An Eternalism [1]

Out of the blue, the atmosphere shifted with a low, resonant hum, subtle at first, like a vibration beneath the floorboards or the groan of something ancient awakening beneath their feet, until it deepened into a pressure that seemed to stretch the very air taut between them.

As Haneul stepped forward once more, blood running freely from a fresh cut above his brow, his crimson aura writhing around his frame in thick, smoke-like coils of fury, Seojun's stance suddenly changed, not out of fear or exhaustion, but as if something unseen had drawn itself out from the depths of his chest and begun to shape itself in his hand.

There was no flash of light, no divine thunder, no incantation, just an unbearable silence for one terrible heartbeat before steel began to take form, breath by breath, as if summoned by the weight of everything he had tried to contain.

The weapon didn't gleam like polished metal or radiate any grandeur. Instead, it emerged from the heat of his aura, shaped from the same pale-gold brilliance that clung to him like a final fragment of purity.

It was dull in color but clean in its geometry, a blade not meant for ceremony but for grim necessity, unadorned, its edges glowing faintly with the same warmth that pulsed beneath Seojun's skin.

It didn't sing when he moved. It breathed. It shuddered. It vibrated with a kind of mournful clarity, as if it knew the path it was about to carve would not be one of glory, but of consequence.

The moment his fingers closed around the hilt, the light surrounding him surged, stretching in ribbons and threads along his shoulders and forearms, drawn inward to feed the weapon now part of him.

Haneul stopped mid-strike, his leg suspended in the air as his eyes dropped slowly to the sword, and though no words passed between them, the change in the energy around them spoke louder than any scream could.

The red fog around Haneul flared violently, reacting as if scorched, as if the blade's presence was not simply a threat to his body, but a direct violation of something far deeper, something sacred, primal, and buried in the marrow of who he believed himself to be.

His lips curled back, not in fear, but in a seething mix of disbelief and insult, as though Seojun had finally proven what Haneul always suspected: that he would never fight him equally, that he would never see him as worthy of the same weapons or the same respect.

Yet beneath that rage, behind the twitch in his jaw and the violent heaving of his chest, there was a flicker of something else. Betrayal. Disappointment.

Perhaps even mourning for the idea of the older brother he once tried so hard to follow, to love, to become.

The words never left his mouth, but they hung in the air between them: You brought a sword against me? 

Seojun didn't flinch. His gaze, hollow and unreadable, remained locked onto Haneul's, and in that frozen instant, the corridor felt impossibly narrow, not from its decaying walls or sagging ceiling, but because of the terrible weight of choice bearing down on them both.

The sword shifted slightly in Seojun's grip, trailing faint golden streaks through the stale air, humming in time with his pulse.

Haneul's foot dropped to the floor slowly, no longer in haste, but in grim acknowledgment.

If Seojun had chosen to raise a blade, then Haneul would answer it, not by retreating, not by conceding, but with everything left of himself, bone and soul, no matter the cost.

Then the storm began anew.

Haneul surged forward, aura exploding outward like a living inferno, tendrils of dark red flame licking the walls, cracking the surface of the rotting wood beneath his feet as his bare fists slammed toward Seojun's chest.

Seojun moved in turn, sidestepping with brutal economy, bringing the blade around in a clean arc meant not to kill, but to warn, to force distance between them without drawing blood.

But Haneul was faster now, driven by something feral and bright and bitter, and he dropped low under the swing, pivoting with a speed that defied his injuries, twisting his hips into a vicious kick aimed for Seojun's ribs.

The impact landed hard, knocking Seojun off balance, forcing his feet to slide backward with a screech across the dust-choked floor.

The sword did not fall from his hand, but the resolve in his eyes flickered, for just a second.

The red aura surged in response, emboldened by contact, by defiance.

Haneul pressed forward with a fury sharpened into near madness, his body moving faster than thought, driving his elbow toward Seojun's throat before spinning into a roundhouse kick that barely missed his temple.

The blade flashed between them again, a narrow arc of golden fire that clashed against crimson smoke, sparks hissing into the air, not from steel meeting skin, but from aura meeting aura, two opposing forces locked in a collision not of power, but of history.

Each movement screamed of their past. Every blow was heavy with the weight of forgotten nights, of unspoken apologies, of love warped into something unrecognizable.

