The group faded behind him as Elias took off down the street, his breath sharp and ragged in his chest. The world blurred past him, muted in grays and browns, with the sky pressing low, heavy as if it, too, bore the weight he couldn't escape. He didn't know where he was going—only that he needed to get away. Away from their faces, their questions, their worry that dug under his skin like a splinter.
The sword was a dark presence against his hip, pulsing with every step, each beat like a poison drumming into his veins. He gritted his teeth, fighting the instinct to grip its hilt, to let that dark power settle through him. His fingers itched for it, yearned for the strength it offered. It would make things easy—so easy. Strong and certain in a way he hadn't felt since Markus had—
He stumbled, the thought barreling through him like a blow to the chest, forcing him to a halt. His legs felt leaden, his heart pounding hard enough to send echoes of pain through his ribs. Markus. The name hung in his mind like a wound, raw and open, and he couldn't bear to think of what Azazel was doing to him. He could still see Markus's face—twisted and wrong under Azazel's influence, that mocking smile that was and wasn't his brother's.
Elias clenched his fists, trying to fight down the scream clawing up his throat. He glanced over his shoulder, half-expecting to see the others close behind him: Naomi, with that piercing gaze, as if she could see right through his armor; Ava, steady but unrelenting, the one who always pushed him to open up, to share the chaos inside him. And Dan—their steady anchor, always there to laugh off the darkness.
But they weren't there. Only silence surrounded him, stretching vast and cold under the night sky.
Good. He didn't want them to follow him. They wouldn't understand. They couldn't. This was his burden, his fight. The sword pulsed stronger, almost as if in agreement, whispering in his mind, its voice curling into his thoughts like smoke. Use me. Let go. I'll give you the power to face anything.
He shook his head, gritting his teeth to silence the voice, but it clung to him, relentless. He wanted to shout, to rage, to let the anger tear through him like fire. Like...
"Kairo..." he whispered, trying to ground himself, but Ava's injuries pressed heavy against his mind, like chains. He could still hear Asmodeus's taunting voice, words slithering into his thoughts: Tell me, brat, how does it feel? Leading your little friends to utter ruin?
The scent of smoke drifted to him from somewhere nearby—a faint memory, like embers from a forgotten fire. It pulled him back to a moment with Markus, in a simpler time.
They'd been standing outside their dormitory, bags slung over their shoulders. Markus, with that lazy grin, had thrown an arm around him, practically bouncing with excitement. "You'll love it here, Eli. You just gotta find your thing, you know? That one thing that makes you feel alive."
Elias had rolled his eyes, smirking. "You mean like wasting hours making a game?"
Markus had only laughed, nudging him in the ribs. "Hey! Those are productive hours. Big difference than whatever you've been doing." He'd winked. "One day, you'll find your thing too. And when you do? You'll be unstoppable."
Elias had believed him back then. Markus had made everything sound easy—like life was just a series of quests waiting to be conquered.
But life wasn't a game. And when it mattered most, he hadn't been able to protect anyone.
The sword's hum deepened, its pull anchoring him in the present. Naomi had been right; he needed to act before the sword consumed him completely. He should cleanse it, but there was no time—not while Markus was still out there, trapped in Azazel's control. Every moment lost was another inch Markus slipped away.
Elias took a shaky breath, his fingers flexing around the hilt. If he couldn't cleanse it, he had to control it. He couldn't let it take him too.
One name surfaced in his mind, unbidden, like a lifeline tossed into dark water.
Victor Crane.
A memory flashed: their last fight, cherry blossoms drifting in the air like snow. Elias had charged, his sword raised high, his intent a clear strike. But in a single, fluid motion, his blade had been knocked away, clattering to the ground.
"You're swinging like a butcher," Victor had said, calm and unruffled, as if correcting a child. Victor Crane—BlackBlade, the best player in Celestian Requiem—had faced him with a stillness that cut deeper than any weapon. Balanced, unwavering. There was no wasted movement, only absolute control.
At that moment, Elias had realized that the only reason he was ranked first was because Victor had never cared to take the spot. If he had, no one in Celestian Requiem would have stood a chance. Elias knew, deep down, that Victor was simply in another league.
Frustrated, breathless, Elias had snapped, "What's the difference if it works?"
Victor had smiled, faint but sure. No arrogance, only certainty. "Control," he'd replied, voice low and steady. "Until you stop fighting like an animal, you'll keep hurting yourself."
The truth in those words bit into Elias now, raw and undeniable. Control was what he needed. Not strength. Not rage. Absolute, unshakable control.
He stopped in the middle of the road, his breath misting in the cold air. The decision settled in his chest, like armor sliding into place, one piece at a time. He adjusted the bag strap on his shoulder, his hand tightening around the sword.
It was time to find Victor. The one man who could teach him to wield this weapon without losing himself to it. The strongest in Celestian Requiem.