The pain never stopped.

  Avian sat cross-legged on obsidian, every muscle locked rigid. Thirty-six days inside his inner world. Six hours outside.

  Blood ran from his eyes.

  Not tears. Actual blood, streaming down his cheeks in crimson tracks. His core burned like someone was pouring molten iron directly into his chest cavity, and his body was physically rejecting the agony in every way it could.

  He forced another stream of ambient mana through his Aether Core.

  His scream echoed off throne room walls—raw, animal, the sound of someone being torn apart from the inside. The foreign mana felt like broken glass grinding through his soul. His core convulsed violently, trying to expel it, but he clenched every muscle and held it there through pure fucking stubbornness.

  More blood. From his nose now, mixing with the tears of blood from his eyes. His hands trembled uncontrollably where they gripped his knees.

  Lux pressed against his leg, whimpering. Thirty-six days of sharing this through their bond. She couldn't help, couldn't make it stop, just suffered alongside him because that's what pack meant.

  Please. Stop. Hurts.

  Not words. Desperate feeling—watching him destroy himself, unable to bear it.

  "Can't." The word came out choked. "Hunter Kings... coming."

  He pulled in more mana.

  The pain spiked so hard his vision whited out. Blood poured freely from his eyes and nose, spattering the black stone. Every nerve ending in his body was on fire. His muscles spasmed, trying to reject the torture, but he flexed harder—every muscle group locked down, holding position, refusing to let his body escape the agony.

  This was worse than dying. He'd died before. Dying was quick. This was slow. Constant. Unending.

  The sword lay forgotten beside him. He'd been practicing spatial cuts between sessions, but right now he could barely think through the pain. Just breathe. Just endure. Just hold the foreign mana in his core for one more second. Then another. Then another.

  Lucan had warned him. Most people broke in the first hour. Started begging. Screaming for it to stop.

  Avian had been screaming for thirty-six days straight.

  His throat was raw from it. Blood and bile rose in his mouth. His whole body shook with the effort of keeping the mana contained while his core tore itself apart trying to adapt.

  Progress was happening. Somewhere beneath the agony, his core was compressing. Growing denser. Stronger.

  Two hundred more days of this.

  He flexed harder. Every muscle fiber locked. Blood dripped onto the obsidian floor in a steady rhythm.

  Lux's lightning crackled weakly, gold barely visible. She'd been suffering with him for thirty-six days. Exhausted. Terrified. Unable to understand why he wouldn't stop.

  Together. They'd endure this together.

  Even if it killed them both.

  Greyhaven sat another six hours north.

  Thane shifted in his saddle, working stiffness from his back. Three days of near-constant riding. Sixty hours with only brief stops for the horses.

  His ass was completely numb.

  You know, Whisper murmured from his shadow, saddle sores aren't very dignified for shadow warriors.

  "Shut up."

  Just saying. Perhaps we could shadow-step the rest of the way? Much more dramatic.

  "And arrive completely drained of mana when three Hunter Kings are hunting my brother?" Thane rolled his shoulders. "Brilliant plan."

  Axom rode beside him with that infuriating calm that came from decades of military service. The man had been in the saddle for sixty hours and looked like he'd just started a pleasant afternoon ride.

  "How much farther?" Thane asked.

  "Six hours to Greyhaven if we maintain pace." Axom's tone was professionally neutral. "Though I should mention the horses are beginning to show strain."

  "They'll hold."

  "Of course, young master. They're excellent horses. Very committed to not collapsing until absolutely necessary."

  Thane almost smiled. Axom's deadpan delivery made everything sound like tactical assessment even when he was being sarcastic.

  They crested a hill. Forest stretched north, thick and dark. Somewhere in there, Avian was running. Or hiding. Or already dead.

  No. Not dead. Dead didn't get fifty-thousand-gold bounties. Dead didn't warrant three Hunter Kings.

  Your brother has a talent for drawing attention, Whisper observed.

  "He has a talent for surviving impossible situations."

  The two often overlap.

  The road wound down into a valley. Small farming villages dotted the landscape, smoke rising from chimneys. Normal people living normal lives, completely unaware that three 8th Tier warriors were hunting someone through the northern forests.

  Thane's hand drifted to his sword hilt. Three years of training. Three years of pushing himself to become something that could stand beside his brother instead of behind him.

  Time to find out if it was enough.

  The training yard smelled like blood and sweat.

  Seraphina moved through the forms mechanically, blessed sword cutting air in patterns she'd drilled ten thousand times. Her body protested every movement—muscles screaming, joints grinding, ribs aching from where they'd cracked during last week's session.

