The very instant he spoke the title, the crushing weight of Hazkar's mana abruptly lessened. I gasped, drawing in a ragged breath as Father's own mana surged outward, wrapping around me like a heavy, velvet cloak. It was warm, fiercely protective, and profoundly comforting, holding the ancient terror of the Rhoyne at bay.
"A most astute observation," Hazkar's voice boomed across the clearing. "I too have drawn many conclusions in this short bout. You are not a godling, yet you carry a spark of divinity. You are not mortal either. A most fascinating discovery. What are you, I wonder?" he mused softly to himself.
Father abruptly dropped his protective mana shield, likely due to the compounding strain of the mist. I felt that profound warmth leave my body, but the previously untold, raging pressure of Hazkar's ancient mana did not immediately return. They had both deliberately chosen to restrain their overwhelming power.
"What do you want?" Father asked plainly, though his voice carried no warmth, only lethal frost.
"I have spent nearly a millennium trapped within this forsaken, cursed mist. I only wish to reach the true waters of the Rhoyne, and for that, I require pure divinity to cleanse the fog. Grant me your assistance, and I will do you no harm," Hazkar spoke longingly. His deep agitation from the eternal torment was plain to see.
Father remained perfectly still, seeming to consider the proposition. He then offered a single, measured nod. "We will help you, but in return, we demand answers."
"Certainly," Hazkar answered without hesitation.
"What do you need us to do?" Father asked as he slowly moved closer to the ruined temple.
Hazkar motioned gracefully toward the shattered temple gates. "We need to cast a spell fuelled entirely by your divinity. It must be powerful enough to permanently cleanse the area around us so that we may safely carve a path forward."
Father walked steadily ahead of me, discreetly moving his free hand behind his back. I immediately noticed his subtle, sharp hand gesture indicating that I should not follow him any further. Hazkar suddenly stopped dead in his tracks, staring intensely at Father. His milky-white eye almost completely glossed over.
"Hermione, start planting runes for the prison array!" Father suddenly yelled.
I was spurred into action immediately, sprinting toward the perimeter. Just as I began to run, the crushing pressure of mana that had previously engulfed me violently returned.
"It is terribly rude to enter the mind of a god, boy!" Hazkar roared as the pressure intensified exponentially.
I felt my knees buckling under the unrelenting weight, but then Father's warm mana began to aggressively seep into the area as well. It clashed against the ancient magic, significantly decreasing the suffocating pressure bearing down upon me.
"Then it is far worse to mislead someone by asking for help when you truly intend to wring them dry," Father retorted coldly.
His massive broadsword instantly materialized in his iron grip, and he charged relentlessly at Hazkar.
…
Third Person POV
The heavy broadsword cut through the damp air in a sweeping horizontal arc. Hazkar did not summon a weapon to meet the enchanted steel. He intercepted the lethal strike with his bare hands and sweeping, brutal kicks. Every time the razor-sharp edge of the blade collided with the elder's forearms, a brilliant shower of bright orange sparks erupted into the dense gloom.
The cracked, diseased greyscale creeping across Hazkar's face and limbs began to rapidly mutate. The petrified grey crust darkened violently, shifting into a shimmering, iridescent green. It hardened and expanded, forming thick, interlocking plates of impenetrable turtle shell, coating his forearms and shins. The ancient, supernatural entity—the Old Man of the River—was fully shedding his mortal disguise.
Hadrian pressed the ferocious assault, unleashing a relentless storm of sweeping slashes and brutal thrusts. The Old Man moved with a beguiling grace, smoothly dodging the lethal strikes aimed at his joints and exposed neck. He deliberately absorbed the unavoidable blows upon his newly formed shell plating, the goblin steel ringing out like a blacksmith's hammer striking a heavy anvil.
Away from the blistering melee, Hermione operated in a state of desperation. She snatched smooth stones from the muddy earth, her fingers flying as she carved intricate, glowing runes into their surfaces. She sprinted in a wide arc around the ruined temple, planting the warded stones into the ground with precise gaps of several paces between them.
Hazkar caught the rapid movement from the corner of his eye. He could not decipher the exact magic the young girl was weaving, but his ancient instincts warned him of the forming array.
Seeking to disrupt her critical task, the ancient entity planted a heavy foot and launched himself backward, carving a vast distance between himself and Aeternus. Raising his thick, scaled neck toward the broken canopy, Hazkar released a series of loud, breathy squeaks—a guttural, echoing sound that vibrated ominously through the surrounding mist.
Hadrian did not grant him a moment to breathe. He crossed the clearing in a fraction of a second, his broadsword sweeping in a devastating arc aimed directly at the Old Man's throat.
Hazkar casually raised his armoured forearm. The steel slammed into the shimmering turtle shell with a deafening crack, deadlocking the blade mere inches from his flesh.
"It is not so easy to win when cut off from your source of power, is it, boy?" the Old Man taunted, a malicious grin stretching across his scaled face. "This terrain is the difference between your power and mine. I have lived and breathed here a millennium. You have barely understood how the mist corrupts your mana."
Hadrian offered no verbal response. He continued to press his weight into the blade, his emerald eyes burning with lethal intent as he forcefully twisted his wrist.