Chapter 21: Decisions and Regrets, Part Five.
"At the edge where echoes break and reflections distort, we keep moving... unsure whether we're fleeing from something or chasing it." —Excerpt from an unpublished manuscript: Inks and Swords.
"Whatever twisted thing you're imagining in that deranged little mind of yours, you're not getting it from me, you sick fetishist." Brián spat the words as if they were poison meant to wound. Yet, like some lunatic escaped from who-knows-which shopping mall, he talked to himself, as if suffering from schizophrenia—anything to avoid addressing the sociopath directly.
Ronan barely suppressed a smile. There was something captivating about that green-mint-haired boy, something so unique that he couldn't look away. With every passing moment, his desire to see him fall, to see him writhe, to watch his spirit crumble under the weight of despair, grew more voracious. The anticipation was almost unbearable.
"Silver-haired girl, whatever you do, don't answer a single question from this bastard," Brián repeated in a low murmur meant only for her. He wasn't sure if she'd heard him the first time—hell, even if he said it again, he wasn't sure if he'd heard himself either.
Pain was a treacherous bitch and offered no respite. He barely had time to stumble once before hell began. Ronan moved—a swift shadow vanishing from view. In the blink of an eye, Brián felt the sociopath's open palm slam against his face, shoving him backward with brutal force. His body collided with the tiled wall, the sound of shattering ceramic mixing with the dull thud of his skull against the surface.
A sharp pain shot through the back of his head. If he could've seen behind him, he'd have noticed the reddish smear his head left on the fractured tiles. But there was no time. Ronan's eyes glowed with sick glee, his smile a grotesque sneer—the last thing Brián saw before being flung again, his body flying like a rag doll. He hit the ground, rolling and slamming into it repeatedly before finally coming to a stop.
Even so, he rose. His one functioning hand trembled as he braced against the floor, but he managed to stand. His eyes, cold as glaciers, were a silent challenge. Whatever Ronan sought from him, he wouldn't give this bastard the satisfaction.
His body, his reflexes, stood no chance against Ronan's next vanishing act—too fast to even notice. A sweep to his legs knocked him down again, slamming him to the floor, forcing the air from his lungs and breaking something in the process. Before he could process the pain, Ronan grabbed him by the ankle and hurled him against the bathroom stalls.
The laminated metal screeched as it crumpled under the impact. The panels bent horribly, leaving the stalls unrecognizable. Still... his eyes remained icy. There were no screams of agony, and there wouldn't be. That was his victory against someone so unhinged.
Ronan showed no mercy. He yanked Brián from the twisted metal, gripping the collar of his shirt. With monstrous strength, he flung him against the rectangular mirror dominating the bathroom wall. Almost horizontally, Brián crashed into it, shattering the remaining glass into a thousand fragments with a sharp, piercing sound that filled the room. He fell gracelessly, yet before he hit the ground, a hand caught him by the nape and drove him into the sinks.
His face smashed through one of the basins entirely. Water gushed in an uncontrolled stream, drenching him even more. Without respite, Ronan hurled him again. This time, he crashed through a stall door, obliterating the toilet's ceramic bowl and tank in an explosion of white fragments. More water spilled, pooling and mixing with the blood dripping from his body. Yet again... his eyes remained icy.
Ronan approached him, his smile spreading like a crack through ice. "No screams, no cries of pain, no despair in your eyes—not a trace of fear of death," he listed with chilling calm, like someone checking off a shopping list. "I wonder how much longer you'll last."
From his position, Brián let out a silent gasp and reached for a shard of broken ceramic. Without hesitation, he hurled it with all his might, aiming straight for the sociopath's eye. Naturally, it was futile—the bastard caught the projectile so easily it seemed like child's play. Damn... even breathing hurt now.
Lying there, Ronan loomed closer, amused and nearly exultant. One hand gripped Brián's neck, lifting him effortlessly as if he were a damn feather. A single punch to his jaw dislocated it in one blow, knocking out several teeth he sincerely hoped were baby teeth. Another strike crushed his nose, sending a torrent of hot blood streaming down his face. A third hit landed on his brow, splitting the skin and forcing one of his eyes to shut under the weight of the pain.
Without letting go, they hurled him again, smashing him through more stalls, tearing straight through them to the other side, so quickly that the pain didn't even have time to register. His body slammed into the wall on the opposite side of the bathroom, and he fell into a sitting position, his back aching with a dull throb, without the will or strength to get up on his own.
But something bubbled in his veins—an energy that kept him conscious, tethered to reality, ready to endure more punishment. He couldn't speak; his shattered jaw made sure of that. Yet he was satisfied that he had warned the silver-haired girl about that bastard's Trait before everything spiraled out of control.
