Anlyth steadied herself, shield raised, just as Einarr sent Blake soaring with a single, monstrous blow from his hammer.

Panic flared—not for Blake's well-being, but for what her demise would mean. If the entity she was bound to died, what would happen to her Champion status? Would the System sever their connection? Would she be cast back into the abyss she'd clawed her way out of?

Everything hinged on that malevolent pudding bitch surviving.

But even as dread gnawed at the edges of her thoughts, Anlyth's focus remained locked on Einarr. He was the real threat. Her ears twitched, catching the distant sound of destruction—buildings collapsing, shockwaves tearing through stone. Even seven kilometers away, she could track Blake's chaotic flight path like a meteor crashing through the kingdom.

She winced. Blake's everything was always a disaster.

Still, this was different. This wasn't like any skirmish she'd faced since being dragged back from the dead and shackled into servitude. This was a true Champion's clash—raw, brutal, and overwhelming.

And while Anlyth often questioned Blake's worth—goddess or not—there was no denying the insane pudding had power. Enough to crush lesser armies, sure, but against a real Champion like Einarr?

Not even close.

Her gaze flicked to the airship overhead, relaxing slightly as it began to pull up and away. Good. She didn't need more idiots jumping into the mix. Not that they could actually help the dwarf. Still... Einarr had been a Champion far longer than she had. She had no illusions—he outclassed her in every category.

But she had no choice.

"Aye, be ready to meet yer end, lassie," Einarr growled, grin sharp and wild as he lunged, hammer raised high.

The blow landed like a thunderclap, rattling the bones of the dead city. Anlyth's shield took the brunt of it, her boots gouging deep into the cracked stone. Her grin matched his now—grim, defiant.

Einarr blinked, surprised she hadn't gone flying.

She didn't waste it.

Her sword shot forward, aimed for his neck in a clean, lethal arc.

He jerked back at the last second—too slow by a hair. "Ye lucky wench," he snarled, eyes narrowing.

Then he came at her again, this time with full intent to crush.

The next strike slammed into her side, her shield absorbing the blow—but not the force. She was flung like a ragdoll, crashing through three crumbling buildings before finally tumbling to a stop. Dust, stone, and splinters rained down around her as she twisted mid-slide, landing in a crouch just in time to see the hammer coming again.

She raised her shield.

Boom.

The ground shuddered. Debris scattered like leaves caught in a cyclone.

Einarr was relentless—a blur of fury and steel. But Anlyth met each blow with sheer, unyielding force. Her shield cracked, groaned, but didn't break.

Steel kissed steel. Her sword was knocked loose, sent spinning through the air.

She didn't hesitate.

A new blade shimmered into her grasp, conjured with a flash of magic. No pause, no retreat. Just war.

They tore through the ruins, their duel less a battle and more a cataclysm—Champions crashing through the bones of a fallen kingdom, their war cries and weapon strikes echoing like the screams of gods.

But Anlyth knew the truth.

Einarr was toying with her.

Every swing, every blow—measured. Controlled. The kind of precision only a sadist playing with his food could manage. His laughter cut through the roar of battle—deep, booming, delighted. Not cruel. Not mocking. Amused.

That laughter said everything.

This wasn't a fight.

It was a game.

And he was loving it.

~

"We've made it," Vorigan declared with a flourish. "Welcome to the Kingdom of the Beastveil."

He spread his arms wide, dramatic as ever, as if the ruined vista before them was a goddamn theme park instead of a collapsed kingdom crawling with chaos.

"Holy fucking shit! Are you seeing this utter bullshit?" Jason blurted, eyes bugging out in disbelief. "That's fucking insane!"

Vorigan leaned in, his frog-like face hovering way too close to Jason's shoulder. He knew the proximity would usually piss the dark fae off—except Jason didn't even flinch. His gaze stayed locked on the scene ahead, where two figures were going at it like gods on crack.

"It seems two enemy champions are trying to kill one another," Vorigan croaked, disappointment oozing from every fish-toothed syllable. No reaction. Not even a twitch. "I say we let them," he added with a sulky huff.

