For a heartbeat, neither of them moved.

  Adlet’s legs refused to answer him. His lungs burned as if he had been running already, breath shallow and useless. The pressure was still there—not as crushing as before, but close enough to poison every thought.

  Then Florian grabbed his sleeve.

  “Adlet—!”

  That was enough.

  They ran.

  Not in a direction. Not with a plan. They tore through the forest on pure instinct, branches snapping against their arms, roots threatening to send them sprawling at every step. Adlet barely felt the scratches, barely registered the sting when thorns bit into his skin.

  Behind them—

  Something followed.

  Not footsteps.

  Not pursuit in the way he understood it.

  Presence.

  A weight that chased them without moving, as if distance itself meant nothing to it.

  His chest screamed for air. His vision tunneled. Each breath felt stolen rather than drawn. The forest blurred into streaks of green and shadow as he vaulted fallen trunks, stumbled through ferns, forced his legs to keep going when every muscle begged him to stop.

  Run.

  The command pounded in his skull, louder than thought.

  Florian was still beside him—sometimes ahead, sometimes behind. Adlet caught flashes of him between trees: clenched jaw, wide eyes, movements sharp with panic barely contained.

  They didn’t speak.

  Speaking meant slowing down.

  Time lost meaning. Seconds stretched. Minutes collapsed. Adlet had no idea how long they ran—only that his body was burning apart from the inside, and still it wasn’t enough.

  Then, gradually—

  The pressure lessened.

  Not vanished.

  But… distant.

  The forest’s sounds crept back in, hesitant at first. The crunch of leaves underfoot. Their ragged breathing. The frantic pounding of his own heart, loud enough to drown everything else.

  Adlet tripped over a root and fell hard, skidding across damp earth. He rolled onto his back, chest heaving, lungs tearing in desperate gulps of air.

  Florian collapsed a few meters away, hands on his knees, retching silently.

  For several long seconds, neither of them moved.

  The presence didn’t follow.

  That realization came slowly. Carefully. As if acknowledging it too quickly might invite it back.

  Adlet pushed himself up onto one elbow, head spinning. His hands shook uncontrollably. Sweat ran cold down his spine despite the heat.

  Gone.

  Not defeated.

  Not escaped.

  Just… out of reach.

  For now.

  He looked around, half-expecting the forest to betray them again. The trees stood as they always had. Too tall. Too still. Too indifferent.

  Only then did his thoughts begin to piece themselves back together.

  The men.

  Their fear.

  The warning.

  And the thing that had made even them run.

  “I think… I think we’re out of danger. For now.”

  Adlet’s voice sounded wrong to his own ears—too thin, too hopeful. His chest heaved as he bent forward, hands braced against his knees, lungs dragging air in painful, uneven gulps.

  Florian didn’t answer. He slowed, then stopped a few steps away, shoulders rising and falling just as violently. It wasn’t the distance they’d covered that had broken them—it was the terror. The kind that hollowed you out from the inside and left your body shaking long after your legs gave up.

  The forest around them was quiet again.

  Too quiet.

  “What do we do now?” Florian asked at last. His voice wavered despite his attempt to steady it.

  Adlet straightened slowly, forcing his breathing under control. Every instinct screamed at him not to relax—but the pressure they’d felt earlier was gone. Distant. Dormant.

  “We go back to Villa-Sylva,” he said. “We regroup. Warn the others.”

  As soon as the words left his mouth, doubt followed.

  “But… that’s the direction those two men were running,” he added. “And whatever was chasing them.”

  Florian’s head snapped toward him.

  “There’s no way I’m going back toward that thing,” he snapped, panic flashing openly now. His hands trembled at his sides. “There have to be other camps near the wall. We can skirt around, maybe—”

  Something shifted.

  Adlet didn’t hear it.

  He felt it.

  A spike of danger ripped through his instincts so violently it left no room for thought. Aura surged on reflex as he lunged sideways, slamming into Florian and driving him to the ground.

  An instant later—

  Impact.

  Pain exploded through Adlet’s shoulder, sharp and searing, knocking the breath from his lungs. He skidded across the forest floor, rolling hard before coming to a stop.

  He gasped.

  This was different.

  Until now, he had always avoided injury. Always intercepted, deflected, absorbed. This time, his Aura had been too slow.

  Too weak.

  He forced himself up, teeth clenched, vision swimming as he searched the trees.

  Nothing.

  “Get up!” he shouted. “We’re under attack!”

  Florian scrambled upright, panic overtaking caution. His Aura flared instinctively around him—

  —and another blow struck Adlet from behind.