Ronan clapped, his hands stained with blood—his blood. The sound echoed through the bathroom, a taunting mockery of his resistance. Despite everything, Brián's single open eye remained defiant, cold as ice. "I didn't expect you to still be conscious. That proves just how incredible you are. But you're keeping up that frosty attitude, and that's a little boring. So, if I can't get what I'm looking for from you, I'll get it from the poor blind girl instead."
Damn it... hearing that made his rage boil, his helplessness crashing over him in waves. He felt pathetic—unable to protect anything, not even himself.
Through silent groans, his trembling body fought to rise. Every muscle quivered, every fiber of his being screamed in protest, but he refused to give in. Somehow, he managed it. Somehow, he stood on his own. Conviction, willpower, resentment, past mistakes—whatever it was—something kept him upright, something still allowed him to keep fighting with every ounce of his existence. Just shut up and fight, he wanted to say. But the words remained locked in his mind, unable to escape his throat.
Ronan raised an eyebrow, genuinely surprised by the tenacity of the green-mint-haired boy. Brián stumbled forward with erratic steps, more like a walking corpse than a combatant. Yet with every step, his presence loomed larger, a muted echo of defiance. At last, standing before his enemy, he lifted his one functional limb and threw a punch at Ronan's face—a punch that was intercepted, his wrist caught in the sociopath's grip.
And then... CRACK! A sickening sound of breaking bones reverberated through the ruined bathroom. Brián's wrist snapped under the force of Ronan's grip, bending like a brittle twig. But the scream of pain Ronan anticipated never came. Instead, a macabre silence filled the air, accompanied by the icy glare of a single eye gleaming with disdain.
Shut up and fight, Brián repeated to himself mentally. Whether it was meant for him or the bastard in front of him, he couldn't say. If he had no hands, then he'd kick. And so he did—with all the strength he could muster. His leg shot up like a spring, aiming to strike the sociopath, but the bastard caught his ankle in midair effortlessly.
CRACK! The disgusting sound of bones breaking returned, this time in his leg. Yet his eerie silence persisted, growing ever more unsettling. Ronan frowned, almost annoyed by the lack of reaction. With his freed arm, Brián attempted one last attack, his limb snapping forward like a whip. But before it could connect, a horrific crunch filled the air; the bones in his forearm shattered, splintering through the skin and leaving the limb twisted at a grotesque angle.
He would admit it: that hurt like hell. Everything was blurry, almost black. Breathing was a struggle, blood pooling in his mouth. His brain throbbed relentlessly, and the pain was absolute—a burning inferno consuming his body. He wanted to scream, to cry, to give up. He felt more powerless than ever before. And yet, he was still there. Still standing—barely, leaning heavily to one side—but standing for some stupid reason, as stubborn as a brick. Shut up and fight, his mind forced him to repeat, even as unconsciousness crept closer.
Ronan sighed, visibly disappointed. "Congratulations, it's your victory. You win our chess game," he said with a grimace of disgust. He stepped back, preparing a final blow, and delivered it with devastating force, tripling the intensity of his previous attacks. If, somehow, the green-mint-haired boy survived this, then he would have Ronan's eternal respect.
But life itself... it's like a game of Monopoly. You never know what you'll get until you roll the dice.
Before the punch could land, the darkness in the shattered bathroom was suddenly filled with incandescent light. Fine strands of brilliant blue appeared out of nowhere, spreading like a living swarm. In the blink of an eye, those constructs of pure mana coiled around Ronan, halting his strike mid-motion.
They spread so rapidly it was almost impossible to follow their movement. The threads tightened, binding him with inhuman strength. They lifted him off the ground and hurled him against the ceiling with such violence that cracks spread across the bathroom's structure, sending dust raining down like a storm. The noise was deafening, as though the metal itself screamed under the pressure. The constructs continued to constrict, immobilizing Ronan, crushing his ability to resist, leaving him no room to breathe or move a single joint.
At the doorway, a figure emerged. Emma Tarkard had arrived, the visible echo of her Trait in full display. The element of surprise was her trump card. Her chestnut hair shimmered under the dim blue light of the ruined bathroom, while a tattoo of interwoven feathers on her wrist glowed with ominous intensity. From it emanated a dark, repulsive vapor. Her arms trembled under the strain, veins bulging on her forehead, and her bloodshot eyes revealed the sheer effort it took to maintain her attack.
Seeing red, driven by unyielding determination, Emma gritted her teeth, channeling every ounce of her prana to constrict that bastard. Her intent was clear: to choke the life out of the son of a bitch who had dared to attack Brián. Ronan, ensnared in the whirlwind of threads, struggled to free himself, but his body refused to obey.