"No shit," Jason muttered, voice low with dawning dread.

He'd been riding high on his title as the Crone's Champion, but seeing that brutal slugfest unfold…? It was a wake-up call. Sure, he'd bulked up, gotten meaner, tougher—but that? That was on a whole other tier of crazy.

"Umm... screw this shit, let's bail," he blurted, backing off like the smart bastard he was.

Vorigan gave a half-hearted nod. He didn't really mind the idea of getting his ass pounded—uh, handed—to him. His bizarre blend of vampiric and antimorphic healing made most injuries more of a kink than a concern. But Jason? Jason was the one doing the pounding—physically, emotionally, sometimes spiritually—and Vorigan would be damned if anything touched his favorite torture daddy.

"Umm, why the fuck are you rubbing your nipples?" Jason groaned, not even looking back.

Normally, Vorigan would've earned a delicious nut-splitting sword swing for that. The lack of retaliation? Troubling.

He must be really rattled, Vorigan thought, frowning.

"Whatever," Jason grumbled, shaking his head and turning away from the carnage. "That psycho pudding cunt is fucking on her own! Peace, I'm out." He kissed his hand, then threw two fingers up in a dramatic farewell as he strolled back the way they came.

Vorigan sighed and followed suit, but not before sneaking one last longing look at Jason's retreating ass.

Then Jason screamed.

The sound tore through the air like a grenade, shrill and sudden, making Vorigan jolt.

He spun around just in time to see Jason drop to his knees, clutching his head. His face contorted in agony, lips parted in a silent scream, jagged needle-like teeth flashing in the haze.

~

Frantic, tiny footsteps pattered across the unstable deck. The planks wobbled and groaned as Nikola scrambled forward, cursing under his breath while the airship's skeletal frame creaked and swayed from a distant shockwave that tore through with gale-force winds.

"No, no, no!"

Nikola hissed, nearly dropping the crystal clutched tightly in his arms—a stone that seemed massive in his small grasp. It was the same one he'd received from the Queen, pulled from the long-dead dungeon.

Once, it had powered a mana-void array that shielded the beastkin's final sanctuary. Now, those same beastkin were retreating back underground—to what would become their tomb if they didn't flee these lands soon.

The whole vessel shuddered like it was caught in a storm, the bones of the frame creaking ominously under the pressure.

"It feels like a damn superhero battle out there," he muttered, teeth clenched, fingers trembling as he guided the crystal toward the seed embedded in the ship's core.

The crystal pulsed—overcharged with volatile mana—and the seed resisted, its shell hesitating to accept the new power source. Nikola forced himself to breathe, pushing past the rising panic. This had to work. The entire airship's construction hinged on the seed syncing with the mana crystal, drawing in that raw energy and channeling it through the framework like blood through veins.

This wasn't just any seed. It wasn't from any ordinary tree. It was the dormant heart of a dryad—not unborn, but stale-born, suspended between life and death. Like all life in this realm, unable to produce new growth, the dryads were no exception. Their seeds had long since lost the ability to bloom.

But that didn't mean Nikola couldn't force this one to sprout—coax it to wrap itself around the ship's frame and grow into a vessel capable of holding and wielding mana.

It just wouldn't be a conscious dryad.

That part was dead.

A soulless seed.

And yet, Nikola's airship design wasn't just a vessel—it would be alive. Birthed from an embryonic, soulless dryad seed—a living entity this realm had refused to let bloom.

This narrative has been purloined without the author's approval. Report any appearances on Amazon.

That soulless heart would become the core of his creation.

Each rune etched into the ship's frame—its bones, both figuratively and literally—had been carved with obsessive precision. It should respond. It had to. The seed would sense the patterns. It would grow into the shape it was given.

It had no other choice.

It was a miracle of mad runestic engineering—chaotic, beautiful, and entirely his.

One of a kind—

Well… there had been one other airship like it.

Technically, that was a prototype.

The Skyborne.

The original concept hadn't even flown before he'd fled Slaethia.

It had been a beautiful dream—building airships. That was before he learned what horrors the Ascended had imposed on the realm. He escaped soon after that discovery.