  Three weeks of suicidal training. First advancement two weeks ago—five days of hell to force her body from fifth to sixth tier. She'd flatlined once, dead for thirty seconds while healers worked frantically to bring her back.

  Then one week ago, the second advancement. Another five days of worse hell to reach seventh tier. That time she flatlined twice in the same session—dead for thirty seconds each time, her genius-level constitution the only reason her body adapted instead of just staying dead.

  Three full tiers in three weeks. Fifth to seventh.

  Her body had adapted because she was a genius. But adaptation didn't mean it didn't hurt.

  "Again," Brother Harren called from the sidelines.

  She reset. Moved through the sequence. Strike, parry, advance, retreat. Perfect form. Textbook execution.

  "Yer movements are stiff, lass," Harren said, approaching. "Ye need rest."

  "I need him dead."

  "Aye, well. Dead women can't kill anyone." The big man crossed his arms. "Ye died three times in two weeks. Healers brought ye back each time. How many more times ye think they can do that?"

  Seraphina drove her sword into the practice dummy. The blessed blade burned through enchanted wood like it was paper. "As many times as it takes."

  Blood dripped from her nose. She wiped it away absently. Training injuries. Nothing serious. Just her body breaking down from the relentless pace.

  Worth it. When she faced him again—when she finally drove her blade through his heart—it would all be worth it.

  A messenger approached Archbishop Caldris where he stood observing. The two spoke quietly. Caldris's expression didn't change, but something shifted in his posture.

  He approached Seraphina, waving Harren back.

  "The Hunter Kings have tracked your target to the northern forests," Caldris said without preamble. "They're closing in on his location now."

  Seraphina's grip tightened on her sword. "When do we move?"

  "Dawn tomorrow. Let the Hunter Kings flush him out. Once they engage, we move in as support."

  "He killed my mentors." Her voice came out flat. Dead. "I want to be there when he falls."

  The author's narrative has been misappropriated; report any instances of this story on Amazon.

  "And you will be." Caldris studied her with those calculating eyes. "But you'll follow orders. Understood?"

  "Yes, Your Grace."

  "Good. Rest tonight. Eat. Let the healers work on you." He turned to leave, then paused. "You've advanced two full tiers in three weeks, child. Fifth to seventh. Unprecedented. But that body of yours has limits, genius or not. Pace yourself."

  Seraphina said nothing. Just watched him walk away.

  Pacing was for people who had time. She didn't.

  Avian Veritas had murdered Amara and Roland in some underground tomb. The Church might call it justified—might claim he was defending himself—but she'd seen the bodies. Seen what he'd done to them.

  No mercy. No hesitation. Just brutal, efficient killing.

  So she'd trained herself into a weapon sharp enough to cut him down.

  Three weeks. Fifth tier to seventh. Her body screamed constantly, but it had adapted. Genius-level constitution meant she could survive what would kill normal people.

  And when she faced him again, she'd show him what genius really meant.

  Blood crusted Avian's face in dried layers.

  He'd stopped wiping it away around day forty. No point. Every session brought fresh blood from his eyes, nose, sometimes ears. His body was destroying itself trying to cope with the pain, bleeding from every available opening.

  Eighty-four days of this.

  He sat with his back against the throne's base, too exhausted to move to his usual spot. Every muscle fiber trembled constantly now—his body's way of screaming when his voice had gone hoarse from actual screaming.

  The Aether Core burned white-hot in his chest. He could feel it there, denser than it had been, compressed from relentless forcing. Still seventh tier, but the threshold was close. He could sense it like a wall he was slowly battering down with his own suffering.

  He pulled ambient mana in again.

  The pain hit and his whole body locked rigid. Back arched. Muscles flexed so hard they threatened to tear from bone. Blood exploded from his eyes in fresh streams, running down his already-stained cheeks.

  A scream tore from his throat—wordless, animal, the sound of someone being tortured to death except death wouldn't come.

  His hands clawed at the obsidian floor. Fingernails cracked and bled. Every nerve ending was on fire. His core convulsed, trying to expel the foreign mana, but he clenched down—full body flex, every muscle group locked, holding the agony inside through pure force of will.

  Thirty seconds. A minute. Two minutes of holding it before he finally released.

  The pain didn't stop when he let go. Never stopped. Just settled back to the constant baseline burn of his core adapting.

  Lux lay nearby, barely moving. Eighty-four days of sharing this through their bond had worn her to almost nothing. Her lightning flickered weakly, gold tinge barely visible. She looked at him with eyes that held nothing but exhausted worry.

  Can't. Please. Can't anymore.

  "Have to." Blood dripped from his mouth when he spoke. He'd bitten through his tongue again. "Almost... almost there."

