Chapter 127: All That I Can

Sakolomé's body closed up, his cracks healing under the warm breath of Rivhiamë's mana. His breathing grew calmer, more stable, as if he was gradually regaining control over himself.

Before him, the creature panted lightly. For the first time since their confrontation, it was bleeding. A thin scarlet trickle flowed from its nostrils and mouth. Yet it was not pain that stirred it, but hatred. Its red eyes, initially empty, gradually filled with a golden fire, as if a dead sun was reigniting within them.

Around it, its aura became blazing — a golden, blinding, almost sacred light. It rose a step, hands stretched toward Sakolomé.

CLIIIIINNNNKKKKK!!

A strange sound, like a cosmic mirror shattering, echoed. A multitude of invisible symbols exploded around Sakolomé, as if laws, fundamental forces — strength, power, magic — had just been nullified around him.

Sakolomé's eyes widened.

— What just happened…?

Rivhiamë, gravely:

— This demon tried to deny fundamental concepts of your nature. It wanted to erase strength, magic, everything that makes you a fighter… But I canceled its attack just in time.

Sakolomé, relieved:

— Seriously? Thank you so much, Rivhiamë, you save me again…

Rivhiamë:

— Look ahead, idiot!

Too late.

The creature was already there.

In a golden flash, it grabbed Sakolomé by the throat. Its grip was firm, inhuman, burning like a star. With a beat of wings, it propelled him with unheard-of violence toward Jupiter.

They crossed space in an instant, slicing the void like a scarlet comet.

And then…

JUPITER.

The entry was brutal. Sakolomé felt his entrails compress as they penetrated the dense atmosphere of the gas giant. Supersonic winds howled past, colossal lightning exploded around them, briefly illuminating the swirling gas chaos. The pressure became unbearable; layers of methane, hydrogen, and ammonia seemed intent on crushing them.

But the creature was not done.

It forced downward, toward Jupiter's abyssal depths, where pressure turns gases into metallic liquids. To the core, where heat and gravity fused to create an infernal forge.

In this gravitational hell, the creature, still silent, struck.

A blow of divine power, right to the chest.

CRACK—BOOM!

Sakolomé was expelled from the core, launched like a living missile.

He traversed Jupiter from side to side.

An incandescent trail marked his path through the gaseous layers. The atmosphere tore apart. And then…

He was expelled.

Propelled beyond the planet, carried into space at superhuman speed. He barely had time to catch his breath before already rushing toward one of Jupiter's moons.

IO.

The volcanic moon.

Sakolomé struck Io full force, piercing the sulfurous crust, penetrating the boiling magma chambers, tearing the molten rocks. Then he emerged on the other side, projected into the void, his inert body floating like a broken star.

He gasped.

His clothes were in tatters. Blood flowed from his lips. Burns covered his torso. His bones screamed. His gaze was blurred.

But he was still there.

Still alive.

— Hhhhh… it's not… over…

He clenched his teeth. His gaze met the creature's, which was also emerging from Jupiter, its wings spread like solar blades.

The war was not over.

It was only beginning.

Sakolomé let out a long sigh.

His wounds closed immediately, slowly but surely, thanks to Rivhiamë's invisible intervention. His breath calmed, his muscles relaxed barely.

Rivhiamë (internally): He's coming!

With a leap, the creature surged before him, its arm raised in a violent gesture, ready to tear off his head.

Sakolomé barely dodged, but the attacks followed immediately, brutal, unleashed. The creature was nothing but a golden hurricane of blows and claws.

Sakolomé slid, jumped, bent under the assaults, without counterattacking. Frustration rose within him.

— How am I supposed to hurt it now… if I can't even use the mana of the narrative anymore?!

Rivhiamë (calmly): Technically, you can still use a drop. But the price might be heavy…

Sakolomé frowned, still moving.

— Heavy? What do you mean by that?

Rivhiamë: After that, your body will become hypersensitive. Even my mana, or your own soul energy, could crush you. You wouldn't be able to channel anything without risking… disintegration.

Sakolomé gritted his teeth.

— That bad?… So how am I supposed to beat it now?

Suddenly, a memory came back. A spark of an idea.

Dodging another blow, he resumed, more lively:

— Wait! You said earlier you were analyzing this demon… You observed it during the whole first part of the fight, right? Didn't you find anything? Anything that could give me an advantage?

A silence. Then Rivhiamë's voice, slightly embarrassed, answered:

Rivhiamë (a bit distracted): Ah… yes. I forgot to tell you. Actually… this demon might be terrifying for you now, but… in reality, it's still a baby.

Sakolomé froze.

— A baby?!

He had no time to think.

The creature took advantage of his inattention to land a violent hook to his face.

CRACK!

