Chapter 126: The Mana of the Narrative

Sakolomé activated his technique in a burst of energy:

— Duplication!

A second Sakolomé appeared immediately, emerging behind the creature, sharp-eyed, ready to strike. He spun in a circular motion and —

BOOM!

A violent kick crashed into the creature's back.

The impact was strong enough to make it stagger a step.

Just one step.

But it was already a victory… or at least, it should have been.

The creature slowly turned its head. Still silent. Still empty. Its gaze settled on the double.

And with a simple blink…

The double was erased from existence.

No scream, no light, no flash.

Just… nothing.

Sakolomé's eyes widened.

— Wha… What?!

But he had no time to react.

SMASH!

The creature immediately returned to him and delivered a sharp, surgical punch to his chest.

Sakolomé was hurled at a furious speed into the vast cosmic void. His body passed through several layers of stellar particles, spinning like a wild comet.

He righted himself mid-flight, landing with effort, stars in his eyes and breath caught.

— This is… harder than expected…

Rivhiamë, calm but tense voice in his mind:

Hold on a little longer… I'm about to understand…

Sakolomé gritted his teeth, eyes fixed on his opponent.

— Alright… I'm going to do it!

He charged again, every muscle tense, his speed tearing the space around him. He struck again, a rain of blows, precise, unleashed combos.

But…

NOTHING.

Each hit seemed to sink into compact nothingness. No recoil. No visible impact.

Sakolomé screamed in frustration:

— DAMN IT! Why do my attacks have no effect on him?!

The creature slowly flapped its black and white wings.

FWOOOSH!

A colossal wave burst into space. Sakolomé was violently thrown backward, swirling like a twig in a cosmic hurricane.

At a distance, the creature then stretched both arms toward the interstellar void.

Glowing lights appeared in the darkness…

Meteors.

Not just celestial rocks: giants of burning stone, nearly as massive as the Moon, bursting from the void like end-of-the-world projectiles.

Sakolomé regained his senses, panting. When he looked up…

— What...?!

His gaze froze. Ten… no, twelve enormous meteors were hurtling straight at him.

— Damn!!!

But then…

Rivhiamë, firm and serene voice in his consciousness:

It's done, I've finished my analysis.

At these words, Sakolomé's body was enveloped in a blazing, pure, radiant green aura — the full mana of Rivhiamë now unleashed for battle.

A breath of power coursed through his entire being.

Sakolomé smiled faintly, wiping blood from the corner of his lips.

— Heh… about time.

He extended a hand forward — a simple press —

and all the meteors exploded into cosmic dust.

— My turn.

He sliced through the void at a furious speed, charging straight at the creature. It remained impassive, frozen, still believing the man's attacks were mere insect caresses.

Fatal mistake.

POW!

Sakolomé's fist crashed into its flank.

For the first time… the creature's body bent.

It was thrown back, retreating through space, its torso slightly twisted. Its gaze, still empty, wavered for a moment.

Without waiting, Sakolomé followed up:

— You feel that, huh!?

He struck again, and again.

Each blow, amplified by Rivhiamë's mana, tore through the void, ripping matter, fracturing space.

— Hyper Cut!

A blade of energy sliced the creature from shoulder to hip.

Then, the final blow:

— Killer PUNCH!!!

BOOOOOOM!

The impact was such that the creature's body partially disintegrated, vaporized under the raw power of the strike. Fragments of black feathers swirled around them.

Sakolomé did not release the pressure.

— Amplification!!!

The green mana flared in his fist, multiplying the power of his attack.

The resulting explosion literally devoured the creature. A wave of mana so dense, so gigantic, that it eclipsed all nearby light.

In the interstellar void, the entire solar system seemed no more than a grain of sand before the unleashed energy storm.

Silence. Then breath. Then light.

The silence. Only Sakolomé's ragged breath was heard in the frozen space.

He floated, panting, his body marked by effort, fists still vibrating from the cataclysmic explosion he had just released.

Sakolomé:

— Where did it go…?

Rivhiamë, calm but tense voice echoed in his mind:

— Behind you. Now.

Sakolomé's eyes widened. He turned swiftly —

FWOOSH!!

The creature, intact, charged at him like a deadly shooting star, its gaze glowing with icy rage. Sakolomé barely dodged the blow, but the rush of its passage created a wave that twisted the void around him.

Sakolomé:

— This… can't be! It's unharmed! Even after that?!

Rivhiamë:

— It's the demon's regeneration. And not just any regeneration…

She paused briefly, grave:

— It is composed of the narrative. A higher state, a meta-foundation. As long as its story exists, it can effortlessly reform its soul, mind, and body. Your attacks, Sakolomé, only affect conventional layers. You cannot destroy what lies above…

Sakolomé:

— Then what do I do?! How do I strike a "narrative"?!

Rivhiamë:

— I can help you do it… but listen carefully: it's dangerous. Very dangerous.

Sakolomé, frowning:

— Dangerous how?