  His back screamed as flesh tore open. He staggered forward, nearly falling.

  This time, he saw it.

  Green scales flashed between the trees.

  A massive body slid into view—four meters of muscle and armor, followed by a tail that seemed impossibly long. Nearly ten meters. It coiled and uncoiled with controlled violence, carving the air like a living whip.

  “A Bind Lizard…” Adlet breathed.

  Rank 3.

  A predator that didn’t rush. That wounded from a distance. That crippled before killing.

  Now that it knew it had been seen, the creature stopped circling.

  It faced them.

  Less than ten meters away.

  Its presence surged outward, heavy and oppressive, radiating hunger. Not rage. Not frenzy.

  Calculation.

  “Rank 3… lower level,” Florian whispered, his voice barely holding together.

  “Yes,” Adlet said, forcing his stance steady despite the pain burning through him. “We’ll need to work together to survive this.”

  “No,” Florian said immediately, taking a step back. “We run.”

  Adlet grabbed his arm.

  “Wait! It’s faster than us. It won’t let us escape!”

  “You can’t fight that thing!” Florian shouted, tearing free. “That’s suicide!”

  And then he ran.

  Adlet hesitated only a fraction of a second—then followed. Staying together was still the best chance. Even now.

  The Bind Lizard closed the distance effortlessly, gliding between trees parallel to them, five meters to the right. Its tail lashed out—

  The strike missed by inches.

  Wood exploded as the tail smashed into a tree, bark and splinters raining down.

  “See?” Adlet shouted. “Running won’t—”

  Florian didn’t respond.

  Adlet’s breath hitched as realization set in.

  Florian’s wolf tails had manifested.

  Three of them.

  “You’re ready to work together?” Adlet called, relief flickering—

  The world tilted.

  A sudden force slammed into his chest.

  Adlet flew backward, hitting the ground hard as the air was torn from his lungs. He looked up just in time to see Florian sprinting away, one of his spectral tails retracting.

  Florian didn’t look back.

  The meaning hit him harder than any blow.

  Betrayal.

  Not born of hatred—but of survival.

  The lizard thundered past, its focus shifting entirely.

  Adlet lay there, stunned.

  “Why…?” The thought felt empty as it formed.

  But he already knew.

  Florian had chosen the simplest solution.

  Sacrifice.

  The Bind Lizard turned its gaze back to him.

  Cold. Assessing.

  Adlet pushed himself upright, pain screaming through his body—then stopped.

  Something changed.

  The despair faded.

  In its place came clarity.

  So this was it.

  This was the world beyond lessons and patrols.

  No fairness. No teamwork guaranteed. No second chances.

  Survive alone—or die.

  He exhaled slowly, forcing himself to stand.

  “The end?” he muttered, blood dripping from his shoulder.

  A grim smile touched his lips.

  “Hardly.”

  His Aura flared, dark and steady.

  “Protectors fight alone?” he said quietly. “Fine.”

  He squared his stance, eyes locked on the Rank 3 Apex advancing toward him.

  “I’ll fight alone.”

  The words left his mouth rough, almost defiant.

  “Protectors fight alone? Fine. I’ll fight alone.”

  They barely sounded like his own.

  For a heartbeat, nothing happened.

  Then the Bind Lizard moved.

  Not fast.

  Not slow.

  Certain.

  The forest seemed to recoil as the creature advanced, its massive body gliding over roots and stones with terrifying ease. Its tail dragged behind it, carving a shallow groove in the earth—ten meters of muscle and bone that swayed with lazy menace.

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  Adlet raised his arms, Aura flaring instinctively around his forearms.

  The first strike came without warning.

  The tail snapped sideways.

  He blocked.

  Or tried to.

  The impact shattered his guard and hurled him backward. He slammed into a tree trunk hard enough to knock the air from his lungs, bark exploding behind him.

  Pain burst across his ribs.

  Before he could even slide down the trunk, the tail came again.

  High.

  Adlet threw himself to the side. The strike missed his head by centimeters and crushed the tree where he’d been standing, wood splintering like paper.

  He rolled, barely regaining his feet.

  Another strike.

  Low.

  Too fast.

  The tail wrapped around his ankle and yanked.

  Adlet hit the ground face-first, dirt filling his mouth as he was dragged several meters through roots and stones. His shoulder slammed into a rock with a sickening crunch.

  Something tore.

  He screamed.

  The tail released him abruptly, flinging him aside like refuse.

  The lizard didn’t rush him.

