In this very cell area, Ron watched Silvestre, Lucca, and Nerion with contained rage.
“I will butcher you and give your bodies to the jackals so that not even a trace of your bones remains in this world,” Ron said furiously, as he vanished from where he stood.
Nerion’s pupils, surrounded by his characteristic golden halo, narrowed to pinpricks as he shouted “WATCH OUT!” and gave Silvestre a powerful kick with all his strength, making him move several meters.
Ron appeared exactly where Silvestre had been moments before, his extended arm striking the ground and creating a large crater. If Silvestre hadn’t moved, he would currently have been turned into pulp given the great force of Ron’s attack.
“Hehehe, you seem to have good eyesight, kid. Perhaps the first thing I should do is immobilize you, take out one of your eyes, and then slowly kill your friends in front of you,” Ron said with all the cruelty his heart could conceive, intending to torment Nerion’s mind and heart.
Nerion fell silent as he looked at Ron, and while close to him, he began to move his extended arms rapidly in a spiral in the direction of the clock hands. The energy mobilized by Nerion was invisible, but Ron’s instincts made him feel enormous danger in Nerion’s movements, and he immediately lunged at him, without giving him time to finish his technique.
Ron appeared in front of Nerion, who looked flustered, and with both hands, he stopped Nerion’s arms as he lifted him to the level of his face. Nerion tried to kick, but his short limbs could not reach Ron. Nerion’s technique had been stopped before it could even be used, and desperation was painted on his face.
“What will you do now, brat? The first thing I will do is tear off your arms, before taking out one of your eyes,” Ron said with great malice as he began to apply force with his hands.
Nerion let out a small whimper before saying, “I can say one thing at least.”
“Oh, do you have any last words, you piece of shit kid?” Ron said, smiling at Nerion.
“Yes… I just wanted to say… cough, cough… I wanted to say… that besides being ugly, you have terrible breath,” Nerion said as his eyes, which were staring intently into Ron’s eyes, formed a golden halo that extended across his entire sclera and he spoke:
“Καλειδοσκ?πιο (Kaleidoskópio - Kaleidoscope).”
Nerion’s eyes began to bleed, but Ron lost consciousness for an instant, during which he let go of Nerion. While closing his eyes, the latter screamed, “NOW.”
Silvestre and Lucca lunged at Ron at the same time. Silvestre, with his two hands clasped above his head, gathered all his Qi and attacked Ron, shouting
Lucca had a small acupoint flaring in his right foot, and while spinning he attacked toward Ron’s waist.
BAM!
The children’s furious attack launched Ron several meters backward toward the central cage. However, Ron recovered consciousness after the attack, and although he had taken some damage, it was not critical, and he landed without issue.
“Wow. You have more and more secrets. You look like beggars, yet you have a Mana ocular technique and even Martial Skills. But if this is all, I’m afraid it’s not even enough. I suppose you can die now,” Ron said, as he accumulated his Qi in his body and prepared to use a technique to finish off the three brats once and for all and then kill the rest of their companions.
“In fact, they’re not finished. I was the last part of the plan,” a seductive voice was heard behind Ron. He had been inadvertently thrown very close to the beautiful woman who was in the central cage.
The woman, extending her chained arms, wrapped one hand around Ron’s neck. Ron felt all his hair stand on end as he saw the shadow of death drawing closer and closer. He felt that he could not offer any resistance to the woman’s touch, and his strength, of which he was so proud, could not even move a single finger of the woman’s hand.
“Impudent, who gave you permission to touch me?” the woman said, in a voice capable of melting any man who heard it. However, this voice in Ron’s ears was like the call of Death itself, and he tried to break free with even more intensity, but the woman’s hand was like an unmoving steel vise. With her other hand, she took the blade that was still trapped in Ron’s torso and slowly plunged it into Ron’s chest, as if it were butter. Finally, the blade pierced Ron’s heart, and he breathed his last.
This was the second victory. The interest is compounding. Balance always needs to be mended. Such is the way of AEON.
The main hall of the Tigers’ lair had become a tomb of silence and terror.
Mikael stood between two apex predators, ragged cloak hanging loose on his emaciated frame. Rolando and Sagat were frozen statues, sweat carving rivers down their faces, Qi struggling like caged beasts against the invisible walls of his Will Domain.
Rolando strained, attempting to mobilize his Qi and project his Will, but the internal force was stillborn, unable to pierce the surrounding psychic cage. Unless a force from outside could shatter the Domain, there was simply no way to break free.
Rolando was the first to speak, voice trembling with forced calm.
“Senior… surely there is room for negotiation.”
Sagat said nothing. His eyes burned with hatred—for Rolando’s betrayal, for the old man who held their lives in a trembling hand, for the cruel twist of fate that had delivered them here.
Mikael only smiled the same toothless, almost kindly smile.
Sagat’s mind raced.
The why was the real killer. A chilling truth broke through: It was the same old poison of resentment, now mixed with a new, overwhelming dose of sheer greed.
But what about the vagabond Emperor?
