Northern’s decision to dive into the heart of the storm had been solely his own.
Of course, there was the lingering temptation—the reckless urge to experience vulnerability once again, to trust his back to someone else. But even as he entertained the thought, he knew it wasn’t the whole truth.
Because a Catastrophic Behemoth, no matter how dangerous, could not kill him.
If he alone wasn’t enough, he had far too many souls within his arsenal to rely on. The idea of his own defeat was inconceivable, let alone his demise.
It wasn’t arrogance. It was simply fact.
And if nothing else, the look on Raizel’s face made it all worthwhile.
For the briefest moment, the Paragon’s carefully maintained mask of casual confidence cracked, revealing something Northern hadn’t expected—genuine surprise. And then, just as quickly, that surprise melted into something else.
Respect.
"You sure about that, Ral?" Raizel shouted over the howling winds, his eyes assessing Northern with newfound interest. "Once you’re in, I can’t guarantee what you’ll find!"
Northern laughed—a sound that felt foreign even to himself. When had he last truly laughed in battle?
"That’s the point!" he called back. "I’ve faced the unknown before—many times."
There was no need for further discussion. Northern turned his gaze downward, toward the Behemoth’s ever-expanding mass.
The monster’s presence had warped the landscape beyond recognition, its manifestation stretching across miles of terrain in writhing, oily darkness. From this altitude, he could see intricate patterns shifting within its chaotic surface—currents spiraling inward toward a singular point.
A core of some sort.
Northern inhaled deeply, centering himself.
"Just make sure you’re ready to pull me out if this goes sideways!"
He didn’t believe he just said that either.
Trying not to cringe, he let himself fall.
The wind screamed past his ears as he plummeted toward the abyss below. He streamlined his body, slicing through the air like an arrow, accelerating at a pace that even his own clones struggled to match. More of them formed around him, moving instinctively to shield his descent.
The Behemoth sensed him.
Tendrils of blackened liquid shot upward, writhing and snapping with unnerving precision. Northern didn’t evade—not yet. He needed to appear vulnerable, to bait the creature into fully focusing on him.
The first tendril lashed through the air, narrowly missing his shoulder as he twisted to maintain his trajectory. A second erupted from the left—this one, he allowed to graze his skin.
The pain was immediate. A searing burn spread across his shoulder, the liquid leaving behind a sensation akin to acid eating through flesh.
’Strange.’
It hurt, yet it was different from a typical attack. There was no malice behind it, no hostile intent pressing against his senses.
That was it.
Nature.
This wasn’t an attack from the monster itself but rather an extension of its very existence. And because nature carried no intent, the void force—and even his danger sense—failed to register it as a threat.
But that was precisely what he had wanted.
’Perfect. Now you see me.’
More tendrils burst forth, a growing forest of writhing darkness reaching to ensnare him. Northern weaved through them, allowing one or two to make contact—just enough to maintain the creature’s focus, but never enough to be dragged off course.
Far above, he barely heard Raizel shouting something, but the words were stolen by the wind. It didn’t matter. They each had their role to play now.
The surface loomed closer.
The tendrils grew frenzied, multiplying, thickening, writhing with greater urgency. Northern summoned more clones, using them as disposable barriers to carve a path forward. Each clone that was caught dissolved instantly, devoured by the ravenous dark.
Ten meters.
Five.
Three.
Northern closed his eyes at the last moment—not out of fear, but out of reflex.
And then—impact.
The collision was like striking solid stone. Pain erupted through every fiber of his being as he breached the surface. The force rattled his bones, his entire body screaming in protest.
But then, almost immediately, the sensation shifted.
Cold.
Not the sharp bite of winter nor the numbness of frost—but an emptiness that drained rather than froze. His breath no longer reached his lungs, stolen before it could even form. His chest felt hollow, his heartbeat sluggish, as though the very concept of warmth had been erased from existence.
And then—pressure.
It was suffocating, a relentless force squeezing from all sides, like the ocean’s deepest trench had swallowed him whole. His bones creaked under the strain, his joints locking as if his own body was trying to resist the descent. Darkness closed in at the edges of his vision, his senses blurring.
Still, he did not stop.
Northern pushed forward, his instincts sharpening against the overwhelming force. His clones—once a constant presence, a flickering army that had shielded him—were gone. Whether they had dissolved under the pressure or simply refused to form in this dark tsunami, he couldn’t tell.
He was alone.
But that was nothing new.
The darkness around him wasn’t empty. As his eyes adjusted, he saw shifting currents, flows of varying densities weaving through the tsunami. Unlike the chaos above, these movements were deliberate—intricate patterns spiraling toward a singular point. A silent, unseen force guided them, an underlying structure hidden within the depth.
A pulse.
Faint but unmistakable. Experience more content on Free
He angled his descent, following the currents, drawn toward their convergence. The pressure intensified, every motion requiring deliberate effort. Each inch forward felt like dragging his own existence through solid rock.
Deeper.
The pulse grew stronger.
It was no longer just a sensation beneath his skin—it had become something more, something tangible, something alive. It resonated through his marrow, through the very fabric of his being, demanding acknowledgment.
And then—change.
Not a reprieve, not a lessening of the suffocating weight, but a shift. The pressure moved with purpose, no longer an aimless crushing force but a rhythm. A beat.
A heartbeat.
The realization struck through his fading consciousness like a shock of lightning. The Behemoth wasn’t just a mass of chaotic destruction—it lived, it breathed, it possessed something resembling awareness.
Northern forced himself forward, his movements sluggish, his muscles barely responding. He chased the pulse, his instincts sharpening despite the fog creeping into his mind. With every meter he descended, the pressure grew more unbearable, each inch forward demanding more than his body had left to give.
The darkness thickened, pressing against him, wrapping around his limbs like unseen hands dragging him into oblivion.
Then, just when he thought he could go no further—
The waves parted.
He stumbled into something else entirely. A chasm within the roiling depths, a void inside the void. It was an unnatural stillness, a pocket of emptiness untouched by the chaos above.
And at its heart, floating in the suffocating black, was something wrong.
Something evil.
It was too grotesque for mortal eyes to comprehend, its very form shifting, rejecting definition. It pulsed with a sickly, unnatural light, each throb sending ripples through the surrounding nothingness. The space around it warped, twisted, as if reality itself recoiled at its presence.
The Behemoth’s true form.