The Maelstrom howled.
A leviathan of cursed steel and arcane hunger, it writhed across the sky like a god unshackled. Entire hills turned to dust beneath its spiraling tendrils. Lightning clawed down from the black swirl of its body. Towns—no, civilizations—vanished in its wake. Its roars devoured the horizon. Even monsters, twisted beasts that once reigned in fear, scrambled into burrows and caves. Ran for Life like frightened vermin.
Anthony ran.
His lungs burned. His feet were lead. But the Maelstrom moved faster. A mountain in motion. A curse made real.
It was catching up.
He stumbled through ash-choked woods, each step slower than the last. The sky above churned red and violet. Trees bent away as if they too fled from the titan.
Then he saw it—a machine of steam and scrap, barely holding together. A cart of rust and iron, crawling like an insect on thick, hissing treads. Around it, nineteen survivors clung to the frame, some steering, others keeping watch.
Anthony didn't think.
He lunged, catching a handrail and pulling himself up. Gasps. Shouts. One of the survivors raised a makeshift spear.
"Wait!" Anthony growled, breathless. "I don't want a fight. I scratch your back… you scratch mine."
"What's the deal?" said an elderly person.
"As I can see. You are low on defense. Aren't you?" Anthony said catching his breath.
"And how?" the man asked.
Anthony lifted his hand halfway to his head and showed the man his ability to create barriers.
"I'll be damned... Ain't that thing a barrier? Thought the church said barriers are the work of god."
"Fine... But if you don't hunt with us we won't feed you," the man said, concluding the conversation.
Anthony created a roof and walls and welded them into the cart by smelting some copper.
Tension didn't break immediately. Their eyes were sunken, wary. But they let him stay.
And the machine drove on.
---
Hours passed. The Maelstrom slowed, veering away—just for now.
The world quieted to the sound of rumbling treads and distant thunder.
Anthony stood at the edge of the cart, eyes scanning the wasted land. Then he saw her—Riley.
Wrapped in a patchwork cloak, worn from survival, her face was thinner, eyes older. But alive.
"Anthony, I should've listened when you told me not to hunt the rabbits," she said.
No hugs. No drama. Just two war-weary souls acknowledging a miracle.
They sat at the far edge of the cart as it continued, silence between them for a long while.
"You look like a scavenger," Anthony said, trying to lighten the mood.
"You look worse," she replied as a joke.
He scoffed. "And you look like a ghost that refused to die."
Riley gave a weak laugh. "Maybe I did."
She looked out at the distance. "Some of them found me—these people. Pulled me from the wreckage, patched me up. One of 'em was a healer once. They kept me hidden. Moved in the night. Avoided the beasts. Avoided... that." She gestured toward the still-glowing horizon.
"And the parasite?" Anthony asked.
"It nearly took me. But the explosion you unleashed… it fried the damn thing. Hurt like hell. But it didn't kill me." She looked at him seriously. "You almost killed me. But I didn't die."
Anthony didn't respond immediately. His eyes were far off, calculating. "You weren't weak. That thing… it was smart. It knew how to hide in strength. That's what made it dangerous."
"I'm sorry," she said. "I didn't trust you. I didn't even trust myself."
"You were infected. You were powerless."
"I was stupid," she whispered.
The cart rumbled over cracked stone. The wind shifted.
Anthony broke the silence. "I've seen things. Done things. But you shouldn't take it as your fault. I left after what happened and never came to bury you."
"I didn't expect you to do so," Riley said.
A pause.
They both looked out—toward a world where beasts ran from storms, where survival was no longer instinct, but purpose.
Above them, the sky rippled with distant thunder.
The Maelstrom was still there.
But for now, they had a moment of stillness.
And the storm had not yet swallowed them.
"I want to show you something… I think I've awakened something else."
Riley raised an eyebrow.
Anthony looked down at his hands. "I've always thought strength came from raw power, but now... I believe it's about direction. Purpose. And what I've felt lately—like I've become more than just a fighter. Maybe I've taken a step into something else. Like a cleric, channeling will into something real."
"Cleric?" Riley echoed. "You don't strike me as the divine type."
"Not divine," he replied. "Intent. That's the word. Purpose shapes power. And I think power... real power... is hidden in our blood. Inherited. But it only awakens when we're pushed to the edge—when something forces us to burn everything we have."
Riley was quiet, thoughtful.
Then she asked, "What do you think the White Demon wants?"
Anthony's gaze narrowed. "That's the thing. I've fought monsters, killers, gods in skin... But the White Demon? I don't think he wants to kill me. Not yet."
"Why not?"
"I don't know," Anthony said, lying partially. "But I have... theories. Whispers in things I've seen. Dreams. Clues hidden in names, in symbols."
"Like you know more than you're saying?" Riley asked.
Anthony didn't answer directly. He just looked into the shifting sky.
And for the first time in a long while, he felt the weight of a secret not yet ready to be shared.
Not yet.