And now?

Look at him.

He was jamming an oversized mana crystal into a stale-born dryad seed and praying it didn't explode.

Even without an overloaded crystal, the ship still needed a proper focus—a stone capable of absorbing and distributing magic. He just hadn't expected to be doing this under siege conditions, with literal champions of gods brawling in the distance and his nerves unraveling one spark at a time.

Everything—the ship, the plan, their survival—hinged on what he was doing right now.

With a sigh of relief—and another distant shockwave rattling the hull—the crystal and seed finally clicked into place. And then—

A rush of breath escaped Nikola as the first tendrils extended from the seed's core, curling greedily around the mana crystal. A soft green glow pulsed from within, and then—

Growth.

At first, the roots moved with cautious precision, snaking along the runes and tracing every etched line as if reading the ship's design.

Then came the surge.

Shoots erupted. Branches spread. Roots punched through the frame. Bark hardened into ribs, vines coiled like muscle, and the skeletal structure groaned as it began to knit itself together.

Before his eyes, the airship was being born.

"Shit—it's growing way slower than I thought," Nikola groaned, pacing in place. "A full day? Seriously? We don't have a full day!"

Another shockwave slammed into the airship, rattling the hull and shaking the still-forming roots.

Footsteps pounded above deck—fast, heavy. Metal on wood. Rhythmic. Deliberate.

Someone was coming. And they weren't friendly.

Nikola exhaled through clenched teeth, steeling himself. His hands shot to the two crystal-lock pistols strapped to his back. They weren't technically oversized—but in his gnomish grip, they looked ridiculous. Strapping them to his back was the only way to keep them from dragging behind him like a child hauling swords.

He drew both with a sharp click and took his position, heart hammering, eyes locked on the staircase.

Let them try.

"Well," he whispered, voice calm but resolute, "to the last."

This was his creation. His greatest work.

The Heart of Eternity.

Yeah, maybe the name was a little dramatic… but it fit. It meant something.

In this second life, he wasn't going to let it end here.

Not without a fight.

"Not this time," he whispered again, fingers tightening around the triggers.

~

Deep within the catacombs, where the last of the beastkin had taken refuge, the ferocity of the battle above was impossible to ignore. Thunderous clashes—hammer meeting shield—rattled the stone corridors, each strike sending tremors through the stone. Screams echoed through the dark as dust and debris rained from the ceiling, shaken loose with every blow.

The catacombs groaned under the pressure. With every rumble, the beastkin's fear deepened. Their sanctuary—once a dormant dungeon—felt less like safety and more like a tomb waiting to collapse. If the fighting didn't stop soon, the walls might not hold.

Asherah stepped forward, her presence calm but undeniable. She rested a gentle hand on the scout's shoulder, her tone soft but clear.

"Please—report. What's the situation?"

The scout, badger-like in appearance and trembling slightly, nodded stiffly. "We've lost sight of the pudding woman. She was… well, she got wrecked by the Ascended Champion, Einarr. The surface teams are retreating into the ruins. Some are hurt. The battle shockwaves are catching them before they make it to cover."

He hesitated before continuing.

"We've also lost contact with the one overseeing the airship—uh, the gnome. But the ship itself... it's growing. Fast. Looks like it'll be ready by the time we finish evacuating—hopefully—but there's no way to know for sure. Thing is… it doesn't have sails."

Asherah furrowed her brow, thoughtful but composed. "One of the imperial vessels, if I'm not mistaken, doesn't use sails either," she murmured. "Some kind of magical advancement, perhaps…"

She looked back at the scout, voice still steady. "Can we move everyone sheltering in the surface ruins to the airship before it departs?"

"I… I believe so, if we act quickly," he said.

"Then do it. And if we have anyone to spare, send them to secure the ship. Kindly—but firmly."

She turned toward Queen Rhyessa, who stood protectively with the twins in her arms. Their eyes met. No words were needed at first.

Rhyessa gave a nod, her voice gentle but resolved. "Evacuation comes first. As much as I want to help on the surface… we can't. Not yet. We need to keep the children safe."