Blood dotted the floor like ink spilled on parchment, smudging with every step, every slide of foot or twist of motion, as if the house itself was trying to absorb the consequences of their violence.

The walls trembled faintly now, dust falling from the ceiling in lazy spirals, as if the structure could no longer bear the grief thickening between its ruined bones. Yet neither of them faltered.

The sword in Seojun's hand remained steady, a glowing brand of his restraint, while Haneul's bare fists burned brighter; his aura no longer curled but blazed upward, torching the space between them as if daring the blade to strike him down.

They were brothers in form, but gods in fury, each one forged by the other's silence, each strike an echo of the wounds they refused to name.

The next moment unfolded with unbearable stillness, a breath held taut in the throat of time, as the golden blade arced downward with silent momentum, catching the faint light in its descent not with brilliance, but with a dull, dying glow, as though it mourned what it was about to sever.

Haneul saw it coming, not as a weapon, not even as a threat, but as an insult carved into the air itself, a final confirmation that the brother he once followed, like a fading sun, had chosen the path of superiority rather than solidarity.

He did not flinch. He did not raise his arms to block.

Instead, he stood, bare-chested and breathless, gaze burning with a fury so profound it could ignite rot, as the blade came within a hair's width of his cheek, so close that it drew a whisper of blood from the skin without ever fully connecting, a single line of red tracing down from temple to jaw like the first stroke of a curse.

Seojun stopped the swing mid-motion, his arm trembling as though every muscle in his body screamed to let it fall, to finish what had begun, to silence this wild, breaking storm before it consumed them both.

But something in Haneul's expression, the hollow defiance in his eyes, the small, pained smile tugging at the corner of his mouth, caught him, froze him in place as if he had glimpsed something too familiar in the fire.

That expression, far more than the scream of aura or the ache in his bruised ribs, struck Seojun's heart with a force he could neither explain nor bear.

It wasn't hatred he saw. It wasn't even rage. It was heartbreak. Utter, unspeakable heartbreak, the kind that could not be exorcised through combat, the kind that lingered long after fists had stilled and bones had mended, the kind that stained the soul in ways no weapon could undo.

"You were supposed to fight beside me," Haneul whispered, not aloud but through the silence between impacts, through the blood now running freely down his jaw and dripping from his fingertips, through the hollow ache inside him that no victory could soothe. "Not above me. Have you forgotten the old times?"

But to Seojun, the words might as well have been screams. His grip on the hilt tightened, knuckles pale against the glowing pommel, and though he said nothing in return, the way his shoulders tensed and his throat moved with a restrained swallow betrayed the violence of emotion rising within.

The golden aura flared once more, not in strength, but in desperation, as if his body tried to speak the words his mouth could not: that he had never wanted this, that the sword had appeared not from choice, but from guilt too deep to carry barehanded.

Haneul stepped forward again, not charging, not striking, but walking with the weight of someone who had already lost everything worth saving, and with each footfall, his crimson aura grew denser, darker, wrapping around his limbs not in coils now, but in slow-dragging chains of thick, smoldering grief.

His body was trembling, not from exhaustion, but from something far more dangerous: restraint. The kind of restraint born from knowing he still loved the person in front of him, and that such love, when betrayed, became a wound far crueler than any blade.

"You think I need a sword to kill you?" he muttered, voice raw and jagged, each word soaked in the venom of shattered pride and stifled affection. "You think this is part of my strength?"

Seojun's eyes flicked up at last, meeting Haneul's fully, and for the briefest instant, the golden glow around him sputtered, as though the sword he held had heard the accusation and recoiled in shame.

He took a breath, tried to speak, but whatever words he had formed withered before they reached his tongue, leaving him silent, still, and cornered by the consequences of everything he had never said.

The sword trembled in his hand, not from weakness, but from hesitation, from the unbearable truth that it had no place here.

That this was not a duel, this was a cry, a reckoning, and he, Seojun, had answered it with steel instead of understanding.

Haneul struck.

The punch landed clean against Seojun's side, not aimed to wound deeply, but to remind. A burst of crimson light exploded across his knuckles as Seojun stumbled, the golden aura flickering violently like a flame choked by wind.

Another strike followed, a sweeping kick to the ribs that sent him crashing into the wall, the blade clattering against the floor with a sound that rang through the silence like a church bell tolling the end of something sacred.