Sakolomé was thrown into space like a rag doll.

He rolled in the void, stabilized, then held his jaw, growling:

— Damn, that hurts…!

Rivhiamë (dryly): If I weren't here to protect your Narrative… it would have erased you on the first hit.

Sakolomé sped away, leaping between stars as the furious creature pursued him with increasingly frantic assaults.

— You just said it's a baby?… What exactly does that mean?!

He barely dodged a series of destructive orbs flying in the void, their cruel light tearing space.

Rivhiamë: Simply put? It's an imp. In our world, that's what we call newborn demons.

This one was born just moments ago… on Earth, when Grijan lost his body.

Sakolomé missed a beat.

— Wait, wait… You mean this thing, this war machine, is a… newborn?! Is that supposed to be believable?!

Rivhiamë (with an amused chuckle): Ah, you humans…

You think growth is linear for all beings? In our Hell, demons are not born to learn. They are born to fight.

Once, we opened our eyes to battle gods.

From birth, even the youngest among us possessed martial skills and terrifying strength far beyond what a human, even very experienced, could imagine.

— But… humans have the advantage of intelligence, experience, wisdom, right?

Rivhiamë: Yes, that's true. Your brains allow you to dominate by cunning, by strategy.

But in everything else — raw power, endurance, instinct, combat adaptation — baby demons far surpass an average human… even high-ranking warriors.

Sakolomé continued dodging the creature's wild assaults, a grimace on his face.

— It's no baby. With that build and aura, it could pass for my father in his prime…

Rivhiamë (calmly): That's not its true form.

Sakolomé froze for half a second.

— What do you mean?

Rivhiamë: That's where it gets strange.

This imp you fight… was originally a fetus. An embryo. An offspring of Lilith, whose consciousness was dormant inside Grijan's body.

In theory, it should never have manifested. It should never have been born.

But your attacks, your interference, this intense fight, stimulated something.

They awakened this buried consciousness and triggered a premature birth.

Except, rather than emerging as an infant, it manifested by absorbing Grijan's body.

Result: an adult appearance… but an embryonic consciousness and maturity. It does not yet understand all that it is, nor what it can become.

Sakolomé frowned, panting slightly.

— So… it fights like a monster, but it doesn't even know who it really is?

Rivhiamë (darkly): Not yet. But it's learning. Every second, every blow exchanged with you… makes it evolve.

Sakolomé executed lightning-fast dodges, struggling to avoid the creature's brutal blows. Between assaults, he said breathlessly:

— Then… why does it attack us with such rage?!

Rivhiamë (calmly): There, you finally ask the right question.

If it's been rampaging like this all along…

…it's because you scare it.

Sakolomé rolled his eyes.

— No kidding!!!

But he had no time to say more: the creature hit him full force with a monstrous blow to the stomach. Sakolomé spat a spray of blood, doubled over from the impact, but immediately countered with a devastating uppercut that pushed the creature back. It growled, enraged, then stretched out its hand. A golden mana burst into a blinding ray, shooting through space at prodigious speed, before vanishing into the stellar void.

— You mean… that thing, that terrifying abomination… is afraid of us?!

Rivhiamë: Not exactly. It's not you, as individuals, that it fears.

It's the hostility you emit. Your murderous intentions.

Demons sense such things like a smell. And in it, it's even more instinctive.

Imagine: you've just been born into an unknown world. You understand nothing. Your own body is escaping you.

And suddenly, unknown beings strike you with the intent to kill.

What would you do?

Sakolomé gritted his teeth. He dodged another volley, eyes fixed on the opponent.

— …You'd defend yourself.

Rivhiamë: Exactly. It's only protecting itself.

By eliminating what it perceives as a threat, it ensures survival. It's primitive, but terribly logical: no threat, no risk.

Sakolomé sighed between dodges, then said gravely:

— So… if we hadn't attacked it, if it hadn't felt that intent to kill in us… it might never have fought?

Rivhiamë: Very likely.

Imps aren't evil by nature.

Hell is what shapes us, what distorts us over time… but at birth, we are still almost… pure.

Sakolomé leapt back, dark gaze.

— Then tell me… how do I make it understand I'm not its enemy?

Rivhiamë (hesitant): …It's probably too late for that.

Its instinct is already trapped in this loop of fear and aggression. It won't understand anything as long as it stays defensive… but… here's what you can still do.

You must first break it.

Make it feel your overwhelming superiority, a real, visceral fear, like what it would feel facing an absolute predator.

Once you've rendered it powerless, traumatized even, then maybe… you can extend your hand.

Sakolomé cursed, throwing a weary glance at the creature.

— Great. It's literally stronger than me, and you want me to traumatize it?

— …By what miracle, damn it, am I supposed to do that…