Why was he here?
If he wanted the Stones, why not take them?
If he wanted Sagat dead, why not kill him?
The only answer that made sense was weakness.
The unknown Emperor had not inflicted any lasting harm on either of them. While Sagat and Rolando were vastly inferior, they both commanded powerful techniques; a desperate fight to the death could possibly wound a high-ranked warrior, making the Emperor’s goal much simpler.
This inexplicable restraint sparked a sliver of hope in Sagat. Rolando was still there, a deadly threat to him even now. Looking at Rolando, Sagat saw the Rhodarian also struggling, his face a mask of strained effort against the Emperor's Domain. Rolando returned the gaze, and a shared, desperate understanding flickered between them.
The narrative has been taken without authorization; if you see it on Amazon, report the incident.
Rolando moved first. An Emperor's Will Domain was powerful, but not invincible; one could attempt to resist it, and Rolando, keenly perceptive, had noticed moments of instability, brief flickers where Mikael's Domain seemed to weaken.
Qi exploded from his Meridians. A three-metre scorpion of silver carapace and blackened stinger materialised around him, water whispering like poison around its tail.
Sagat followed.
Crimson Qi roared. A two-and-a-half-metre tiger of pure fury coalesced, ghost-like, fangs bared.
These two spectral animals were the materialization of their respective Wills, taking forms derived from their characteristics and temperament. Animal forms being the most frequent, though certainly not the only ones.
When Mikael saw the materialization of the two warriors’ Wills, a mocking smile touched his lips, a look that made Sagat and Rolando feel like small children showing off tricks before an adult. It was a smile of mockery, yet perhaps also one of self-deprecation. Only Mikael knew the answer.
Both Wills lunged.
Mikael’s eyes flashed with lightning.
Two colossal paws, golden-furred, crackling with blue-white arcs, appeared from nowhere.
BAAAAM!
The first paw crushed the scorpion’s head like glass.
The second backhanded the tiger into the cavern wall, stone exploding in a cloud of dust.
Rolando and Sagat staggered, blood pouring from all seven orifices. Their Wills shattered; backlash tore through lungs and meridians. Terror occupied their minds. Even injured, an Emperor’s dignity is not to be trifled with.
Mikael’s smile never wavered. And yet he began to breathe, very quietly and surreptitiously, with some difficulty, a strain barely noticeable to his opponents. He finally seemed to have made a decision and raised his hands, a movement that instantly brought a fresh wave of terror to Sagat and Rolando, who braced for the final, devastating attack.
“I guess you decided on not taking my advice.”
Terror flooded the hall.
Then Mikael’s gaze snapped toward the ceiling, as if he could see through kilometres of stone.
He shouted, voice cracking like thunder across the entire lair:
“PLAN D!”
The Scorch was about to begin.
The rough, uneven stone of the cave floor scraped against Elisha’s boot with every ragged step. His body was a tapestry of throbbing pain, each breath a shallow, burning agony pulled from his core, as his sword dragged behind him like a broken wing.
He was walking backwards through the carnage, past scattered rock dust, singed shadows, and the lingering, metallic scent of spilled Qi. His eyes, fixed and distant, traced the painful path toward the cell area, where his initial mission lay in fragments.
He had secured a consolation prize: a slender spatial ring, pulled from Malla’s cooling hand. Its magic, cheap but functional, held a modest cache of funds and materials, a tiny anchor of profit amidst a sea of chaos.
He dragged one foot, pushing a fresh burst of Qi through his shattered ribs, forcing speed he did not possess. That was when the air itself seemed to crackle and then shout like a dying god.
“Plan D.”
The voice was not a roar, but a deep, resonant boom that vibrated through the cave’s very bedrock, an artificial thunder that spoke of calculated malice. Elisha’s eyes, windows to an unyielding spirit, snapped wide in a flash of horrified realization. The name, "Plan D," was a dagger plunged into his quickened heart. He was staring fixedly toward the prison cells, the location of his siblings, but in the brutal exchange with Malla and Ocelot, they had been driven far, displaced towards the cave's distant, glimmering exit.
His mind, sharpened by years of hard-won wisdom, tore through the distances: from his current spot to the cells, then back out. There was no time. The calculation was brutal, final, and absolute: I will not make it.
A low, visceral growl of indecision tore from his throat. He clenched his jaw, the muscle cords standing out tight against his temple, and a warm, coppery trace of blood flowed from the corner of his mouth, a betrayal of his failing control. He could charge the cells, try to reach the few he might save, or he could heed the cold pragmatism Mikael had hammered into him for years.
With a strangled cry of surrender to necessity, he pivoted. The choice was agonizing, tearing at the soul of the brother who had sworn to protect them all, yet the truth was a mountain: his greater purpose was more important than any single act of bravery.
He unleashed his cultivated Qi in a final, defiant torrent, shattering his own speed limits and tearing toward the cave exit with reckless abandon, heedless of the screeching, protesting agony of his ravaged body.
