My heart hammered against my ribs as if it wanted to escape. The dream—no, the memory—of Sahastra's dying screams returned to me with brutal clarity, slicing through my mind like a hot knife. I sat on the blood-soaked ground, breath shallow, helpless as steel met flesh and Sahastra fell. Anger didn't rise within me; it detonated. A raw, scorching explosion that burned away fear and drowned out reason.
My vision wavered at the edges. The ground beneath me seemed to tremble, though it took me a moment to realize the shaking wasn't in the earth—it was in the pool of blood beside me. The thick liquid rippled outward, disturbed by a force I could neither name nor comprehend. A cold tingling spread across my skin, burrowing into muscle and bone. Pain vanished. My fractures—those dull reminders of helplessness—felt as if someone were stitching them shut. Slowly, my vision sharpened. My breathing steadied.
The soldiers turned, startled shouts echoing through the cavern as they stared at the quivering blood. Their expressions shifted from confusion to fear. They didn't know what was happening. Truthfully, neither did I. And yet my body reacted as if something ancient inside me had awakened and taken the reins.
With a subtle flick of my wrist, the blood surged upward. Spears of crimson tore themselves free, twisting through the air before impaling the soldiers where they stood. Armor split, bones cracked, and bodies collapsed in brutal synchronicity. The cavern quieted as the last of them fell, until only the general remained.
He stepped forward, eyes burning with fury rather than fear. His gauntlets—heavy, iron-clad, and scarred from countless battles—crackled with energy. He didn't waste breath on threats. With a roar, he launched himself at me, gauntlets raised. I barely had time to register the movement when the blood around us stirred again, curling upward into the shape of a blade. It hovered at my side like an obedient beast waiting for a command.
Instinct answered for me. I grabbed the hilt, and the sword solidified in my hand, pulsing with a heartbeat that wasn't mine.
The general's punch collided with my blade, sparks bursting from the impact. He fought like a storm—fast, brutal, relentless—his gauntlets striking with enough force to shatter stone. Yet my body moved in ways my mind couldn't explain. I parried, sidestepped, and struck back with practiced precision, as though I had trained for this moment a thousand times.
Then, an opening.
I slid past his guard, my blade tracing a clean red arc. His head separated from his shoulders in a single motion. His body stumbled once, then fell. For good measure—or perhaps something deeper—I sliced off his hands. The gauntlets clattered to the floor, dripping with blood.
I let go of the sword, and it melted back into the pool as if dissolving into a liquid shadow. I knelt down, picked up the general's gauntlets, and slid them onto my arms. They tightened automatically, shifting and reshaping to fit me perfectly. Black as midnight, patterned with dragon scales, they felt like they recognized me.
The rock wall behind me groaned. A hidden seam split open, revealing a narrow passageway swallowed in darkness. I drew a steady breath, stepped forward, and walked into the unknown—leaving blood, battle, and the person I used to be behind me.