Chapter 30

  Since I, Luken, don’t clearly remember what happened next (Gravor had a bit more influence over me than he admitted), this chapter is written by the Archivists. The memories were… extracted from my mind. Don’t ask me how. I have no idea.

  But hey, no need to bore anyone with that—so let’s get to it.

  —

  Luken became something unknown, eerie, and ancient in that battle—but I think we’ve talked enough about that already.

  With a primal roar, Luken charged the Crytomancer, just as the man had done earlier. The muscular mage didn’t react fast enough. Luken’s blade slammed into his side, drawing a furious howl from his opponent. The Crytomancer retaliated with a brutal uppercut to the chin—but the blow, one that could have shattered a normal man’s skull, did nothing.

  The new helm, now lined with scaled plating, absorbed the impact. Luken didn’t even flinch.

  He hissed, his tongue now serpent-like, and drove his claws straight into the Crytomancer’s chest. With his other mutated hand, he grabbed the man by the throat and slammed him down, pinning him hard against the frozen ground.

  “You should’ve never picked a fight with me,” Luken snarled, his voice now deeper—alien—completely different from what it once was.

  “You’re… you’re literally a sick freak,” the Crytomancer gasped, struggling for breath. With a surge of strength, he kicked Luken hard in the stomach, managing to throw the monstrous paladin off him.

  Luken didn’t fall. Not for a single second. He didn’t even stagger. Instead, he raised one hand and conjured a spear—no, not a normal spear, but a weapon born of Gravor’s dark power, infused with the same unholy essence that now coursed through Luken himself.

  The shaft was black as obsidian, sleek yet jagged, and the tip… the tip writhed as if alive, its barbed edge pulsing faintly like some monstrous, slumbering eye.

  This time, the Crytomancer made the first move. With a grunt, he conjured a short sword into existence, its runes crackling with icy blue energy. He lunged—but Luken, faster now, impossibly so, deflected the blow with a spin of the spear, then thrust his mutated arm forward.

  A thorn, grotesquely jutting from his upper arm, pierced deep into the Crytomancer’s shoulder.

  The man grunted in pain, stumbled back—and was met by a brutal kick to the chest that sent him sprawling across the frozen surface.

  As he hit the ground, the Crytomancer gasped. His limbs stiffened. His breath caught. He could feel it—the venom. It was already spreading, crawling through his bloodstream like freezing fire, locking his muscles one by one.

  He clenched his jaw, focused, tried to channel his will, the typical way to heal injuries in a soul-fight. But it didn’t work. His spirit was resisting, trembling. His right arm was nearly limp now, trembling weakly at his side.

  Luken approached without urgency. He looked down at the man who had once seemed unshakable—a pillar of muscle and frost—and now lay half-paralyzed, reduced to gasping desperation.

  Then Luken crouched, seized the Crytomancer by the throat with his clawed hand, and brought his face close. Too close. Their noses almost touched. Luken’s breath was warm and unholy, reeking of fury and something older than time.

  “You forgot something,” he whispered, his voice a low rasp of scorn and venom.

  He leaned in even closer, and the words that followed were not just spoken, but carved into the air like a curse.

  “This… is my mind.”

  Then something cracked again inside Luken.

  A sickening snap echoed through his back—deep, wet, unnatural—and something began to push outward. The Crytomancer froze as he saw it: From Luken’s spine erupted a new horror. Black, torn wings—draconic in form but corrupted in essence—unfurled into the air with a guttural, stretching sound. The leathery appendages cracked and quivered as they extended, their ragged edges flaring like the silhouette of some fallen god.

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  They blocked the sky—or at least what passed for a sky in this half-real soul-realm—casting the Crytomancer beneath their shadow. And in that moment, for the first time, he looked truly afraid.

  “No… you’ve got to be kidding,” he muttered, almost pleading.

  Luken’s reply came flat. Dead. Unfeeling.

  “Nope.”

  But he didn’t take flight.

  With brutal, deliberate motion, Luken whipped his wings downward. The sharpened tips—long as daggers and glistening with the same venom that coursed through his monstrous form—plunged into the Crytomancer’s shoulders. Both of them. With a crunch of bone and a hiss of poison, they struck true.

  The man screamed—not just in pain, but in rage.

  “NO!” he roared, and with a burst of defiance, shoved Luken back.

  The strike landed true. For the first time in this monstrous phase, Luken stumbled—not just a step, but fell, hitting the frozen ground hard, his clawed hand catching just in time to stop his face from smashing against the ice.

  Slowly, he pushed himself up, but the momentum was gone for the moment. His enemy rose instead.

