The grove was no longer a grove.
It was a ruin. Blackened trees, splintered earth, and winds screaming through the wreckage. The spiritual pressure alone had shattered stone. The moon above was cloaked in red haze—its light choked by the Nytherion haze rising from Zhen Hu's body.
And Veyrith stood unmoved.
"Last chance, Aelira," the envoy said, eyes narrowing. "Withdraw."
Zhen Hu responded.
Or rather—they did.
Aelira's voice laced with his, raw and ancient.
"I buried empires before your Realm was named."
Veyrith raised one palm. The Brand of Thirvahl ignited across his skin—a glowing crest of serpents swallowing their own tails.
"Then be buried again."
He vanished.
Zhen Hu barely raised his arm in time. The impact sent him careening into a shattered boulder. Blood spurted from his back, but he stood again, half-crazed, smiling with cracked lips.
Aelira surged forth.
"Nytherion Art: Sepulchral Bloom!"
Black thorns erupted around them—glistening with corrosive blood. Each pulsed with death, spreading rot across the field.
Veyrith sliced through them with a whisper of his blade.
"Void Sever – Fifth Thread: Eviscerate."
One motion.
Zhen Hu's shoulder split open to the bone. His scream rang through the grove.
But he didn't fall.
"Nytherion Art: Flesh Reversal!" Aelira snarled.
His wound sealed in seconds—too fast, too unnatural. But his skin turned pale. Muscles convulsed as rot churned through him like acid.
He charged.
Not with grace.
With violence.
Every step cracked the ground. His fists bled black light.
"Funeral Gate Palm!"
A strike meant to bury a man in the Netherworld. Veyrith blocked it barehanded—his arm hissed, flesh blackening, but his expression didn't change.
"Path of Silence: Ninth Whisper – Suffer."
An invisible soundwave shattered Zhen Hu's left ear. Blood burst from his eyes. He staggered, blind on one side—but laughed.
Aelira fed on pain.
"Nytherion Forbidden Move – Grave Seraphim Ascendancy!"
Bone wings exploded from Zhen Hu's back, raw and skeletal, each one shrieking with unholy energy. They lashed out, piercing the air like scythes.
One clipped Veyrith's thigh.
Blood flowed.
A moment of pause.
They looked at each other.
"You're unraveling him," Veyrith said, breathing harder now.
"He offered his soul," Aelira whispered. "He just didn't know how loud his scream would echo."
Zhen Hu staggered. His body convulsed. His fingers twisted unnaturally, bones cracking out of joint. He vomited blood—and grinned with broken teeth.
He whispered with his own voice.
"I'm still… here."
Then darkness exploded outward from him.
At the edge of the Sect, elders turned in terror.
From his perch in the mountain hall, Patriarch Zhen Xun rose to his feet. His robes shimmered with power, but his face was unreadable.
"He's breaking," muttered Elder Qiao. "We must intervene."
But Zhen Xun held up a hand.
"No," he said. "Not yet."
Below, the clouds churned.
Back in the grove, the battlefield had become a living hell.
Ash rained from the sky.
Zhen Hu flew at Veyrith, wings flared, body wrapped in screaming Nytherion sigils.
"Nytherion Technique – Rend the Womb of Light!"
A spear of anti-life formed in his hand, forged from the last breath of a decayed saint. He hurled it.
It struck Veyrith's shoulder—and dug through.
The envoy growled, stumbled.
"Enough."
He struck with his blade—not with a slash, but an invocation.
"Transcendent Seal: Chains of Elarion!"
Golden chains burst from the sky, crashing down. Zhen Hu's wings shattered. He fell—screaming, convulsing, bloodied.
Pinned to the earth.
Aelira writhed inside him, roaring.
But he could no longer rise.
Silence returned.
Veyrith stood over the wreckage of the boy—no longer certain if what lay beneath him was man or spirit.
He touched Zhen Hu's chest. His palm shimmered.
"I will seal her," he said quietly.
But then—
a whisper.
From Zhen Hu's bloodied lips:
"Not yet."