Brián, on the other hand, barely registered what was happening. His vision was a chaotic mix of shadows and light, and his body no longer responded. Before succumbing entirely to unconsciousness, he managed to glimpse the silver-haired girl, her expression mirroring his confusion.
"At least this time, I was here for you, Norah," his mind whispered, an echo from the past blurring with the present. A final sigh escaped him as his body gave in, collapsing into darkness. He fell forward like a puppet with its strings cut. But before he hit the floor, Emma caught him.
Her face was a portrait of worry, her eyes brimming with fear at the thought of losing someone important.
"Stay awake. Don't leave me alone. Please, stay awake," Emma pleaded, tears streaming down her face as the dark vapor continued to pour from her wrist.
He thought he heard something... but perhaps it was just part of his dreams. As the darkness enveloped him, a strange peace began to fill his being, even as the chaos around him roared on.
▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬
Point of view of Emma Tarkard.
Minutes Before the Altercation.
Here she was, sitting in the enormous dining hall with a monstrous plate of food in front of her—all because, for some stupid reason, she had bolted out of the dorms like a scared little girl that morning. Why? The reason was too ridiculous to say out loud. She scolded herself, unable to articulate what she truly feared: facing Brián and the truth he might tell her. More than answers, she feared lies meant to pacify her.
With a sigh, she cut a piece of meat and shoved it into her mouth, chewing without enthusiasm. Speaking of which… what the hell was that rich brat from Thalion doing at her table? Sure, it wasn't technically hers, but it was still odd for that prick to sit near anyone. He had that whole "torture puppies in his free time" vibe.
Thalion's raised eyebrow indicated he was wondering whether she would eat all of that. Of course she would; she'd been starving since this morning, and it was partly his fault. That bastard hadn't held back during sparring practice, leaving her utterly drained. What a jerk, she thought belatedly, as she stabbed another bite with her fork.
The stares came quickly, thanks to the rich kid sitting at her table. Whispers and murmurs followed. They irritated her a little, but as always, she ignored them. "Are you going to eat, or just keep staring?" she snapped, not in the mood for anyone's scrutiny.
"Your combat style is impressive. Who taught you?" Thalion asked, deliberately brushing off her sharp tone. There was something genuine in his curiosity, an unguarded interest in knowing more about Emma, whose exceptional skill for someone her age rivaled his own.
Her gaze snapped up. She frowned and gripped her knife tightly. Not going to lie—she felt an urge to stab something.
Memories came flooding back: two children playing, carefree and oblivious to the future awaiting them. Two kids training together under the guidance of that idiot's father—a simple man with a terrifying appearance but a heart as soft as a marshmallow. A man Emma had admired deeply. A man who had given his life to save her and Brián.
Her expression darkened as guilt and remorse hit her. In the end, all she could remember was the chaos of that day: flames, screams, and the grotesque shapes of demons tearing apart everything she knew.
Thalion noticed immediately. Despite what others might say, he wasn't insensitive. "I didn't mean to upset you," he said, his tone calm and measured.
His words brought Emma out of her nightmares. She waved her arm dismissively, trying to shake off the weight of the memories.
"It's not important," she muttered. "Just an affable man who thought it was a good idea for two kids to spend their time training together." She concealed her anguish behind those half-truths, hiding the real reasons behind Mister Berlian's actions—reasons far more embarrassing than she cared to admit.
Thalion's intrigue deepened. Another person with talent as monstrous as Emma's? Were they here too? He had questions, but seeing how much damage a single one had caused, he decided to keep them to himself. It was clear those memories were an open wound, one Emma had no intention of touching.
Unfortunately, their unpleasantly pleasant conversation was cut short. Emma, about to take another bite, suddenly dropped her fork. The metallic clang echoed loudly as it hit the floor. The tattoo of interwoven feathers on her wrist began to burn, as if hot embers had sunk into her skin, pricking her with unbearable pain. A repulsive dark vapor seeped out from the tattoo, flooding her vision with a terror that froze her in place.
"No…" she whispered, panic seizing her chest. She knew exactly what that black vapor meant, and it terrified her to her core.
Without a second thought, she pushed back from the table so quickly her chair toppled over. Where? she thought frantically, whipping her head around, searching for the source of the disturbance.
Thalion observed her cautiously, though even he seemed startled by the intensity in her eyes.
Emma shut her eyes for a moment, focusing on the bond. She could feel it—faint but insistent—like an invisible thread pulling her in a specific direction. There wasn't a second to waste.
She bolted from the dining hall, her movements so fast it was as if she'd vanished. She tore through the academy grounds, her speed nearing the point of breaking the sound barrier, racing toward the chaos her instincts told her was unfolding.
