The sanctum's vaulted dome groaned as fissures spidered across its surface, rain of dust speckling the air. Zhen Hu's body felt like it had been carved and reassembled; each breath sent shard-sharp pain through his torn ribs. Yet he remained rooted, eyes locked on Veyrix the Bone Regent, whose shattered mask now hung half-loose, revealing a jawbone clenched in grim determination.
Without warning, Veyrix swept his arm in a slow circle. From the broken pillars behind him, a colony of wraith-beetles—horrid insects fused with rotting spirit—burst forth. Their chitinous shells glistened with fetid ichor as they surged toward Zhen Hu in a living tide.
Zhen Hu didn't hesitate.
He dropped into the low crouch that had carried him through countless battles. With a whispered invocation, he threaded the first syllable of Soulbinding through his dantian. Pale tendrils of light leapt from his chest, weaving a cage of energy around him. When the wraith-beetles struck, their bodies were trapped in the net—wings and limbs snapping in a chorus of grinding bone, ichor hissing as it met the binding runes.
The sanctum flickered under the beetles' dying spasms—glimmers of crimson and jade mixing with the pale lumen of Zhen Hu's Soulbinding. He straightened, lagging dizziness fading as he squared his shoulders for the next assault.
Veyrix did not flinch. He extended a gauntleted hand and drew a line of necrotic glyphs in the air. The runes flared jet-black, dripping with corrosive mist that carved trenches into the marble floor. From the runes poured slender pillars of death-zen, each one a barbed lance of frozen rot.
Zhen Hu's eyes narrowed.
He pivoted on one foot, channeling Ghost Step. His form blurred, phasing behind a fallen column just as the lances impaled the stone where he'd stood seconds before. Niches of the sanctum exploded in rotten crystal, and the shockwave nearly unbalanced him. Groaning, he forced his legs beneath him and dashed free.
From his side, the echo of Aelira's whisper warmed his mind: "Balance the ember with the abyss."
He shut out the pain. He let Nytherion's hunger simmer to a dull flame, then drew inward—melding void and spirit until his core hummed with dual resonance.
His next strike was silent. Zhen Hu raised his palm and unleashed Void Strike, but this time he let it bloom in a sphere instead of a blade. The orb of crackling void-frost expanded in a rolling wave, shattering the death-zen pillars and scattering fetid mist like shattered glass.
Veyrix staggered backward, mask cracking further, bone fragments tinkling on the floor. He raised both arms and snarled a curse in that forgotten tongue.
Before more death-lances could form, Zhen Hu dropped into Fallen Sky stance. The air above them coalesced into a jagged dome of violet-black light. When it crashed down, jagged clefts gouged the sanctum floor, sending geysers of molten Zen and bone shards skyward. The Regent was thrown against a wall, spray of ichor staining his robes.
Both men rose, breath ragged, faces lit by the dying embers of their own attacks.
Veyrix (voice hollow): "You grasp power… but you do not respect its price."
Zhen Hu (steadying himself): "I know its cost. I choose to bear it."
In the silence that followed, the sanctum's final ward began to glow—an orb of pulsing rot-energy suspended above the dais. Veyrix's gaze flicked to it, then back to Zhen Hu.
Veyrix: "The ritual nears its end. Neither of us can afford hesitation."
Zhen Hu's pulse surged. He glanced at the orb—dark light beckoning with cold promise.
He inhaled, ready for what would come next, and stepped into the fray once more—mind and body aligned, ember and abyss fused, facing not only Veyrix but the final shape of his own destiny.