Her arms tightened slightly around the twins as dust continued to fall from the ceiling above them.

Asherah turned suddenly, sensing a presence on the surface she hadn't felt in a very long time.

A whisper slipped past her lips. "Mother?"

~

Somewhere off in the distance, unseen by all, a little girl skipped through the ruins as the battle raged around her. Her radiant pink hair and matching dress stood in jarring contrast to her cracked, ashen-gray skin and eyes as endless as the void.

Silently, she approached the splattered, ego-wounded pudding.

~

Anlyth gritted her teeth, her left arm long since gone numb. Each clash against her shield sent fresh waves of pain lacing through her battered body, the force threading agony into every nerve.

And still, she held the line.

Her shield stood like a wall—unyielding, defiant.

Victory, once a distant beacon, now flickered like a dying candle in a storm.

Einarr's mocking laughter pierced through the chaos, sharp and cruel, a dark symphony underscoring the thunderous crashes of his hammer. With every retraction of the weapon, the battlefield warped unnaturally. Debris—and Anlyth herself—would float for the briefest moment, suspended in a surreal, weightless drift.

He was toying with gravity.

Each strike landed with the force of a mountain, followed by a sickening lurch as the world inverted and everything turned light. That merciless push and pull left her disoriented, legs struggling for footing, shield trembling beneath the next impossible blow.

She was outmatched—completely, undeniably, devastatingly outmatched.

To make matters worse, Einarr was too fast. Anlyth could barely keep up from behind her shield—but that was it. No room for a counterattack. No pause long enough to summon Holy magic.

She was just a puppet in the dwarf's relentless dance, reacting to his rhythm, forced to follow his lead without a chance to break free. The thought of escape flickered in her mind… but even that felt like a fantasy. Not against this kind of speed.

Then it got worse.

Einarr's airship had shifted several kilometers away—and was now descending. Casters, knights, and barbarians began disembarking, surrounding the site where their own airship was still under construction.

Whatever thread of hope remained?

Unraveled.

All she could do now—all she was doing—was buying time.

A loud cry rang out behind her, but Anlyth refused to take her eyes off Einarr. He was too dangerous for a single glance away. Still, the voice tore through the chaos with enough rage to cut bone.

"Fucking Crone!"

She felt it then.

A surge of magic—strange, unstable—only to feel it vanish just as quickly, leaving behind a jarring void that chilled her blood.

Even Einarr hesitated mid-swing, his rhythm faltering.

Now.

Anlyth lunged, sword flashing toward the dwarf's face, aiming for the exposed slit in his helmet.

At that exact moment, the magic flared again—this time, materializing behind Einarr.

A dark fae burst into view, needle-like teeth bared in a savage sneer. Black, stringy hair whipped around his face, wild and feral, and his eyes gleamed with manic fury.

Without hesitation, he swung his sword toward Einarr's neck from behind.

The battlefield, already a whirlwind of chaos, surged into new frenzy as the unexpected warrior joined the fight.

Einarr, unfazed by the sudden onslaught, reacted with the precision and calm of a seasoned warrior. In the split second the attacks converged, he twisted his body with remarkable agility. By expertly manipulating his own weight, he dodged both the slash from behind and the thrust from the front. Using his gravity magic, he shifted mass into his shoulder, dragging himself sideways while lightening the rest of his body to enhance the motion.

With a duck and twist, he slipped between both blades.

Then, in one seamless motion, Einarr redistributed his weight again. He anchored his feet to the earth, increasing their mass tenfold to root himself like a mountain. At the same time, he swung his hammer—now light as a feather—to build up speed. And at the apex of the arc, he snapped the mass back, turning it into something monstrous.

The hammer whooshed through the air with terrifying force, narrowly missing the dark fae.

The resulting shockwave detonated outward, blasting Jason off his feet and carving open the battlefield with sheer kinetic fury.

Anlyth, still clinging to her shield and the hope it would hold, was about to be proven devastatingly wrong. Until now, the dwarf had been toying with her. That mercy had ended.

Einarr's hammer fell with full force.

Her shield—radiant, forged of Holy magic, gleaming with golden light—met it head-on.

