Takeshi sat on the cold floor of his cell, his back pressed against the damp wall. The air felt heavier than usual, thick with a tension that clawed at his skin. For hours now, something had been stirring, a faint ripple in the atmosphere that only he seemed to notice. It wasn't the usual dull hum of life in this prison—it was different.
He closed his eyes and focused, allowing his ability to activate. His pupils shifted subtly, and the world beyond his sight bloomed into a map of glowing energy. Mana flows, invisible to ordinary eyes, came alive in his vision. Normally calm and structured, they now swirled violently, drawn toward the surface.
Takeshi leaned forward, his hands resting on his knees as he concentrated harder. Through the haze of mana, he sensed the anomaly. It wasn't just energy—it was a force breaking through the natural order. He focused on the epicenter, letting his perception pierce deeper. Then, he saw it.
Above the prison, a rift had torn open in the sky. It bled light and shadow in equal measure, pulsating with raw power. The mana flows twisted unnaturally around it, as if the world itself was being consumed by its presence.
A figure began to emerge from the rift. Takeshi's breath hitched.
It was massive, a skeletal dragon whose form seemed both ancient and wrong. Its bones, blackened and cracked, radiated an unholy energy. A pulsing core of mana resided in its chest, irregular and unstable, like a heart that beat with chaos itself. Around it, the air was heavy with corruption, suffocating the flows of mana.
"They can't stop that," he muttered, his hands tightening into fists.
The prison guards, dozens of them, were gathered in the courtyard. He couldn't see their faces, but their auras flickered with fear. They attacked the beast with blasts of mana-infused weapons, but every strike bounced harmlessly off the dragon's hardened bones. A single swipe of its tail sent several guards flying, their flows extinguished in an instant.
Takeshi's gaze locked onto the core of the creature. Through his unique perception, he saw it clearly—a weak point, fractured and unstable. But it was surrounded by layers of dense, shifting mana.
"That's the key," he murmured. "But no one sees it. They're all blind."
Then he felt it. A presence so commanding it made the air itself pause. Takeshi's eyes followed the steady flow of energy, his breath catching when he saw its source.
The director had arrived.
He stood alone, his form radiating a calm but overwhelming power. A lance rested in his hand, its edge sharp enough to slice the wind itself. Around him, the mana flows began to stabilize, bending to his will. The storm of chaos slowed slightly in his presence, as if the very world respected his control.
The skeletal dragon turned its hollow gaze toward him. A guttural growl escaped its jawless mouth, reverberating through the courtyard. The director planted the butt of his lance into the ground, a surge of wind erupting around him. The gale tore through the dust and debris, clearing the battlefield.
"You don't belong in this world," the director said, his voice low but carried effortlessly on the wind. "And you won't remain here."
The dragon charged, its massive claws raking the ground as it lunged. The director sidestepped smoothly, his lance spinning in a precise arc. A sharp gust of wind followed the motion, slashing into the creature's forelimb. The impact sent cracks spiderwebbing through the bone, but the limb didn't shatter.
The dragon reared back and opened its gaping maw. A sphere of concentrated black energy began to form, growing larger with each second.
"Corrupted mana," the director muttered, narrowing his eyes.
He raised his free hand, and the wind around him condensed into a barrier. The dragon released its attack, a beam of dark energy that collided with the barrier, shattering into countless fragments. The force of the blast sent shockwaves across the courtyard, but the director remained unmoved.
The dragon roared in frustration, and the cracks in its forelimb began to close. Black tendrils of mana wove themselves into the damaged areas, regenerating the lost material.
The director took a deep breath, his focus shifting to the beast's core. He could feel its instability, its pulsing irregularity. That was its weakness, the nexus of its power and the key to its destruction.
"This ends now," he said, gripping his lance tightly.
He charged forward, the wind roaring to life around him. Every step sent blasts of air surging outward, and when he leapt, the winds carried him high. His lance spun with blinding speed, a vortex of compressed air forming at its tip. He drove the weapon forward, aiming directly at the core.
The strike connected.
A deafening crack echoed as the core's surface fractured. The dragon let out a bone-chilling roar, its entire body writhing violently. But the core didn't break.
The creature retaliated, unleashing a wave of black mana that struck the director mid-air. He was thrown backward, landing hard against the ground. Blood dripped down his temple as he forced himself back to his feet.
"This thing…" he muttered, wiping the blood away with the back of his hand. "It's more resilient than I expected."
He tightened his grip on the lance, his aura intensifying. The winds around him began to shift once more, forming a dense, spiraling tempest. He wouldn't get a second chance. This next strike had to be decisive.
The dragon roared again, its skeletal form towering against the backdrop of the rift. The director steadied himself, his lance glowing faintly as the storm reached its peak.
"You'll go no further," he said, his voice calm despite the chaos around him.
With a burst of speed, he dashed toward the creature one final time, his lance aimed directly at its core.
***
The prison courtyard lay in ruins. The winds had subsided, leaving behind an eerie silence. Ten bodies were scattered among the debris, lifeless and still, while the surviving guards, faces marked with exhaustion and fear, scrambled to tend to the injured.
The director knelt at the center of the chaos, his breath ragged. His lance, its tip broken, rested beside him. Blood seeped from a deep wound in his left flank, and his tattered uniform revealed gashes and bruises across his body.
Around him, the remains of the skeletal dragon had disintegrated into dust, carried away by the last remnants of his storm. The unstable light of the creature's core had vanished, but traces of corrupted mana lingered in the air, a haunting reminder of the threat that had nearly consumed them.
The director raised his head toward the sky, where the rift had once loomed. His eyes narrowed as he searched for any remaining sign of it, but the night was still, offering no answers.
"It's over," he muttered to himself, though a shadow of doubt flickered in his voice. "But for how long?"
The few guards who remained standing approached cautiously, their steps hesitant on the rubble-strewn ground. One of them, his face streaked with soot and blood, spoke hesitantly.
"Sir… we lost ten men."
The director closed his eyes briefly. The pain in his body seemed to deepen with every word, but he forced it aside. Slowly, he pushed himself upright, pressing a hand to his bleeding flank.
"And the prison?" he asked, his voice hoarse.
"The foundations held… but some sections have been damaged. We've detected cracks in the western tunnels," the guard replied.
The director nodded, though his expression darkened. "Repair what you can immediately. Double the patrols. We cannot afford to let our guard down."
The guards saluted weakly and dispersed, their movements sluggish and uncertain.
From his cell, Takeshi had seen it all. His eyes tracked the flows of mana as they slowly settled, though faint traces of corruption still lingered in certain areas. He followed them with his perception, noting the places where the flows were most disturbed—points where the prison walls had fractured under the pressure.
He straightened slightly, resting a hand against the cold stone wall.
"They're weakened," he thought, his mind racing as he pieced everything together. "The fortress itself has taken damage. And if they can't fix it in time…"
His gaze returned to the courtyard, where the director, though still standing, swayed slightly. The surviving guards were few and visibly exhausted. The tension in the air was palpable, even from the depths of his cell.
Takeshi leaned back against the wall, closing his eyes momentarily. An idea began to take shape in his mind—a possibility he hadn't considered before tonight.
"If there are breaches… if the structure is compromised… maybe there's an opportunity."
He drew a deep breath, his thoughts swirling. There was no certainty, but the battle had clearly shifted the balance of power within the prison. He knew he needed to stay alert.
The coming days would be critical.