"The three beings you birthed are locked in battle nearby. Without their protection, your demise is assured," the demon peach tree stated, its tone devoid of warmth.
If Braydon Neal were to be killed, the three banished immortals would dissipate without a word.
"Then tonight, you die first," Braydon retorted, his voice devoid of emotion.
Before he could finish, Braydon's ebony locks swirled in the gusts, his voice echoing through the wilderness, "Spirit Summoning Art. Summon my true self."
What was this true self?
Where were the memories of the remnant soul hidden?
Why had his bloodline yet to stir?
They were once integral parts of him, and now, it was time to reclaim them.
Braydon unleashed the Spirit Summoning Art, forcibly awakening his bloodline and seeking to rouse the vestiges of memory.
Boom!
