It moved.
A blur of muscle and violet-lined sinew, crossing the scorched ground faster than thought. Its claws slammed into the ground where Jarek had been, shattering obsidian into shards.
He twisted to the side, lightning crackling across his coat, and drove his blade forward.
Missed.
The beast slipped under it, spun, and caught him in the ribs with a bladed elbow.
Jarek grunted as pain tore through his side. He flew back, hit a slab of stone, and skidded to a stop.
The creature didn’t chase.
It waited.
Golden-violet eyes gleamed in the dusk. Intelligent. Measured.
Not a beast.
A hunter.
The other two closed in.
Reiner braced himself, axe raised, as one loped low around a melted tree trunk. Cyrille intercepted the third mid-stride, blades flashing, steel clashing with claw.
But none of them were winning.
The predators didn’t rush. They moved in tandem—circling, forcing separation, breaking rhythm. They weren’t just faster.
They were better.
Jarek forced himself upright. His ribs screamed, but he ignored it.
He tightened his grip on the sword.
Focus. Read. Adapt.
Lightning hummed faintly along the steel, but it didn’t lash out. Not yet.
The lead predator stepped forward.
It moved like it had already killed him.
It lunged.
Jarek ducked the first strike, parried the second, and stepped into the third. The beast wasn’t expecting that—his shoulder slammed into its chest, knocking it off balance.
He kicked its knee as it stumbled, then brought his sword up in a tight arc.
The blade sliced clean across its shoulder.
Blood sprayed—hot and bright.
The beast hissed, staggering.
Jarek blinked.
Then—
[GENETIC FUSION IN PROGRESS]
Stormkind + Unknown Catalyst Detected…
Fusion Incomplete. Target DNA Unintegrated.
Additional Blood Required.
His breath hitched.
Not a kill.
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But enough to start something.
The lightning around him flickered.
Not wild.
Coiled.
Like it was waiting.
The predator recovered instantly, lunging again. Jarek dodged, but slower. His side throbbed—he couldn’t keep taking hits.
He needed to finish it.
He pivoted, used the wreckage to bait the beast wide, then collapsed a rusted archway behind him with a lightning pulse. The falling metal boxed it in for a moment—just long enough.
Jarek didn’t hesitate.
He ran up the slab beside it, jumped—
—and came down with his blade, burying it into the base of the predator’s neck.
The thing convulsed, limbs twitching.
Jarek yanked the sword free. Blood splattered across his arm and shoulder.
He staggered back.
Then the world cracked open.
[GENETIC INTEGRATION COMPLETE]
Stormkind + Mythborn Focus → Arclord’s Nexus (Phase 1)
- Lightning Arcs May Curve With Intent
- Surge Bursts Can Be Stored, Directed, or Delayed
- Precision Discharge Synced With Movement and Intent
- Environmental Nodes May Be Embedded Mid-Fight
You no longer discharge power.
You conduct a storm.
Jarek stood still.
And the storm listened.
Violet arcs bloomed across his arms—not wild, not writhing, but alive. They danced like ink in water, elegant and precise, wrapping around his limbs in smooth spirals. One coiled tight around his wrist. Another slid down the edge of his sword like a serpent made of light.
The lightning didn’t crackle.
It purred.
He took a breath.
The charge responded, pulsing in time with his lungs.
Not summoned.
Commanded.
Across the field, both remaining predators hesitated.
Muscles twitching.
Eyes locked on him like prey realizing they were never the predator.
Cyrille felt it too. She stumbled back from her opponent, blades lowered for half a second as her wide eyes flicked to Jarek.
“What the hell…” she breathed. “That’s not lightning.”
Reiner swore low under his breath. “He’s conducting it. Like a damn symphony.”
The predator facing him stepped back, claws dragging against scorched earth.
It was backing off.
Jarek didn’t blink.
He raised his sword slowly. The arcs around it surged—not brighter, but sharper, focused to a point.
He pointed at the closest beast.
The lightning didn’t fire.
It slipped from the blade—like a silk ribbon loosed into the wind.
It danced mid-air, curved behind a broken slab of stone, snapped into the predator’s leg with pinpoint grace.
Pop.
The creature dropped, twitching violently, every limb seizing.
Jarek moved before it hit the dirt.
A blur of violet light.
His sword came down in a clean arc—perfect posture, perfect control.
The kill was almost beautiful.
The third beast roared—one last desperate strike—and lunged at Cyrille.
Her balance was off. Foot caught.
Too slow.
Jarek snapped his fingers.
The lightning answered.
A tendril erupted from the ground where he’d stepped moments before—he hadn’t meant to leave a surge node. But the storm had remembered.
It rose like a coiling snake, curved midair—
And slammed into the side of the predator’s head.
The impact flipped it mid-stride.
Cyrille caught her footing, pivoted, and drove both swords down.
The creature convulsed once.
Then stilled.
Silence.
Only the buzz of ozone.
And three bodies cooling in the fading light.
Cyrille dropped to one knee, panting. Blood ran down her side, but her eyes were still locked on Jarek.
That same look.
Not fear.
Shock.
“You…” she gasped. “You moved like you’d done that a thousand times.”
Reiner leaned on his axe, exhaling a breath that shook his chest. “I don’t know what the hell that was, but I’ve never seen lightning act like that.”
He grinned, despite himself.
“You’re not a predator anymore, kid.”
Jarek didn’t speak.
He stared at his hand.
The lightning curled gently along his fingers—not violent, not volatile.
Just waiting.
Not power anymore.
Not a weapon.
It was a language now.
And he’d just learned the first sentence.
Then—
A sound.
A soft crunch.
They turned as one.
A figure stepped from the trees, silent and slow. Dressed in pale leathers, bones strapped along the chest, a mirrored mask reflecting the last light of the setting sun. No clan insignia. No banners. No rank.
Just presence.
The stranger knelt beside one of the corpses.
Their hand hovered above the chest.
Not touching.
Feeling.
Then it dropped. Gently.
They stood, facing Jarek.
“You weren’t supposed to find them,” the voice said. Calm. Cold. Too even to be human.
Jarek raised his sword.
The lightning hummed like a sleeping blade unsheathed.
The stranger didn’t flinch.
“They weren’t yours to kill.”
Cyrille stepped forward. “You with Halvark?”
A beat.
“No.”
Jarek’s eyes narrowed. “Then who are you?”
The figure tilted their head. The mirrored mask caught the stormlight in Jarek’s veins.
Then—softly, almost reverently—
“They were scouts.”