His ultimate mission was too important—a single thread of desperate hope woven into the darkening fabric of Aeonia’s destiny.
In the silent, black heart of the stone, the great Tao Praetorian, the living legend to his brothers and sisters, could do nothing but hurtle forward and utter a wordless, desperate plea into the void:. .
But the god of Balance and Order keeps tails. And the Balance had already favoured them twice. It would not do so a third time.
“Thank you so much, Beautiful Big Sister,” Nerion said ecstatically. Bloody tears still streaked his cheeks from the Kaleidoscope backlash, making him look like a happy little demon.
Ailan, Eliana, and Roxy were held in a stunned, suspended silence, their gazes flitting between the colossal, lifeless Beastman and the silent, caged woman. They could not reconcile the boy’s reckless, desperate gambit—sending the savage enemy directly toward a prisoner—nor the prisoner’s sudden, decisive, and terrifying intervention. Yet, as the wave of fear receded, a raw, undeniable surge of relief left them glad they had, by some miracle, escaped this predicament without greater loss.
The woman, whose face Nerion had only just learned to call beautiful, looked upon Ron’s corpse with a coldness that chilled the humid cave air—as if the powerful Beastman were nothing more than an object, a piece of detritus to be swept away. She had sent the word telepathically, a faint, hidden command for Nerion to lure the Beastman toward her by any means so she could deliver the final, lethal blow.
Her superior gaze seldom took account of mere Praetorians like Ron, let alone those of Master Rank or below. However, she knew Nerion was different.
Now, the weight of her action settled. A trickle of cold sweat ran down her beautiful brow, and the sheer exhaustion of drawing upon her last reserves of great power to kill the Beastman caused her to collapse onto the stone floor.
Seeing the sudden, profound weakness in the woman, Nerion darted toward her. He reached her side and, with some difficulty, helped her sit up against the cold stone of the cell.
“Are you alright, Beautiful Big Sister?”
Roxy opened her mouth to warn him again, but the words died.
Nerion’s keen eyes, trained by the orphanage’s harsh lessons, registered the toll: her skin, which should have held a lustrous sheen of innate health, was withered; her hands and lips were dry, the clear, terrifying signs of severe dehydration.
Eliana fetched water without being asked. Ailan tried to stop her instinctively, but stopped himself from doing so.
Nerion gave the water in careful sips—Mikael’s lessons about starvation drilled into him since he could walk. He administered the water carefully, allowing her body to adapt little by little.
The water offered a momentary relief, yet her weakness was a chasm far deeper than thirst. The terrible wounds she had sustained before Sagat found and imprisoned her had never been allowed to heal, and the subsequent torture of starvation and dehydration had compounded her situation tenfold.
Worse, she was still bound by Sagat’s Star Metal chains, a high-grade material impossible for any of the children to break, and impossible for her to shatter without her full strength.
“Thank you, little boy,” the woman said, her melodious voice still raspy, a ghost of its former strength. “You are much more skilled than you seem. Anyone who faces you thinking you’re nothing more than a child will certainly lose.”
“Don’t mention it, Beautiful Big Sister. If it weren't for you, we all would have died,” Nerion insisted, sincerity burning in his young face. “How can we help you escape?”
Roxy, who had managed to receive first aid from Eliana, the blade finally removed from her leg, watched on, managing to stand up with difficulty. She longed to counsel caution, to advise Nerion to flee and leave the powerful, caged woman alone, but she saw the fierce determination in the young boy's eyes. In this moment, nothing she said would have any effect, and she had to admit that the woman’s intervention was the only reason any of them were alive.
“For now, freeing her is impossible,” Roxy stated, pointing to the shimmering metal. “Sagat has the key to the chains. They are made of a high-grade material: Star Metal. Even if we could all combine our forces, we couldn't break them.”
“It would be better if you left,” the woman said, her voice dropping, a deep wave of weariness overriding her dignity.
Nerion ignored her. He was already examining the chains, brow furrowed.
Silvestre knew that look.
“No,” he whispered. “You know Father’s orders. We leave now.”
Nerion sighed, the sound heavy with resignation and unspent fury. He looked back at the woman, his anxiety turning into a deep, frustrated conviction.
“Can I at least know your name, Beautiful Big Sister?”
Silence was the answer.
Nerion stood, shoulders slumping.
“Right now I can’t free you. But I promise—when I find Big Brother and Father, I’ll come back. I’ll get you out.”
Silvestre and Eliana took up a post on either side of Roxy, helping her move, while Ailan, Lucca, and Nerion turned and headed toward the exit of the cavern. As the six souls were about to disappear into the darkness of the exit tunnel, Nerion heard a faint voice, a sound like a single, quiet chord of a grand piano, resonate in his ear.
Nerion spun, eyes shining. He smiled, a genuine, powerful spark of promise. Arbak smiled back: small, exhausted, real.
Then her face changed.
A voice rolled through the entire lair like the sentence of the underworld itself:
“PLAN D.”
The countdown had started. The next fifteen minutes would mark Nerion and his family forever.