Her heart pounded like a frenzied drum, while her nerves felt on the verge of snapping. She ran with an intensity that burned, demanding every ounce of strength her muscles could muster. Where? she asked herself again, as another torrent of dark vapor spilled from the tattoo on her wrist. Her mind repeated a single word over and over: Where?
Fear began to resurface in her gut—a fear she hadn't felt since that day when she had nearly lost everything. No. She wouldn't let it happen again. Not this time. This time... she was stronger than before. Her worry drove her to race through the academy's hallways at a speed that turned her into nothing more than a blur to most first-year students. It was a desperate sprint against time until she made one final turn, entering a distant corridor where no one was present, and crossed it in an instant.
In front of her, two doors: two bathrooms. The urgency stabbed at her chest like a knife, and her gaze fixed on the entrance to the women's restroom. Something in the air screamed that this was where she needed to be.
When she crossed the threshold of the door, the world seemed to freeze. The bathroom was a wreck—a total disaster. Nine bodies. Six unconscious. The marks of a brutal fight covered every surface: shattered tiles, pools of water mixed with blood. The metallic stench invaded her nostrils, but it was the figure in the center that nearly stopped her heart.
Brián was there, swaying like a puppet about to break. His state was beyond deplorable: blood coated his body, crimson stains soaked his clothes, and the open wounds spoke of a resistance that could only be described as suicidal. His chest rose and fell with difficulty, each breath a testament to his stubbornness.
Something inside Emma stirred. A predatory fire ignited when she saw the bastard standing in front of Brián. A scumbag with a twisted grin and a fist poised to deliver the final blow. Her eyes turned murderous. No, a primal hatred surged from the deepest part of her being. She wouldn't allow it.
The tattoo on her wrist burned intensely, and her Trait answered her call. All her mana flowed like an uncontrollable torrent, transforming into blue threads that erupted around her with an almost sentient ferocity. The strands, as fine as hair but as strong as steel, lashed out at the assailant. They coiled around him like a furious swarm, trapping him in a prison that left no room to move or breathe.
A deafening crack resounded as she slammed him against the ceiling. Cracks spread like spiderwebs, and dust cascaded down. The threads kept tightening, brighter, fiercer. The air filled with a vibration that seemed ripped from the heart of a storm.
Not now—this wasn't the time to let her fury take over. Brián first, she repeated to herself hundreds of times in a single instant, forcing her mind to calm down.
Emma shifted her gaze to him just in time to see him collapse forward. She didn't hesitate. Moving faster than a blink, she caught him before he hit the ground. His limp body crashing into hers sent a surge of panic through her. His head rested against her shoulder, and the warmth of his blood surrounded her like a curse. Her trembling hands held him tightly.
"Stay awake! Don't leave me alone! Please, stay awake!" she shouted, her voice cracking as tears welled up in her eyes, falling uncontrollably.
The bastard trapped in her threads struggled, calling upon his own magic in a desperate attempt to break free. Flames began to rise, licking the air hungrily, but Emma wasn't about to yield. Her gaze turned to steel, and her mana surged in response to her determination. The threads glowed even brighter, tightening with a force that seemed capable of tearing through the very fabric of the air.
If Brián died… so would he.
Despite her fury, she shook her head, forcing her mind back to the present. Think. Act. Brián needed medical attention—and fast. His injuries were too many, too severe. She had to get him to the academy's infirmary. It was her best option because using one of those healing circles etched in the special training rooms would require permission—and she didn't have time for that. But her body trembled, adrenaline and fear overwhelming her, and her thoughts tripped over each other in confusion.
At that moment, another figure entered the bathroom. Thalion, the third son of Astaroth's ruler, who had followed Emma to provide reinforcements if necessary after seeing her so shaken, surveyed the scene with a mix of surprise and calculation. His gaze lingered on Brián, the silver-haired girl in bloodstained underclothes, the unconscious figures, then Emma, and finally the man trapped in her threads. He needed only a second to understand the situation, a flicker of respect for the mint-haired boy flashing in his eyes.
"The infirmary," he said calmly. "If you want him to survive, we have to take him now." His tone was firm but not harsh, his voice an anchor amid the chaos. Emma nodded without looking at him, her focus entirely on Brián, though her senses returned a second later.
Emma didn't release her prisoner until she was certain he couldn't move an inch. Only then did she let her threads dissipate, allowing the bastard to drop to the floor like a broken doll—along with every bone in his body.
✁✁✁✁✁✁✁✁✁✁✁✁✁✁✁✁✁✁✁✁✁✁✁✁✁✁✁✁✁✁✁✁✁✁✁✁
The author speaking here.
If you want to support this work and get early access to episodes, you can visit: patreon.com/Ecos_
Pd: You can also visit it to see some representative images of the characters at no cost.