Ascendant Zion stared at the healer, his brow furrowing with bewilderment.
Braham continued to drag himself backward while his body lurched forward as though an invisible chain yanked him toward some unseen destination.
He caught Ascendant Zion's perplexed gaze and waved a dismissive hand.
"Oh, please don't mind me. Some thing... is just... stop! moving!"
His voice crescendoed into a shout as he stomped his feet against the ground, muscles straining like taut bowstrings as he fought against the mysterious force propelling him forward.
Never had he experienced anything like this. The armor—gifted by that peculiar Drifter who'd insisted on healing his girlfriend—had impressed Braham upon inspection. Its defense capabilities were unmatched, impenetrable as mountain stone.
Yet today it behaved with a will of its own. Since the battle of the behemoths began, the armor had been dragging him relentlessly from his private parlor, the sanctuary he'd carefully established for himself.
In this blockade, Braham stood as the most precious resource. Merchants and Drifters alike swarmed around him like moths to flame. They would sacrifice limbs without hesitation to ensure his safety, knowing he could restore whatever they lost.
Should he perish, their doom would follow swiftly. It wasn't hyperbole to say they'd endured this long solely because of who he was.
Braham.
The Paragon's presence and everyone's collective efforts certainly contributed to their survival during this blockade, preventing total annihilation. But Braham savored the notion that he remained the linchpin of their continued existence.
His self-imposed seclusion made perfect sense. Yet the armor's pull grew stronger, tugging him forward with increasing urgency that rattled his bones.
It had begun when those strange winged abominations took flight and bizarre creatures started leaping through the air with unnatural agility.
Braham couldn't explain it, but somehow he understood the armor's desire—it yearned to join them, craved it with an almost sentient hunger. The knowledge of this desire manifested in his mind without explanation.
He wanted nothing to do with that place. So he fought against the pull, muscles burning with each backward step.
After noting how the Ascendant observed him with that unnerving stare—like watching a man dance with an invisible partner—Braham finally surrendered. He dismissed the armor with a thought and collapsed to the ground as the powerful force vanished, leaving him suddenly untethered and free.
He chuckled forcibly and waved a dismissive hand, then strutted toward the Ascendant with feigned confidence.
"Is that the safe haven, by the way? Where we'll be relocating until all this blows over?"
Ascendant Zion glanced at the towering rift before returning his gaze to Braham, expression flat as still water.
"We?"
He paused deliberately, letting the single word hang in the air.
"What do you mean... we? The only people entering that haven are civilians. All Drifters are pushing through the Blockade and evacuating to Verulania."
Braham froze, his face darkening like storm clouds gathering.
"Are you insane? Do you even hear the nonsense spilling from your mouth? You want 'me'—the very reason you've all survived until now—to follow you through the blockade all the way to Verulania? What is this, some deranged suicide mission?"
The Ascendant tilted his head, birdlike in his curiosity.
"Suicide mission? Not at all. With you by our side, we can heal endlessly and press forward. And I hear your talent works with nature—we'll literally be cutting through a forest."
Braham's face flushed crimson, his complexion growing dangerously dark.
"What rubbish are you spouting? Listen carefully—my ability takes time to work. Where's the mmakeshift infirmary for the injured while I'm working? What happens if I myself fall?"
Ascendant Zion's lips curled into a smirk.
"I thought you prided yourself as a survivor of the Dark Continent? What now? Trembling at the prospect of facing a few hundred monsters?"
Braham covered his face with his palm, fingers pressing into his forehead in frustration.
"You truly are a fool. What do you know about the Dark Continent? Keep that place out of your filthy mouth. I am not going to Verulania or pushing through any blockade. You can all perish for all I care, but over my dead body will I join this suicide march."
The Ascendant stood tall, shoulders squared as his voice boomed through the space between them.
"No problem then. But you'll also be denied entry to this safe haven, healer. So go away from this place."
Braham's eyes ignited with dangerous emerald light, glowing like twin beacons of fury.
"And who's going to stop me?"
Ascendant Zion raised one corner of his mouth, a predator's smile spreading across his face.
"You should reconsider those words you just uttered. You're literally standing before an Ascendant."
Braham grinned cockily, chin tilting upward in defiance.
"Am I now..."
The two glared at each other, their hostility crackling in the air like lightning before a storm.
Before their battle of wills could escalate further, a more domineering presence swept over the landscape—a suffocating pressure that crushed down upon everything in its path.
Both Ascendant Zion and Braham instantly crumbled to their knees, faces draining of color, eyes widening with primal fear. The same terrifying question echoed through both their minds.
'What is happening?'
'What is this horrific bloodthirst?!'
It felt like countless razor-sharp blades—not ordinary weapons but instruments of death bathed in oceans of slaughter—their mere existence enough to make even the strongest will falter and break.
The very air grew heavy with malice, each breath a struggle against invisible hands that threatened to choke the life from their lungs.
Paragon Raizel, who had been holding an amputated hand while a charred creature knelt motionless before him, glanced up with a grave expression etched into his features.
Something uniquely evil permeated this pressure—different from the waves that had been raining down upon them thus far.
And it couldn't have been the pressure of his precious mentee Ral.
Though Ral could certainly emanate such bloodthirst, this presence was unrefined, raw, and fundamentally primal. Unless Ral had somehow transformed into a creature that had endured centuries of repeated slaughter without dying, growing to hate existence itself, there was no way he could produce a bloodthirst so untamed and ancient.
The Paragon tightened his grip on the head of the kneeling monster. Immediately, its skull began to collapse inward, compressing like paper under an invisible vise. The pressure intensified until the head burst into a pulp of viscous black blood, splattering across the Paragon's impassive face.
He shifted his gaze skyward, eyes narrowing at whatever new threat loomed above.
"I guess it's time to join the fray."