  He didn't know if that was true. But he had to believe it. Had to believe this wasn't just pointless suffering. That somewhere beneath the constant agony, he was actually getting stronger.

  The sword lay several feet away. He'd managed some practice earlier—moved through forms on muscle memory while his conscious mind drowned in pain. The spatial cuts came easier now, carved reality with barely a thought.

  Small comfort when every breath felt like inhaling ground glass.

  He pulled mana in again.

  His scream echoed through the throne room, mixing with the quiet hum of ten thousand embedded swords.

  In the real world, fourteen hours had passed.

  Greyhaven looked like every other northern town—wood buildings, stone foundations, people who minded their own business.

  Thane and Axom arrived at dawn, horses lathered and exhausted. They'd pushed through the night, trading sleep for speed.

  The stable master took their mounts with professional efficiency. "Passing through?"

  "Looking for someone," Thane said. "Young man. Dark hair. Probably looked half-dead. Would've passed through recently, headed north."

  The stable master's expression didn't change, but something flickered in his eyes. Recognition.

  "Might've seen someone like that. Headed north into the forest. Didn't stay long."

  "How recently?"

  "Not long ago. Days, maybe." He paused. "You the law?"

  "Brother."

  That got a reaction. The man's posture relaxed slightly. "He in trouble?"

  "You could say that."

  "Well." The stable master nodded toward the north. "He went into those woods. Ain't come back out."

  Powerful aura signatures north, Whisper murmured in Thane's mind. Very close. Maybe six hours. Multiple presences.

  "How many?" Thane asked aloud.

  Enough to be a problem.

  Axom stepped close, voice low. "Young master, if there are multiple 8th Tier warriors in that forest—"

  "Then we go carefully." Thane turned toward the northern road. "Get supplies. Food, water, medical equipment. We leave in an hour."

  "An hour?" Axom raised an eyebrow. "The horses need rest."

  "Then we walk."

  They spent the hour gathering supplies, asking careful questions. The locals knew something was happening in the northern forest—travelers talked about seeing armed groups, about feeling massive aura spikes, about staying the hell away from whatever was going on up there.

  Smart people.

  Thane wasn't feeling particularly smart.

  He stood at the northern edge of town, forest stretching dark and deep before him. Somewhere in there, his brother was either hiding or dead.

  Still sensing them, Whisper confirmed. Multiple signatures. Very powerful. Moving.

  "Then let's go find out what they're moving toward."

  They headed north on foot, leaving the horses to rest. The forest swallowed them within minutes.

  The Cloveborn estate sat in the capital, far from northern forests and Hunter Kings.

  Canaline stood in her father's study, hands clenched at her sides.

  "The family will remain neutral," Lord Cloveborn said from behind his desk. "Avian Veritas is a declared traitor. We cannot be seen supporting him."

  "He saved students at the Academy!" Canaline's voice came out sharper than intended. "He fought to protect people!"

  "He's accused of killing Church knights. Stealing sacred relics. The evidence is substantial."

  "The evidence is fabricated! Kai and the others are documenting proof!"

  Her father's expression didn't change. "Kai is the seventh son of a minor branch. His 'proof' means nothing against Church authority."

  "So we just abandon him? After everything?"

  "We remain neutral. That's final."

  The words hit like a slap. Canaline had expected this—her father was nothing if not politically calculated—but hearing it still hurt.

  "You will not contact him," Lord Cloveborn continued. "You will not aid him. Do you understand?"

  "Yes, Father."

  She left the study, closed the door behind her, leaned against the wall.

  Avian had defended them. Fought for the Academy. Risked everything.

  And now everyone was abandoning him.

  The nobility stayed neutral. The Church hunted him. Even the Empire had declared him traitor.

  Canaline walked to her chambers, mind racing. She'd always followed the rules. Always been the proper noble daughter. Always put family reputation first.

  But this didn't feel right.

  This felt like cowardice.

  She sat at her writing desk, pulled out parchment. Stared at the blank page for a long moment.

  Then began writing.

  Kai—

  Father has forbidden contact with Avian. The family remains neutral. But I need to know: is he alive? What's really happening?

  I can't help openly. But if there's information you need, resources that don't trace back to me directly...

  Tell me what I can do.

  —C

  She folded the letter carefully, sealed it with plain wax. No family crest. Nothing identifying.

  One of the servants could deliver it quietly. They liked her. Trusted her.

  Her father had said not to contact Avian.

  He'd said nothing about Kai.

  A small rebellion. A tiny spark of defiance.

  But it was something.

  They rode north through the night.

  Seraphina sat her horse mechanically, every movement sending pain through her exhausted body. Blood had dried under her nose from earlier training. Her hands trembled slightly despite her best efforts.