  And the Crytomancer... began to shine.

  It started as a pulse—runic glyphs across his chest and arms igniting with blue fire. Then more: the tattoos on his legs, his back, his throat—all glowing with ancient magic, surging to life with a hum that rattled the very realm around them. The venom faded, the wounds sealed, and the air itself vibrated with pressure as if the world held its breath.

  His eyes burst into glowing azure flame.

  And then he spoke—not calmly, not with arrogance, but with primal fury.

  “No!”

  “I trained in the Sanctum of Virtus. My muscles were hardened beyond mortal limits!” His voice boomed across the lake like a war horn.

  “I spoke to the First Gods. I shattered beasts that haunted the dreams of kings and warlords!”

  With every step he took toward Luken, the ice cracked beneath him. Not from weight—but power.

  “Entire armies surrendered the moment they saw me enter the battlefield!”

  Then he paused—just for a heartbeat. The silence was heavy. Cold.

  And then his voice dropped to a low growl, shaking with hatred.

  “You…” His tone rose.

  “…will…” It edged into a snarl.

  “…not…” A furious growl now.

  “…DEFEAT ME!”

  With that final scream, he released a shockwave—a ripple of pure will and fury—that surged outward in all directions. It slammed into Luken like a cannon, sending shudders through bone, through blood, through soul.

  What followed could barely be called a battle—it was an unhinged brawl between two monsters who had both lost their minds.

  The Crytomancer struck first. His glowing fist came crashing down like a warhammer aimed at Luken’s skull, and it was only in the final fraction of a second that Luken managed to twist his head aside. The blow missed by mere hairs, but the wind pressure alone was enough to stagger him.

  Luken didn’t hesitate. In retaliation, he swung one clawed hand forward and unleashed a fan of poisonous spines—sleek, black projectiles that shimmered with venom and dark intent. They screamed through the air toward his opponent.

  The Crytomancer reacted with uncanny grace. His body twisted with inhuman flexibility, dodging each needle with effortless precision, as if he could see the world in slow motion.

  Then came the next collision. The Crytomancer launched himself forward, fist raised high again, aiming for Luken’s chest this time. But the paladin had learned. He spread his wings—those black, torn, dragonlike things—and crossed them in front of him like a shield.

  The impact rang like thunder as the glowing blue fist struck the wing-blades. Sparks of ethereal energy burst out, flaring blue and black. Luken grunted, forced a step back—but then used the momentum, sidestepped around his opponent, and moved with blur-speed behind him.

  With both clawed hands he thrust forward, aiming to tear through the Crytomancer’s back.

  But instead of flesh and bone, his claws struck glowing runes—bright tattoos burning across the man’s upper back. The impact triggered a shockwave of light, blasting Luken backward. His feet skidded across the ice, claws tearing deep furrows into its surface.

  Then everything shook.

  The ice beneath them cracked with a sound like splitting earth. Web-like fractures spread out in all directions, and with a deafening CRUNCH, the ground gave way.

  Luken fell—but his wings flared open just in time, catching the air. In a blur of black motion, he reversed his descent and shot upward, only to dive back down again like a falling star. He streaked through the air, his claws ignited with Gravor’s dark essence, aiming to crash into the Crytomancer like a comet of vengeance.

  But the man was ready.

  Just before impact, a translucent barrier appeared around the Crytomancer, shaped like a dome of glass. Luken slammed into it with full force. The explosion of energy from the collision sent a quake through the realm itself. The barrier held—but barely—and the impact flung Luken away like a ragdoll. He crashed into the frozen ground, sliding across it with such violence that more of the lake's surface fractured and collapsed behind him.

  Silence followed.

  Both warriors were slow to move.

  Luken groaned, forcing himself up through the pain. The black scales across his chestplate cracked and steamed. He winced as one wing twitched—damaged but still intact. Then he looked up.

  Across from him, the Crytomancer stood hunched, chest rising and falling rapidly. Glowing runes flickered across his arms and legs, dimming slightly now. His breaths were ragged. The veins in his neck bulged. Sweat—or something like it—dripped from his brow. Despite all the power pulsing within him, he was just as drained as Luken.

  Their eyes met.

  The world around them faded for just a moment. No more crashing. No more shouting. Only stillness. Battle-scarred, bloodied, barely holding on, they stared at each other like two gods dragged into hell.

  Luken’s lips curled into a crooked grin beneath the helm. “Ready for round three?”

  The Crytomancer straightened his posture just slightly, wiped a smear of blood from his chin, and smiled back.

  “Ready.”