  It watched.

  Testing.

  Adlet pushed himself up, vision swimming. Blood ran freely from his shoulder now, soaking his sleeve. His ankle burned with every movement, his ribs screaming when he breathed.

  Already injured.

  Already slower.

  The tail cracked again.

  Adlet raised his arms too late.

  The blow smashed into his forearms, sending lightning through his bones. He felt something give—maybe a fracture, maybe worse—and staggered backward, barely staying upright.

  Another strike followed immediately.

  Then another.

  The lizard pressed him relentlessly, forcing him back step by step, denying him space, denying him breath. Every attempt to advance was punished. Every hesitation was met with violence.

  Adlet stopped counting the hits.

  Small wounds piled onto larger ones.

  A gash across his thigh.

  Another across his back.

  His left arm was going numb.

  I can’t even touch it.

  Fear clawed at his chest.

  No—panic will kill you.

  He retreated, stumbling over roots, barely avoiding another strike that cratered the ground where his head had been.

  The lizard circled wider now, confident, tail moving faster, striking from angles he struggled to track. It wasn’t playing—but it wasn’t rushing either.

  It didn’t need to.

  Adlet’s breathing turned ragged. Blood dripped from his fingers. His Aura flickered unevenly, struggling to keep pace with the damage.

  I’m being dismantled.

  A feint—then a brutal overhead strike.

  He crossed his arms.

  The impact dropped him to one knee.

  His vision went white.

  Something warm trickled down his face.

  He spat blood and dirt.

  Fear is your first enemy.

  Then he remembered Lathandre.

  Not a technique.

  A principle.

  Sometimes, his master had said, you don’t create an opening. You make the enemy believe one already exists.

  The memory cut through the chaos like a blade.

  If you panic, you die.

  Adlet forced his breathing to slow, even as pain screamed through every nerve.

  He stopped trying to attack.

  Stopped trying to win.

  He watched.

  The tail always moved first.

  Always.

  The body followed, never committing fully.

  The lizard was controlling the rhythm.

  I can’t match it.

  I can’t outlast it.

  Then—another lesson.

  Sometimes, you don’t create an opening.

  You make the enemy believe one already exists.

  Adlet let his guard slip.

  Just a little.

  His stance faltered. His breathing grew uneven, exaggerated. He stumbled as if his ankle had finally given out, barely catching himself on a tree trunk.

  The tail paused.

  Not fully.

  Just enough.

  The lizard’s head tilted.

  Curiosity bled into its predatory focus.

  Adlet took another step back—and let himself fall.

  His knee struck first.

  Then his shoulder.

  He cried out, sharp and convincing, and went still on his side.

  The forest fell silent.

  The lizard approached cautiously now, confidence replacing aggression. Its tail slid around Adlet’s torso, tightening, testing.

  Pressure crushed his ribs.

  Adlet’s hand closed.

  He grabbed the tail.

  And pulled.

  With everything he had left.

  The sudden force ripped the lizard off balance. It slid several meters before slamming into a tree trunk with a heavy, concussive impact.

  Adlet didn’t let go.

  He twisted.

  Pulled again.

  Flesh tore.

  The scream that followed was raw, furious, animal.

  The tail came free in his hands, thrashing violently as blood sprayed across leaves and bark.

  The lizard reeled back, shrieking.

  Adlet staggered to his feet, barely standing.

  For a moment—

  Hope flared.

  Then the wound began to close.

  Scales crawled back into place.

  Muscle knitted itself together with horrifying speed.

  Adlet’s heart sank.

  No. No, no—

  He attacked anyway.

  He whipped the severed tail again and again, tearing open wounds, ripping scales free.

  And watched them close.

  Again.

  And again.

  Ten seconds.

  That was all it took.

  The regeneration was endless.

  The lizard surged forward, slamming into him bodily. Adlet was thrown hard, rolling across the forest floor. His back struck a root at the wrong angle, agony exploding through his spine.

  He screamed.

  The tail—newly reformed—lashed out.

  Too slow.

  It wrapped around his waist and crushed.

  Adlet felt something crack.

  He slammed his fists into the creature’s side blindly until the grip loosened just enough for him to slip free.

  He crawled.

  Barely.

  But something had changed.

  The lizard was slower.

  Each regeneration dulled it.

  Stole precision.

  Stole balance.

  Adlet forced himself up, teeth clenched so hard his jaw ached.

  He changed tactics.

  When the lizard lunged again, he swung the tail not like a blade—

  But like a hammer.

  The impact landed with a brutal, bone-deep crack.