  Archbishop Caldris rode ahead with Brother Harren. Ten elite knights surrounded them, plus two battle mages. A full kill squad.

  For one boy.

  The Hunter Kings were somewhere ahead, tracking their target through the northern forests. Should be closing in soon.

  Seraphina's grip tightened on her reins. She wanted to be there. Needed to be there. When Avian Veritas finally fell, she wanted to see his face.

  Wanted him to know who'd helped bring him down.

  Amara and Roland deserved that much.

  Her body screamed for rest. For sleep. For a week in bed being tended by healers.

  She ignored it. Genius-level constitution meant she could push farther than normal people. Survive what would kill others.

  And when she faced Avian again, she'd show him exactly what that meant.

  Day two hundred eighty-two.

  Avian barely looked human anymore.

  Blood had dried in layers across his face, neck, chest—coating him in crimson crust. Fresh blood still ran from his eyes in steady streams. His hands trembled constantly. Muscles twitched with involuntary spasms from two hundred eighty-two days of being flexed to their absolute limit.

  He'd collapsed onto the throne hours ago. Couldn't make it to his practice spot. Just sat there, head tilted back, bleeding.

  The Aether Core sat right at the edge. One more push. One final session to shatter it into eighth tier.

  Lux lay at the throne's base, barely breathing. Two hundred eighty-two days of sharing his agony through their bond had nearly destroyed her. Gold-tinged lightning crackled weakly across her fur. She looked up at him with exhausted, pleading eyes.

  Please. Please stop. Can't watch anymore.

  "Almost done," he whispered. Blood bubbled at his lips. "One... one more."

  He pulled the largest stream of ambient mana he'd ever attempted.

  The pain was immediate and catastrophic.

  His entire body locked rigid. Back arched so hard his spine cracked. Every muscle flexed simultaneously—arms, legs, core, neck—all of them trying to tear themselves apart. Blood exploded from his eyes, nose, ears, mouth. His scream started low and climbed into something inhuman, echoing off the throne room walls like the death cry of something being burned alive.

  The foreign mana felt like liquid fire poured directly into his soul. His Aether Core convulsed violently, trying to expel it, but he held it there. Held it. Held it.

  His vision whited out. Blood vessels burst across his eyes. His hands clawed at the throne's armrests, nails tearing off as he flexed harder than he'd ever flexed before.

  More. Just a little more. Just—

  Something deep inside him CRACKED.

  The Aether Core shattered.

  For one terrifying moment, there was nothing. Just void. His core had broken completely and—

  Nothing happened.

  The pieces just... floated. Fragments of his shattered core drifting in the space where his power should be.

  No reformation. No breakthrough. Just broken pieces and emptiness.

  Oh fuck. Oh FUCK.

  He'd killed himself. Two hundred eighty-two days of torture and he'd finally pushed too far, shattered his core beyond repair, and now he was going to die here, bleed out in his own mental construct while his real body—

  NO!

  Lux's desperate howl cut through his panic. Pure terror flooding their bond. She could feel him dying.

  Avian's eyes snapped open. Blood pouring down his face. Every nerve screaming.

  He wasn't dead yet. Core shattered but he was still conscious, still aware, still—

  Pull it together. PULL IT TOGETHER.

  He flexed again. Every muscle in his body locked down, forcing the fragments to compress. Pulled more ambient mana in, not caring about the pain anymore because pain meant he was still alive, still fighting, still—

  The fragments began moving. Slowly. Reluctantly. Drawing toward each other.

  His scream echoed through the throne room. Blood sprayed from his mouth. Vision going black at the edges.

  The fragments compressed. Closer. Tighter. Denser.

  And suddenly—

  REFORMATION.

  The core rebuilt itself in an instant. Not the same. Better. Denser. Stronger. Burning with power that made the seventh tier version look like a candle compared to a bonfire.

  Eighth tier.

  Avian slumped forward, gasping. Blood dripping onto the obsidian floor in a steady rhythm. Every inch of his body screamed. His muscles felt like they'd been put through a grinder. Blood covered everything.

  But his core—his core blazed with eighth tier power.

  Lux stirred weakly. Through their bond, he felt her exhausted relief. They'd survived. Barely. But they'd survived.

  He'd thought he was dying. For those terrible seconds with his core in pieces, he'd been certain this was how it ended.

  But he'd forced it back together through pure desperation.

  And when he woke up in forty-eight hours, when he faced the Hunter Kings with this new power—

  They were going to regret finding him.

  Outside, forty-seven hours had passed. One hour left.

  Avian sat in his throne, covered in his own blood, and smiled.