Chapter 8 Final struggle part 2

kaelvren was falling. The faint glow of his bloodline began to fade. Time seemed to slow as The wind screamed past his ears, muffling everything else. His body twisted midair—limp, weightless—falling with nothing to stop him.

The rocky walls rushed by on either side, just shadows now, too fast to make sense of. All he could do was fall. He couldn't stop the fall. He couldn't move. He just kept going—down, deeper into the dark. But his mind refused to accept his end. Not yet.

How could I die like this?

Not in silence.

Not in darkness.

Not without a fight.

Pain lanced through his body. His limbs were unresponsive, drained by exhaustion and injuries. His right arm was useless, his shoulder dislocated. His chest throbbed from the monster's claws, each breath like a painful struggle as his lungs labored to keep up. His legs were like on fire from exhaustion, each step feeling were like it might be his last step .

But despite everything, despite the death cling to him and pulling into his embrace he refused to fall into the embrace of death . He clung to life, every last ounce of strength focused on surviving, even when his body felt like it was falling apart.

So... life without suffering is nowhere to be found, he thought bitterly.

But his mind still raced, searching for a way—any way—to stop this.

Then, his dagger.

Like a thunder spark in the darkness, an idea struck him.

With his left hand the only part of his body still capable of movement he gritted his teeth, tightened his grip around the hilt, and moved his

Dagger to met the wall.

A horrible screech echoed through the darkness as the dagger's edge dug into the rock face. Sparks exploded like the last breath of a dying star, briefly lighting up the terrifying drop beneath him. The impact slammed through his body, nearly ripping the weapon from his hand. His shoulder felt like it was being torn from its socket, sending a wave of searing pain through every inch of him. His wounds screamed, each one protesting with brutal force.. His palms split open, raw flesh tearing as he held on.

But he didn't let go.

He could not.

His mind screamed at him—Hold on! If you let go, you die.

kaelvren 's descent slowed, but not enough. The momentum still dragged him downward, his dagger carving a jagged path along the rock wall. His grip began to fail.

His heart pounded like a war drum, drowning out the deafening roar of the wind. His fingers slipped. His vision blurred. His body weakened.

No.

With sheer will alone, he forced himself to scan his surroundings. He had seconds—maybe less—before his grip finally gave out.

The cliff stretched endlessly below, offering nothing but silence.

Then, he saw it.

A chance.

A single branch.

Growing from the mountain wall, twisted and gnarled, jutting out from the cliffside just a few meters away.

It was his only lifeline. The only thing standing between him and the abyss below.

He had to reach it.

His muscles burned. His strength was nearly depleted. But there was no choice.

Move or die.

Ignoring the searing pain, he braced his leg against the rock. His knees threatened to buckle, his entire body trembling from exhaustion.

Every nerve screamed at him to let go.

To surrender.

To die.

But kaelvren wasn't ready to die.

Not yet.

Not at fourteen.

A boy who had lost his home.

A boy who had run away.

A boy who had lost his parents.

His mind was already on the brink of collapse.

He had to survive.

With one final burst of energy, he kicked off the cliff wall, hurling himself toward the branch.

For a single, suspended moment, the world slowed.

A lone figure, weightless, defying the abyss.

And then—

Impact.

The force sent shockwaves of agony through his battered body.

His rib cracked.

Or at least, that's what it felt like.

Pain lanced through his chest as his body collided with the thick branch. His cloak snagged, the fabric tightening around his throat for a terrifying moment before ripping away. His breath left him in a strangled gasp, raw and monstrous.

But his left hand shot forward on instinct, fingers searching—grasping—for anything solid.

His torn, bloodied fingertips dug into the rough bark.

His legs scrambled for support, wrapping around the branch in a desperate attempt to anchor himself.

For a moment, his body teetered on the edge of survival and failure.

Then—stability.

A weak, trembling smile stretched across his face.

He was not falling anymore.

He was not dying.

For now.

Only for now.

The future was uncertain—always uncertain. But for this moment, he was alive.

His breaths came in ragged, uneven gasps. Every inch of his body ached with exhaustion, pain, and raw terror.

His left arm trembled. His fingers barely responded to his spirit's commands.

He could not move. He could not let go.

So, he didn't.

With an uneven breath, he pushed himself to move, with a groaning he shifted into a seated position on the branch. The rough bark scraped against his bare skin, sending sharp pain through his open wounds.

Blood dripped from his fingers, warm and steady, trailing down to his arm, mixing with his sweat that clung to his skin. Every single breath felt like a struggle with a shallow, ragged, desperate.

His heart pounded in his chest, fast and loud, as if it was going to burst. Fear. Pain. Exhaustion. But beneath all of it, there was something else—something that kept him going.

He wasn't ready to stop. Not yet.

But he was alive.

That was all that mattered.

His dagger, slick with blood, slipped slightly in his grip before he secured it tightly against his core. It was the only thing he had left.

His mind wavered. His body screamed in protest. His vision blurred.

He could not keep going.

He had pushed himself beyond his limits—far beyond. No human should have endured what he had in a single night.

His body slumped forward, his grip tightening on instinct. Even as his consciousness was fading but he held on firmly.The wind screamed through the ravine like icy blades, cutting into his bare skin. Every gust made him shiver, his blood turning cold, his joints stiff with the creeping chill. His body trembled from the effort of simply holding on.

Even in his unconscious state, his grip remained firm.

He grasp the branch as if it were his only lifeline.

Because it was.

His survival instinct refused to let go, refused to surrender to the cold embrace of death.

His fingers stayed locked. His body wrapped tightly around the branch, defying the abyss in his sleep.

And below him, the darkness of the ravine remained.

Bottomless. Waiting.

But he did not fall.

Because even in the face of death—

He fought.

He endured.

He survived.

And when dawn finally came, it would bring nothing but more pain.