. Which meant he just had to hit harder.

Shadows coiled around his arm, twisting into chains that wrapped tight.

"You sure, kid?" Typhon's voice rumbled.

"No other way."

He planted his foot into the ground and swung with everything he had left.

The earth split under the force. The barrier shook. Cracks split outward, jagged and fast in every direction. The ground moved with it, as though the whole country had been dragged forward and snapped back. The recoil smashed into him, harder than before.

The recoil ripped straight through his arm. Chains snapped, shadows splintered, and something inside him broke with a wet crack.

His hand fell limp at his side. He couldn't feel it anymore.

Blood slicked his hand, trailing into the cracks beneath him. Every breath scraped his throat raw. His knees buckled once, steadied, then buckled again, as if his own body was trying to drag him down.

"Kid!" Typhon's voice cracked through his mind, loud and unsteady. "You alright?"

He clenched his jaw until pain shot up the sides of his head. His arm hung useless. He forced himself upright anyway, swaying like he'd fall with the next breath. Darkness crowded the edges of his sight, but his gaze never left the barrier.

"I'm… alright."

"I'll try to heal the arm," Typhon muttered, his voice tight. "But I barely have any power left."

"Ok."

He kept his eyes locked on the barrier. Cracks spread, thin and sharp, webbing faster with every heartbeat. The sound scraped at him, rough and grating, like bones grinding. Then it gave. No warning. The barrier split apart, glass and stone raining down in a hard shower. With a final shudder, it shattered.

Beyond it, the casters lay scattered on the ground, coughing blood. Not one, not ten—there had to be at least a hundred.

He dragged himself forward, each step leaving a smear of blood across the stone. His ruined arm dangled, useless, knocking against his side with every movement. His gaze never shifted, flat and cold, carrying nothing but the promise of death.

The casters stirred weakly, trying to rise. Blood poured from their mouths as they looked up at him. Terror filled their faces. One clawed at the air, fingers shaking. Another wheezed, spitting blood instead of words. Whatever they meant to say never reached him.

All he could hear was buzzing at this point.

One tried to speak. The scythe answered first. He didn't have time for this. The edge ripped through them, flesh and bone giving way with a wet crack. Their voices died in their throats as blood hit the stone in heavy streaks.

He kept walking. None were spared.

He rose into the air. Beneath him, everything was gone—leveled to the ground, nothing left alive.

He wanted to move fast, to tear himself away before the sight sank in. But his body refused. He was drained, every breath dragging him lower.

He drifted toward the main city. Toward the academy.

He tried to reach his soldiers, but nothing answered. Something was severing the connection, cutting him off.

He focused harder. For a moment, nothing. Then, faint and ragged, Cyrus's voice.

"Can you hear me?" The words were barely more than a whisper.

"So many humans… so many monsters. I don't know how long the barrier will hold around the academy."

"Where are the Sins?"

"They're chained. Bound by something I've never seen."

He froze. He knew those chains. Cyrus didn't have to say more. Anku. The same chains that had locked him in hell during his previous life.

"I'm coming."

He forced himself to fly higher, faster, cutting through the air with what strength he had left. But waiting ahead, three figures blocked his path.

He wasn't worried. His eyes locked on the woman lingering in the back. Almost certain—an Enchanter. If his memory was right, they could heal.

If he managed to survive this, he could force her to fix him. If she refused, things would get difficult.

First, he had to survive.

That meant cutting down the swordsman grinning at him, and the mage with a staff leveled at his chest.

All three floated in the air. Humans shouldn't fly—not without skills or artifacts.

He raised his sword. His hand shook, weak from exhaustion, but his eyes stayed steady.

His gaze shifted from the healer to the swordsman and the mage.

The swordsman lunged first, his blade carving down in a blur, heavy enough to split stone. Heat flared at his flank—fireballs, dozens of them, hissing through the air as the mage's spell burst open, flames racing in from every angle.

He shot upward, slipping past the blaze. The fireballs burst beneath him, heat clawing at his back.

The swordsman followed close, blade gleaming. He caught up with ease—he wasn't moving fast, not anymore. His body was drained, his speed cut in half.

The swordsman appeared above him, blade already raised. As it fell, the weapon swelled—ten times its size, blazing with a yellow-blue light that burned against the sky.

He brought his own sword up to block, but it was useless. The impact crashed through him, driving him down toward the ground.

The light crawled along his blade, slithering like fire made solid, creeping into his arm. His muscles seized, nerves screaming as the glow spread deeper.

The light seeped into his thumb first. It twitched, then split open as if the nerves themselves were tearing. One by one, his fingers followed, pried apart by the invading glow. It was taking control, worming through him.

The swordsman pressed harder, forcing him down. His arm shook, pain flooding through every nerve.

Seeing no other choice, he tilted his blade. The swordsman's weapon scraped against his, sparks bursting as he twisted with the momentum. In a blur, he shifted above the swordsman, shadows coiling out from his body.

They wrapped around the man's arms, then doubled back, chaining his body tight. Black links slammed shut, sealing him in place.

The mage saw it and unleashed everything at once. A storm of spells filled the sky—ice, fire, lightning crashing down in waves.

He gritted his teeth. He didn't let go.

Instead, he shot higher, dragging the bound swordsman with him. Higher and higher, until the air itself grew thin.

Then he dropped.

They twisted through the air, chains rattling as the man jerked against them. Panic sharpened his voice, breaking into a raw snarl. "You crazy bastard!"

He only smiled. He wasn't wasting energy on words.

Together, they slammed into the ground.

The impact ripped the earth open, a massive explosion tearing through stone and soil. Dust and debris roared into the sky, swallowing everything.

Above, the mage and the healer could barely see through the storm.

Before they could react, he was already there. He appeared behind the mage, his hand driving clean through her chest. Fingers tore past flesh and bone, closing around her heart. She didn't even have time to scream before he ripped it free.

He turned to the Enchanter. Crimson light bled from his eyes, harsh and steady. Her body locked stiff as his hand closed on her throat. Her mouth opened once, but the sound died in her chest before it could form.

"Only listen—and nod." His grip tightened around her throat.

"You have two options.

"One. You heal me. I let you live. And when you die, I'll send you somewhere you'll be happy for eternity. Whatever you want. Whatever you need.

"Two. You refuse. I snap your neck here and now, and I'll make sure you suffer even after death—forever."

His eyes glowed crimson, burning into hers.

"Now pick. Blink once if you choose the first. You won't have time to blink twice."

He had nothing left. His body refused him. Every muscle burned, stiff with pain. Even his grip on her throat shook—not from doubt, but from the weight of exhaustion grinding through him.

The words scraped out of him, thin and ragged. But his tone stayed steady, colder than it had any right to be. No one needed to hear how close he was to breaking, especially her.

Her eyes went wide, trembling with a panic she couldn't voice. She forced her lips to move, but his grip pressed harder, smothering the sound into nothing. Her lips trembled. No words. Only fear.

Seconds dragged. She didn't blink.

His hand tightened, the pressure making her gag, her legs kicking weakly in the air.

"Blink." His voice was cold, final. "Or die."

Her body shook. Then, one sharp blink, desperate and quick.

His grip eased just enough for her to breathe. His crimson eyes never left hers.

"Good," he muttered. "Now heal me."