The moment it left Seojun's grasp, the corridor felt emptier, as though even the house, in its decay, understood the weight of that surrender.

Breathing heavily, body trembling, Seojun raised his gaze once more, no longer glowing, armed, but still standing, bare and bruised.

And across from him, Haneul lowered his fists, chest rising and falling in painful rhythm, the crimson light dimming slowly, though not disappearing.

"You brought a sword," he murmured, his voice no longer furious but hollow, ragged with betrayal. "Against me."

Neither of them moved nor spoke.

And in the stillness between them, everything that had once held their bond together, every memory, every laugh, every failed apology, collapsed under the weight of what they had become.

The blade lay between them now, a dull, discarded fragment of resolve trembling faintly where it had struck the rotting floorboards, the golden hue around it fading, pulsing once more, then retreating, as if the weapon itself could no longer bear the weight of the moment it had been drawn into.

Haneul did not glance at it. Its presence had already carved through him, not through his flesh, but through the last, brittle edge of his hope that Seojun might still see him, not as something unstable or broken, not as a threat to be subdued, but as the younger brother who had once waited in silent hunger for a touch of warmth that never came.

A sound, sharp and wet, escaped through Haneul's teeth as he inhaled, not from pain, but from the strain of holding himself back from unleashing every ounce of bitterness he had stored beneath his bones.

His limbs quivered, not from exhaustion, but from the staggering restraint of still believing, somewhere in the back of his shattered mind, that this was his brother, that he should stop, that he should speak instead of strike.

But the silence from Seojun, heavy, guilt-ridden, eyes lowered, did not feel like love. It felt like dismissal, like an abandonment or defeat.

And Haneul had never known how to lose quietly.

With no sound, no warning, no change in breath or stance, he surged forward with a fury that bordered on supernatural, legs driving him across the narrow corridor with explosive force, his aura igniting around him in waves of pulsing crimson, violent and suffocating, painting the walls with trembling veins of flickering light that danced like flame devouring the air.

His foot snapped upward in a devastating front kick aimed for Seojun's sternum, a motion so fast and brutal it sent a concussive gust of hot air echoing down the hall.

Seojun reacted on instinct alone, body twisting sideways, the heel grazing his ribs and ripping through his breath with a choking gasp as he staggered into the crumbling wall behind him.

There was no pause, no space to speak, no time to beg. Haneul was already moving again, sweeping low, spinning, his leg a scythe of fury that struck Seojun's calf and dropped him hard to one knee.

The sound of bone against wood reverberated beneath them, and though Seojun's hands lifted in defense, it was not fast enough to stop the next strike, an upward roundhouse that cracked into his shoulder with a force that numbed the entire arm.

A splash of blood burst across the wall from Seojun's split lip as he collapsed backward, gasping, and still, Haneul did not stop.

He leapt, both feet in motion, his body twisting midair in a violent spiral, and landed a spinning back kick to Seojun's side, the impact shaking dust loose from the ceiling above as Haneul tumbled across the warped floorboards.

When he came to a halt, chest heaving, arm limp, and head bowed low, Haneul stood over him, not in triumph, but in a storm of emotions too tangled to name.

His breath rattled, each inhale a violent gasp, his eyes shining not with glory, but with tears that refused to fall.

"You couldn't even finish it," Haneul said, his voice raw, almost breathless, not a taunt, but a truth dragged up from somewhere deep beneath the bruises and fractures. "You drew that sword… and then dropped it. Just like you dropped everything else behind."

Seojun didn't answer, not because he wouldn't, but because he couldn't. Words had abandoned him, and the blade that once held his resolve now lay behind Haneul, unreachable, irrelevant.

Still trembling, Seojun forced himself to rise. Every part of his body protested, every joint screamed, but he stood.

Without any weapon, without aura, without defense, he stood. And the look in his eyes now was not one of pride or strength, but of naked grief.

Not for his pain. Not for his wounds. But for Haneul.

The man before him, the man blazing with fury, fists clenched, chest rising and falling with the rhythm of something broken trying to hold together, was not a monster.

He was the child who had waited. Who had reached? Who had loved.

And now, all that love had turned to ash in his mouth.

Haneul's next kick landed square in Seojun's chest. And Seojun didn't move.

Not because he was too slow. But because he accepted it.

Because he knew, now, that Haneul needed to finish what had started, not to win, but to be heard by someone he knew.