  The Bind Lizard’s forelegs folded beneath it, joints shattering, weight collapsing inward as the creature crashed to the forest floor in a frenzy of shrieks and tearing earth. Its body convulsed, claws gouging trenches into the soil as it tried—failed—to rise.

  Adlet didn’t think.

  He moved.

  He threw himself forward, every muscle screaming in protest, and climbed onto its back as if mounting a collapsing cliff. The heat of the creature’s body burned against his skin. Scales cut into his palms. Blood—his and the beast’s—made everything slick.

  He locked his arms around its throat.

  The lizard exploded in motion.

  It thrashed violently, rolling, bucking, slamming itself against roots and rocks in a desperate attempt to crush him. Its jaws snapped wildly, teeth clashing inches from Adlet’s face. The stench of blood and rot filled his lungs.

  Adlet tightened his grip.

  Pain detonated through his arms.

  Something tore in his shoulder.

  His ribs screamed as the creature twisted, forcing pressure against fractures that hadn’t yet had time to announce themselves. His vision blurred at the edges, darkness bleeding inward.

  Not yet.

  He screamed—not in fear, but in defiance—and squeezed harder.

  His muscles burned. His Aura flared weakly, uneven, barely holding together. His heartbeat thundered in his ears, loud enough to drown out the lizard’s shrieks.

  I won’t let go.

  The world narrowed.

  Breath became agony.

  Seconds stretched, elastic and merciless.

  The lizard’s movements slowed.

  Once.

  Twice.

  Its thrashing lost rhythm, strength bleeding out of every motion. The violent struggle beneath Adlet dulled into weak spasms, then into nothing more than reflex.

  It was still breathing.

  Shallow. Ragged. Each breath slower than the last.

  Adlet did not loosen his grip.

  He stayed there, pressed against its back, muscles screaming, unable to trust the stillness. Unable to trust that it was over.

  Only when the creature’s body stopped resisting entirely—when the tension beneath him faded into dead weight—did he release.

  His arms fell uselessly at his sides.

  He slid off and collapsed onto his back, staring blindly up through the canopy.

  Only then did the pain arrive.

  Not in waves.

  Everywhere.

  His shoulder throbbed violently, each pulse sharp enough to steal his breath. His ribs burned with every inhale, jagged and unstable. His leg screamed when he tried to move it, fire tearing through muscle and bone alike.

  Blood soaked the ground beneath him.

  Warm.

  Sticky.

  Too much.

  Behind him, the lizard shuddered.

  Its breath hitched once—then failed to come again.

  Blood.

  His vision blurred.

  The victory felt suddenly… distant.

  Too many wounds.

  Too many openings he hadn’t closed.

  He tried to move and failed, pain flaring sharply enough to steal what little air he had left.

  If only…

  If only I hadn’t taken so many hits…

  The thought didn’t finish forming.

  The forest tilted.

  Green light seeped from between its scales.

  Faint at first. Then stronger.

  The creature’s body began to unravel, flesh breaking apart into glowing particles that lifted from it like embers caught in an unseen current. Scales crumbled. Muscle dissolved. Bone followed last, fragmenting into light.

  The massive form did not collapse.

  It disappeared.

  As the green particles flowed into him—its Aura unraveling and merging with his own—Adlet felt it settle deep inside.

  He had done it.

  The creature was defeated.

  For a brief, fragile moment, something like relief stirred in his chest.

  Then his body answered.

  His fingers began to shake, uncontrollably. His breathing hitched, shallow and uneven, each inhale scraping painfully through his ribs. Warmth spread beneath him—too much of it.

  Light fractured at the edges of his sight, breaking apart into darkness that crept inward, slow and merciless.

  Adlet exhaled once—long, unsteady.

  And this time, he didn’t resist.

  The darkness closed in and swallowed him whole.

  “Hello, Adlet.”

  The voice rose gently through the darkness, pulling him upward.

  Adlet opened his eyes.

  The river was there—calm, familiar—flowing through the center of his spiritual realm. Above its clear surface floated Pami, his seven tails drifting slowly, illuminated by a soft inner light.

  “Pami…” Adlet breathed.

  A smile spread across his face before he could stop it.

  “It feels like it’s been so long.”

  “We were never truly apart,” Pami replied.

  Adlet let out a quiet laugh.

  “I know. But it’s different like this. Clearer.”

  “In time,” Pami said, “you will be able to enter this place at will. It will no longer require exhaustion or chance.”

  Adlet nodded, pride stirring briefly—then fading as another thought surfaced.