Rivhiamë:

— The narrative is a state of higher transcendence. You have already defied laws by channeling soul energy while not even fully awakened to the spirit. You should be dead just holding what you hold now.

A heavy silence.

Rivhiamë continued:

— The soul and spirit are already two transcendent burdens your mortal body bears. But if you add the narrative to that…

Sakolomé, lowering his eyes, murmured:

— …I will be destroyed. I know. I've been told before.

Rivhiamë:

— And yet… you stand. You resist. It's unprecedented. But if you go further, your entire existence could reject you.

Sakolomé raised his eyes, more determined than ever.

Sakolomé:

— My body may still be "human," but it has borne the soul. It has contained the spirit. So why couldn't it also host the narrative?

He clenched his fists.

— I am ready to bear this burden. Because if I don't… this demon will destroy everything. My friends. My sister. My world.

Rivhiamë:

— That's way too much! You're playing with what even the Transcendents fear!

Sakolomé dodged a swift blow from the creature, the rush of its passage drawing a trickle of blood. The space around them vibrated under the assaults. A series of violent and rapid exchanges followed, fist against fist, wave against wave.

Amid the turmoil, he continued to converse internally with Rivhiamë.

Rivhiamë:

— This demon doesn't just strike your body, Sakolomé. It attacks your narrative. It directly targets the key to your destiny: your personal causality. It tries to break the invisible line that supports your life, your mind, your soul…

Sakolomé (panting):

— What? The narrative contains all that?

Rivhiamë:

— Yes. The Narrative is the secret architecture of personal existence. It is the living memory of all your fundamental states. The spirit can restore the body. The soul can restore the spirit and body. But the narrative? It can rebuild all three simultaneously. It is a complex, autonomous core linked to your internal narrative framework within us.

She continued, in an even graver tone:

— And above the narrative… there is the Being, which transcends all. But where your friends — Nairo, Grafay, Salomé, Sally… — have unconsciously anchored their consciousness in their souls, you have remained in your physical body. And yet… you already manipulate soul energy. It's illogical. Incoherent. An anomaly.

Sakolomé, while dodging a blow that could have torn his spine out, shouted:

— Rivhiamë, this is not the time for a spirituality lecture! If this demon can strike me at the level of my narrative, then give me a chance to counterattack! Try once. Just once. Give me the mana of the narrative.

Rivhiamë (sighing inwardly, resigned):

— It's insane. If your body, strange as it is, cannot bear the energy that carries story and destiny, it will collapse. You will be broken, dissolved. This mana is of another order. Even souls and spirits cannot handle it…

Sakolomé, hit on the shoulder but maintaining his balance, shouted:

— Try anyway!!!

Rivhiamë sighed, resigned:

— Very well… as you wish!!!

In an instant, Sakolomé's body was enveloped in a mana of an unknown kind: it was not flamboyant or unstable — no — it was dense, heavy, almost oppressive. Its color seemed to defy natural laws: a dark green sprinkled with threads of gold, as if each fragment shone with the weave of an ancient destiny.

Sakolomé staggered:

— Is… is this the mana of the Narrative?

Rivhiamë (cold tone):

— Do you feel it? It's only a drop… a mere trace of your own Narrative. And already, your physical body bends under the weight of your destiny.

Despite the pain, Sakolomé steadied his fists:

— A drop… or an ocean, it doesn't matter!

The creature lunged at him again. This time, Sakolomé dodged with a new, almost unreal fluidity, then struck full force.

BAM.

The creature staggered, recoiling under the impact. A blow… carrying a cut into its very story.

For the first time, the creature seemed shaken. A microscopic but irrefutable crack opened in its structure.

It shook its head, a deep growl resonating in the void, then leapt with rage. A furious beast, raw, determined to crush this bearer of anomaly.

But Sakolomé danced between its assaults, striking again, again, again…

And each impact resonated louder. The demon bled. Its very existence chipped away.

Sakolomé, exalted, panting:

— Damn… This is the mana of the Narrative? It's not just incredible… it's cosmic!

Rivhiamë, composed but admiring:

— The states of spirit, soul, Narrative, and Being… are all conceptual. What they produce is not ordinary mana or energy. It's a vector of structure, a fundamental conceptual writing force as much as they are. So yes, it's incredibly powerful. But also incredibly dangerous…

Sakolomé, dominating the creature retreating under his assaults, taunted:

— What? Feeling less cocky now, huh?

But…

CRACK.

A sharp sound.

Sakolomé stopped.

He looked at his right arm.

A crack. Not on his armor. On his skin.

He stepped back, stunned, contemplating his own body.

— What… what's happening to me?

Rivhiamë, more serious:

— I warned you. This power is not made for you. Even a drop can break your physical existence. You only hold because you are a living anomaly, Sakolomé. If I had given you even a quarter of what I bear… you'd be cosmic dust right now.

She paused.

— But don't worry. It's only a crack. I can still repair that...

A green glow slowly surrounded the cracks, sealing them like a metaphysical wound stitched by the needle of destiny.