Raven gripped the edge of the ice shelf, her nails biting into the frost. The entire ridge beneath her had sunk half a man’s height, as if the world had exhaled in exhaustion. Jagged spires that once loomed like cathedral steeples were now snapped stumps, their shattered crowns buried beneath landslides of snow.
Several mist drifted upward from the different craters, curling into the sky and smothering the pale light above. She could taste the ice in the air—sharp, metallic—and beneath it, faint yet unmistakable, the char of something burnt.
She frowned at the destruction below. The flattened ground breathed in strange rhythms—cold smoke in some places, hot smoke in others.
Eli and Thalen were far higher up. During the attack, the entire landscape had been battered by such vicious force that staying on the ground was suicide. A single touch from those shockwaves, born from Northern skidding across the ice mountains, would have torn them apart.
Eli had soared into the clouds; Raven had ducked as low as she could, yet still couldn’t escape without a few wounds. Her breath was ragged—it had taken everything she had just to survive the maddened environment.
And if she was this drained, simply fighting to stay alive against a world driven around by the force of a punch, how in all stars was Northern surviving? Was he even still alive? How could he endure those punches?
High above, the great eagle-like bird stared down, awe and fear glinting in its sharp eyes.
A dozen thoughts tangled in Eli’s mind. First was the sheer absurdity—Northern had turned a desert into an ice land. If he told anyone the Red Desert had once been scorched sand, they’d punch him in the face for such an obvious lie.
Because it was madness. Madness so plete, he couldn’t even picture a Paragon doing something like this.
The essence it must have taken to forge such a landscape... staggering. And as if that wasn’t enough, Eli had watched the Origin punch Northern twice.
He felt the audacity of those blows. Not just him—anything with a will must have felt them. Even the world itself seemed to flinch.
His voice trembled as his gaze fixed on the figure sprawled below.
"Thalen... is this boy truly a Sage? Is there something about Sages I’ve missed? Since when does a Sage have the essence to create an entire terrain?"
Thalen, seated on him, kept his eyes on Northern. He slowly shook his head.
"I don’t know, friend. I don’t know at all."
***
Northern lay on the ground, panting—breathing hard. Or was he breathing at all? He couldn’t tell. His senses were numb, his body equally so. He felt like nothing more than a mass of consciousness with no movable parts.
It was hard to process what had just happened. Two punches. Just two—and already death felt like the kinder option.
Yet, beneath the agony, something strange stirred.
Power.
At first, it was faint—hard to track. But the more he focused, the clearer it became, as though he could follow it back to its very source.
’My true name. There is something happening to it...’
An Origin’s blow was devastating, but somehow, Northern felt nourished by it. Kryos’s power didn’t just strike him—it erased him. Or more accurately, it unwrote him.
And yet Kryos hadn’t seemed surprised he was still alive. That told Northern it wasn’t considered remarkable—perhaps just one of the perks of being an Origin.
Which would mean anyone could have survived. But Kryos couldn’t have known that the essence of Northern’s true name was feeding on the concept of those punches—on the concept of an Origin’s strike itself.
’But the question stands... how much more can I take before I die?’
A dry laugh bubbled in his mind, escaping his lips. He chuckled as he rolled over, forcing himself upright.
The sound caught Kryos’s attention. A broad, warm smile spread across the man’s face.
"Laughing? Good. Then this will take a while. The last thing I want is for everything to end too quickly—not after five thousand years of imprisonment."
Northern straightened, but stood perfectly still, almost trance-like. He knew if he took even one step, he’d collapse again.
And yet... with each second that crawled by, his body felt better. Too much better.
Adapting.
Something was changing—something beyond the flesh. His very bones, their concept of rigidity forgotten under Kryos’s blows, were being rewritten by Unwritten, while Omniform rebuilt them anew.
Unwritten was the architect. Omniform, the on-site engineer.
The only problem was that both the reconceptualizing and the reconstruction were agonizingly slow.
Which brought him back to the question: could he truly grow strong enough from the Origin’s assaults before they finally killed him?
He sighed.
’Damnit... I don’t want to die.’
Kryos watched him, that warm smile still fixed on his burnished face—pleasant, harmless. And it terrified Northern.
He’d met all kinds of opponents, but never one who looked so reasonable when they should have been utterly irrational.
’Guess you really can’t judge a book by its cover.’
Kryos folded his arms, studying Northern like a trinket of uncertain worth.
"What to do with you... I’d savor it, but I have other obligations. My brothers and sisters... they’ve forgotten me. I think it’s time they remembered."
He tilted his head slightly, golden light glimmering in his eyes.
"They’ll be troublesome, of course. But not for long. Not once I bring Mother home."
That same warm, harmless smile never wavered as his gaze pinned Northern in place.
"You have my mother, boy. And sooner or later... you’ll want to give her to me."
Northern’s frown deepened.
"I hate you."
Kryos’s smile widened, just enough to show the edge beneath it.
"Good. Hate keeps you alive just long enough for me to finish."
He opened his hand, and a sword of crimson light bloomed into it. Without pause, he shot forward toward Northern, who had only just begun to move—yet Kryos had already closed the distance entirely.
The sword was drawn back, sweeping in from behind to cleave down upon Northern, who was still mid-step, staring at the spot where Kryos had stood micro-ages ago.
But before the crimson arc could land, another blade erupted upward from below. This one shone gold, radiating a pristine, burning light. It met the strike just above Northern’s head, the clash birthing a shockwave so fierce it devoured the ground itself, leaving nothing but a yawning void.
The impact rattled Northern to his core, but instead of falling, he shot skyward.
Below, the lady—bathed in pale golden radiance—descended alongside the Origin into the chasm carved open by their collision.
Northern hovered, his brows furrowing.
’Isn’t that... Terence...?’
His frown sharpened.
"Ul."
Without another thought, he dove, streaking down into the chasm.
’No way I’m missing this opportunity for a lore drop.’
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