  His expression tightened.

  “Pami… the fight.”

  He took a steady breath.

  “Did I really defeat it?”

  “Yes,” Pami said calmly. “The Bind Lizard has been defeated. There is no doubt about that.”

  He paused, his gaze steady.

  “But you did not win by overwhelming it with Aura. You won by pushing your body beyond its limits.”

  His voice lowered slightly.

  “You came dangerously close to death, Adlet. If the fight had lasted even a moment longer… you would not have survived.”

  Then, without softness or pity:

  “Still—the victory is yours.”

  Relief flickered—then uncertainty followed.

  “Then why do I feel… fine?” Adlet asked. “I should be—”

  “This is not your body,” Pami interrupted calmly. “It is your consciousness. Here, pain and damage cannot reach you.”

  A pause.

  “But in the physical world, your condition is critical.”

  Adlet’s jaw tightened.

  “I assimilated it,” he said, more statement than question.

  “Yes. You wounded it deeply enough to trigger assimilation. And your intent guided the result.”

  Adlet’s gaze shifted to Pami’s tails.

  One of them now glowed a vivid green, pulsing faintly.

  “Regeneration,” Adlet murmured.

  Understanding settled in—not as theory, but as instinct.

  “I wanted to survive,” he said quietly. “I wanted to heal.”

  “And so you obtained the power to do so,” Pami replied. “Just as you once sought strength—and gained the beetle’s.”

  Adlet exhaled slowly.

  “And you?” he asked. “How did I assimilate you?”

  Pami tilted slightly.

  “At that moment, I was not yet part of you. But you desired to become a Protector. And I could answer that desire.”

  Adlet nodded.

  “That sounds right.”

  The light around them began to dim.

  “You must return now,” Pami said. “Your body cannot wait much longer.”

  Adlet smiled faintly.

  “We’ll talk again.”

  “I look forward to it.”

  The river dissolved.

  Pain slammed into him like a wall.

  Adlet gasped, lungs burning as he sucked in air that tasted of iron and damp earth.

  Cold ground beneath him.

  Sticky.

  His blood.

  He tried to move—and a raw sound tore from his throat. His shoulder screamed in protest. His ribs flared with every breath. His leg felt wrong, unstable.

  Too late to hesitate.

  He forced himself to roll onto his back, vision blurring as the forest spun above him.

  Focus.

  He reached for his Aura.

  It answered—but weakly. Uneven. Like something stretched too thin.

  He tried to close the wounds.

  Nothing.

  Again—only a faint reaction.

  Panic clawed at the edges of his thoughts.

  “No… no—”

  He clenched his teeth, cutting it off.

  Not everything. One thing at a time.

  He remembered his master’s words.

  Know what you can do.

  Know what you must do.

  Adlet stopped trying to heal everything.

  He chose the most urgent need.

  The wounds.

  Green Aura flared around his body—clumsy, inefficient, barely controlled. He didn’t truly understand this new regenerative faculty yet. He didn’t know its limits, nor its rules.

  And yet—

  something moved for him.

  Instinct.

  A raw, wordless drive to survive surged through him, guiding the Aura where it needed to go, forcing it into action even as his mind lagged behind.

  Flesh began to knit together unevenly. Skin sealed with dull heat and grinding pain. It wasn’t elegant. It wasn’t clean.

  It was survival.

  Minutes passed.

  When he finally stopped, the bleeding had ceased.

  But he felt hollow.

  Weak.

  His heart pounded too fast. His limbs trembled.

  Adlet understood immediately.

  The wounds were closed.

  But the blood was gone.

  He swallowed hard.

  “If I can rebuild flesh…” he whispered, voice shaking,

  “then I can rebuild blood.”

  He focused again—deeper this time.

  Not on the surface, but inward.

  The green Aura responded slowly, circulating through his body, heavy and warm. His chest tightened. His head swam.

  It hurt.

  But it worked.

  Strength returned in fragile waves. His breathing steadied. The emptiness receded.

  When Adlet finally pushed himself upright, his legs shook—but they held.

  He stood there, hunched, listening to his own heartbeat.

  Alive.

  A breathless laugh escaped him.

  “I really… survived.”

  Later, he would think about the cost. About how close it had been. About the mistakes he’d made.

  Not now.

  He turned toward the distant outline of Villa-Sylva and began to move—carefully, silently, every sense alert.

  His body ached.

  But it obeyed.

  And for the first time since the fight ended, relief settled fully in his chest.

  He had lived.

  And that was enough—for now.

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