It shattered instantly, fragments of light exploding into nothing.

The hammer crashed into her arm, pulverizing bone. Its momentum didn't stop—it slammed into her side, ribs snapping in brutal succession.

Anlyth's feet left the ground.

Her body twisted midair, helpless, as the impact hurled her across the battlefield like a broken doll. The air cracked and boomed in her wake, marking the raw violence of her flight.

Einarr turned, a sinister grin creeping across his face as he fixed his gaze on the dark fae who'd dared interrupt his fight.

His eyes glinted—part amusement, part warning.

This was his arena.

Jason groaned, dragging himself upright.

"Oh, fuck me."

Einarr snorted. "Aye, I might've fancied a go with the lass—but you, lad, you're not quite me type."

As the sound of a boot scraping against stone echoed behind him, Einarr whirled around, hammer already raised for a crushing blow against whatever fool dared intrude next.

To his surprise, it was a vampire—an abhorrent sight.

The creature was a vampiric frogkin.

"Must be a horrific existence," Einarr muttered flatly, eyeing the disgusting abomination with disdain.

And then—he struck.

His hammer came crashing down with a thunderous blast, the impact detonating a shockwave that tore through the street. Buildings buckled. Debris scattered. When the dust finally settled, there was nothing left of the frogkin but a grotesque smear—flesh, viscera, and bone crushed into oblivion beneath Einarr's hammer.

Jason blinked.

Hard.

His brain struggled to process what he was seeing. He'd tried to off that slippery frog bastard countless times. And yeah, each time Vorigan popped back up, Jason took a little sick joy in trying again.

But this?

This looked... permanent.

For the first time, he couldn't imagine the freak bouncing back.

A scream ripped from his lungs—raw, blood-soaked rage.

Jason vanished in a blur of shadows, his body flickering through space as he unleashed his shadow step. He teleported erratically around Einarr, appearing and disappearing with such speed it distorted the air itself. No attack came. Just movement—erratic, furious, unstable.

Einarr's eyes narrowed. The speed was impressive, sure—but there was no finesse.

The dwarf hunkered low, hammer drawn back, tracking the chaotic motion.

Jason finally appeared behind him, blade poised for the base of Einarr's skull.

But Einarr shifted—adjusting his mass with a flick of his will, ducking under the strike just in time. He spun around, hammer ready—only to find the fae gone again.

Another flicker.

Another near-miss.

Another whisper of a blade carving the air an inch too late.

It didn't take long for the pattern to reveal itself.

Even a novice could have spotted it.

"Aye, ye be lackin' experience, lad," Einarr said with a low chuckle, thick with dwarven grit.

He pivoted with sudden precision, swinging the base of his hammer handle behind him—and it connected squarely with the fae's groin as Jason materialized mid-step.

"Uumph!" Jason wheezed, folding like wet paper.

Twisting with the follow-through, Einarr tossed him to the ground. Jason hit the dirt hard, flat on his back, eyes wide, breath gone.

Above him, the sky spun.

So did the dwarf.

Einarr loomed into view, laughter booming as he raised his hammer high—its weight gathering like a collapsing star, divine force coiling into the weapon's head.

Jason braced for it, blinking through the pain, every inch of his body screaming.

He tensed, eyes clenched shut, waiting for the end.

One second passed.

Then two.

But death didn't come.

Hesitantly, with a mix of fear and morbid curiosity, he cracked open one eye.

A woman stood over him.

Draped in black, with thin fissures of golden light running along her body, her hair writhed around her like it was alive—enchanted, sentient, dangerous. But what arrested his gaze was the gaping hole in her chest—a hollow void where golden light streamed through, casting stark shadows on the ground beneath her.

Magic rippled in the air around her, pulsing from the cavity like veins of golden lightning. Her eyes glowed—bright and furious—the molten gold of a dying star.

And in her hand, she gripped the other end of Einarr's hammer.

She'd stopped it. Cold.

Jason's heart sank.

Oh no.

Recognition hit like a gut punch.

"Ah, fuck," he muttered, exhaling. "It's you."

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