Another day. The first morning in the Intermediary.
And there they were: sweaty, panting, and being solemnly ignored by Eliyah—the one responsible for the whole mess—who, far too busy, devoured honey cakes like they were gold nuggets filled with divine stuffing.
"This is fucking amazing!"
Sitting right on the floor, robe all crumpled and the corner of his mouth smeared with crumbs, he looked more like a child abandoned at a street fair than a guardian of a higher plane.
"What brought your presence down to us?" asked his subordinate.
Casual steps were enough to dodge Cael's attacks—who was trying his best. No technique. No finesse. Fighting wasn't his strength, let alone his hobby.
"I wanna know what this one's learned. You tell me: did he learn anything?" he asked between bites, voice muffled by crumbs and apathy.
"Can't you see?" Cael huffed, exhausted from trying.
He collapsed onto his back, sarcasm dripping from his mouth like spit laced with disdain.
A crooked grin played at the corner of his lips. And then… came another gust of wind.
Stronger than before… But this time, he didn't crash into the wall like the last seventeen attempts. He stayed standing. Firm. Just his hair tousled—as if the scene had been directed by someone with a shampoo commercial fetish in slow motion.
"Hm… I see you're playing pretend fight…"
"It's not… uh… pretend! This kid's got accelerated resistance. I'd say he's practically a cockroach! It's impressive…" and as he threw a punch, Cael gave everything he had to hold it back. He glimpsed death. But even after being launched into the wall, again… he didn't die.
"Hold on!" he gasped, head pounding, vision spinning. Everything whirled… and then, like a snap of magic, everything clicked back into place.
Wait…
He thought. That was incredible.
He felt his bones stitching back together, his skin burning and rebuilding itself, air vanishing from his lungs… and rushing back in like it had never left.
It was as if his body was learning to survive—through sheer beatdown.
An absurd sensation of rapid healing. Violent, raw… and addictive.
"See?" the blond pointed. "Every near-death situation causes his Echo to adapt his attributes so he can survive. Like a real-time spiritual antivirus. Isn't that wild?"
"Yeah… yeah…" Eliyah replied with a yawn of disinterest. "But what about his Yesod? Being sturdy is nice, but if he can't control it enough to make a scary face… he's not killing even the boogeyman."
"Don't those die with punches from Saitama?"
Cael winced in pain, but held strong. Threw a few light jabs in the air, mimicking a fight, then cracked a crooked smirk—that sly kind, like he'd just won the brawl… and the last slice of cake.
"I'm at my peak, man. No one can touch me now, not even a bullet!"
"Supernatural creatures don't do drive-bys. That's straight-up execution at point-blank," the blond made a finger-gun and aimed. "Bang. Game over."
"Uh… what?"
The big guy laughed loud.
"Monsters don't rely on spiritual energy to exist. They're beyond matter—untouchable by anything purely physical. They're the filth of human desires given shape," he said, his deep voice resonating with authority. "They're pure corrupted Echo… and they can only be struck by something that resembles their essence. An expression! One that screams who you are—no filter, no brakes!"
"Well said."
"So I need to learn this 'expression' thing…" Cael grumbled like a sulking kid. "Great."
"Are you gonna whine every time? You sound like a student on the first day of school…"
Suddenly, the look shifted. Serious. Sharp—like a feline about to pounce.
"Alright, alright…" the blond sighed, cutting him off. "Leave it to me. I'll try to teach our little friend here the basics of unlocking his own technique. Because if we leave it to you two, we're going nowhere."
"And it's that hard?"
"Hard? Nah!" The blond stood up with his joints cracking, like stepping onto a stage. "It's easier than that ridiculous fighting stance of yours. You just need to decide and put some fire in your spirit, got it? Guardians like us do it on instinct—no need for a Madonna concert."
He paused, eyes lighting up with mischief.
"But you? You're gonna make a fool of yourself. Right here. In front of me."
"You're so annoying, you know that?"
"I know…"
"I know…" Cael echoed in a high-pitched mockery. "Why the change of heart? You were all hyped when you brought me here…"
"Responsibilities, kid!" he replied, voice firmer. "You know how it is… The man carries this whole sector, thousands of lives on his back. Can't keep smiling all the time. But he… he tries." He finished with conviction in his eyes.
Seriously? The guy who almost fried the world… cares about that?
Coherent. For once. Or maybe twice…
Suddenly, the sharp, determined gaze fell on him.
"Shall we?"
"Let's go!"
The master's eyes narrowed too—adrenaline and a certain bloodlust tingling under his skin. And then…
"Boooo!!!"
The scream hit him like a truck. Instinctively, he leapt back, tripped… and landed flat on his ass.
"Whoa…"
"Son of a bitch! I was focused! Fuck!" he exploded, shaking with rage. "Get lost if you're just gonna mess with me!"
"Aw, poor baby… and I'm the one who's stressed…" the blond chuckled, savoring every second of chaos.
While Asael, facepalming hard, could only think how idiotic the man he insisted on calling his leader truly was.
❍❍❍ ᨖ ❍❍❍
Meanwhile, in the higher realm, Thaenor heard the "good" news—if that's what you could call it.
"WHAAAT!?"
His celestial harp let out a shrill screech, like a string snapping mid-hymn.
"That jackass did WHAT!?"
"My Lord…" the executioner ventured, with the courage of someone holding a grenade with no pin.
"Don't explain!" the voice thundered like storms echoing through hollow cathedrals. "I don't care if he regrets it!"
His aura then tore through the fabric of reality, taking on the colossal shape of a black dragon—made of death itself, of darkness and the most rotted nightmares.
"I just want that freak six feet under!" he roared again. "Even if I have to drag that damned Intermediary World to hell with me! DO YOU HEAR ME!?"
His rage was so insane he spat corrosive saliva—melting the floor of the higher realm and its golden clouds.
Then suddenly, like opening a window in the middle of a storm, another God appeared—with light steps, but a presence that froze even light in its tracks.
"Are you sure about that… brother?"
The voice belonged to Veimar, the God of Dread, cloaked in mist and mystery, smiling like someone who already knew the punchline.
His hair was long and white as snow. His eyes, the same spectral shade, didn't just see—they reflected fear, the primal horror even the God of End dared not face.
No creature, in any realm or age, could bear that gaze without feeling their soul tremble.
For before them stood…
The fear of all.
The beginning and end of terror.
"Why do you ask?"
"Because it's stupid," he said, almost amused. "Waging war out of pride… over a half-baked little man. Put your harp away, O Troubadour of Destruction! We barely finished the last war two thousand years ago!" He sighed, as if the weight of the universe rested on his shoulders. "You want to start another one before the next era even begins?"
Thaenor frowned, eyeing the executioner like he was considering incinerating him for sport.
"Scram!"
The poor bastard didn't wait a second—vanished into the air, leaving only the stench of fear behind.
And the god closed his eyes, thoughtful. His chest still heaved with fury, but something deeper gnawed at his insides.
"What bothers me most… isn't the little man. It's how. Someone is pulling our strings. Someone dares to manipulate us. And that, dear brother… is something I will find out. And crush!"
"Fair enough," Veimar replied with a shrug, as if it were no big deal.
Completely indifferent—as if watching a circus burn.