Eryx struggled to push himself up from the dirt, his body screaming in agony. Blood dripped down his arms, and his scythe lay several feet away, half-buried in the shattered earth. The Shadow Dragon's hulking form loomed above him, its fiery eyes glaring with the certainty of victory. The beast's chest heaved, wounded but still standing, ready to deliver the final, fatal blow.
Eryx's vision swam, his hatred boiling as his power surged inside him, demanding he rise and fight. But his limbs wouldn't move—he was spent, broken, and the darkness threatened to swallow him whole. His body could no longer match the power burning in his veins.
As the dragon reared back for the killing strike, a gust of wind rustled the trees. In the next moment, a figure dropped from above, landing gracefully between Eryx and the monstrous beast.
An old man, hunched but radiating a strange aura of calm, stood before the dragon. He wore tattered robes, his face weathered and lined with age, but there was something else—a sharpness in his gaze that cut through the air like a blade. His white hair flowed down to his shoulders, and he moved with a fluid grace that belied his age.
The dragon let out a roar of fury, lunging forward, its massive claws sweeping down to crush him.
The old man moved so fast Eryx almost missed it.
In a single, fluid motion, the man unsheathed a gleaming sword from his back. The blade shimmered with a strange, ethereal light, humming with power. He took one step forward, and in the blink of an eye, he slashed his sword through the air.
A shockwave rippled from the strike, silent yet devastating.
The dragon froze mid-lunge, its eyes widening in disbelief. Then, as if time itself had fractured, its massive body began to splinter. Thousands of cuts appeared across its scales, splitting the dragon into countless pieces. The beast fell, disintegrating into nothing more than shards of blackened flesh and blood, scattering across the forest floor.
Eryx could barely process what had just happened. One moment, he had been facing certain death, the next, the dragon was gone, reduced to fragments in the span of a heartbeat.
The old man turned, his piercing eyes locking onto Eryx.
"You wield your power like a child playing with fire," the old man said, his voice calm, but with a hint of disappointment. He sheathed his sword, the blade vanishing into the scabbard with a quiet hiss. "And that hate… it burns too brightly within you. You have lost your way."
Eryx clenched his fists, forcing himself up to his knees, still reeling from the battle. "Who… who are you?" he demanded, his voice hoarse. He could feel the power inside him roaring, pushing against the limits of his body, but the old man's presence forced him to stay in control.
"I am no one you need concern yourself with, boy," the old man replied, stepping closer. His eyes studied Eryx, and for a moment, there was a flicker of recognition. "But I have seen this path before. The hate in your heart will lead you to ruin. You wield great power, but you are a slave to it."
Eryx's body tensed, anger flaring at the words. "You know nothing of what I've been through," he spat, trying to rise, but his legs gave out. He was too weak. "I don't care about control. All I want is revenge. To kill every last shadow, every monster that—"
"You will lose yourself," the old man interrupted, his voice like steel. "You are already on the brink of it. The darkness inside you feeds on your rage, and soon there will be nothing left but an empty vessel for its power."
Eryx shook his head, gritting his teeth. "I don't need your wisdom, old man. I just need more power."
The old man's expression softened slightly, but there was still a sternness in his gaze. "You are blind to the truth, Eryx. You seek power to fill the void, to bury your pain. But power alone will not save you. It will not make you whole."
Eryx's breath came in ragged gasps, his anger boiling beneath the surface. But the old man's words had a strange effect—something in him stirred, something he hadn't felt since Lira's death. It was fleeting, barely noticeable, but it was there.
The old man extended his hand. "I can show you the path. Not to revenge, but to mastery. To become something far greater than a vessel of hate. A warrior worthy of the power you hold. A god who controls his fate, rather than being controlled by it."
Eryx stared at the outstretched hand, his mind a storm of conflicting emotions. His body still ached with the need to kill, to destroy, but… something about the old man's presence felt different. He wasn't offering salvation. He was offering a chance to reclaim what had been lost.
"If you continue down this road," the old man said softly, "there will be nothing left of you. Only the monster you fear to become."
Eryx's vision blurred with exhaustion and pain. His hatred screamed at him to reject the old man, to rise up and tear through whatever stood in his way. But there was a flicker of clarity, a brief glimpse of something beyond the rage.
"Fine," Eryx muttered, his voice barely audible. "Teach me."
The old man nodded, his expression unreadable. "It will not be easy, and it will not be painless. The path of a true warrior is long, and you will face trials greater than any you have yet known."
Eryx managed to pull himself to his feet, his legs shaking. He met the old man's gaze, a fire still burning in his eyes. "I don't care how hard it is," he growled. "I'll do whatever it takes."
The old man smiled faintly. "Very well. Then let us begin."
As the old man turned and began walking deeper into the forest, Eryx followed, each step feeling heavier than the last. His body was broken, his heart was filled with hate, but for the first time in a long while, he felt something else—a small, almost forgotten spark of hope.
Perhaps this was the beginning of something new.
Or perhaps it was simply another step toward the darkness that threatened to consume him.