The rest of the day passed in an uneasy peace.
Kutote told them everything—fragments of his conscious past, Project Anarchia, the Ransthrol family, the Brandish labs, and the assassins who had hunted him since he learned to run.
By the time he finished, even those who believed they had endured the cruelest lives felt quiet remorse—for the boy, barely eleven, who had been thrown into this nightmare two years ago and told to survive it.
Nuelle was silent, lost in thought. Cheim Nell was in tears, gathering him into a hug, more for her own sake than for him. After all, at this point, Kutote was dead to the pain of his trauma.
He only wished it didn't always follow him into his present.
Bukanami's fists were clenched in rage. Of all of them, his childhood was probably the only one that could compare to Kutote's, yet even he sometimes wished he hadn't survived, so he couldn't even begin to offer comfort.
Pain and betrayal that deep wasn't resolved through words, but through action. Just like he did, on that dark day five years ago when he killed all the men who forced his mother into an early grave.
"That's it," Kutote said, finishing his story.
"I'm so—" Cheim Nell started.
"Save it. I'm not prey to my circumstances. At least not anymore. What we need now is a plan."
"I have a plan. But it's dangerous as hell. Some of us might definitely die. And those who survive will probably never be the same." Nuelle Ness said solemnly. "So if anyone doesn't want to participate, I won't hold it against you. I doubt Kutote would either. This is your choice."
The silence that thawed after that was draining. Then Jokovik spoke.
"Of course we're in. The way I see it… we're all fucked either way! Might as well… go out a hero." His broken words came out in rasps, his breath hollowing as the venom spread further into his nervous system, shutting down more of his nerves.
"That's right. I could never live with myself if I let you guys go in alone," Cheim Nell said.
"I'm in too," Konacho said.
"If she's in, I'm in," Bukanami Ao added.
"Good. That's everyone." Itekan said, knowing he would never leave Kutote behind, and knowing Itoyea would feel the same. Kutote knew this as well.
"Great. Now I'll explain the plan—we're going to split into two groups. The ones in better shape will stay with Kutote and help get him out of the dungeon.
The others will separate to search for Group 3 from our Academy. Assuming they haven't encountered the men in black, they should be safe for the last part. Candice's a klutz, but she's reliable for the most part. Plus, her ability will definitely be useful."
Everyone agreed.
Then it was time to decide who stayed with Kutote and who went after Group 3.
"We will split like this: four of us stay with Kutote, and the rest head to Group 3. Who's staying back?"
"I'm with Kutote. I'm the most physically capable," Itekan said, met with little disapproval.
"I'm with Kutote as well. I can still go on for a day or two."
"I'll be here too," Bukanami said.
"Great. Then I, Cheim Nell, Konacho, Illiopo, and Jokovik will head the other way," Nuelle said.
"Be vigilant, guys. We don't know what other forces might have jumped in for a piece of the pie!" Nuelle added.
"Did she just call you pie?" Itekan tried, sourly joking. No one laughed, but a small smile tugged at their lips as they turned to disperse.
Then it happened.
Itekan shot his shadow tentacles into the woods and turned to face the others.
"Move! Two of them are headed this way—fast!"
He saw Illiopo, for the most part already dead. If not for the bean Korimer had given him, he would have died long ago. Even now, every second he stood upright brought him closer to death.
It was incomprehensible that he was moving at all. It was nothing short of will and luck.
"Go on, guys. I'll stop them here."
"What! Are you crazy? You're half dead—" Konacho shouted.
"Stop! I've already decided. I can't live much longer. I can feel the power in the bean fading. I'll be dead weight if I go with you. At least this way, I can redeem myself."
"No!" Gasps and stifled cries rose as Illiopo made his stand.
"Yes," Illiopo said, looking at the ones he knew would take care of things. With a groan of pain, Nuelle, Bukanami, and Itoyea turned away.
His eyes went to Itekan, who was fighting back tears.
"I never got to tell you I was sorry. I snapped. I guess I looked pretty pathetic—what am I even saying? I guess… what I wanted to let you know is that I finally got it. I understand it now—"
"What!" Itekan asked, even as the others moved away.
"It seems so clear now. To think I only got it after accepting death. My personalized power—
One more chance.
Power is a redeeming force.
償 力
With only Itekan watching, Illiopo finally grasped the essence of intent and personal understanding.
His fingers trembled as he tightened his grip.
The forest had gone unnaturally still. Even the wind seemed to hold its breath.
Behind him, he could feel them retreating—the uneven rhythm of injured bodies forcing themselves forward, the faint rustle of leaves as Nuelle's group vanished deeper into the trees, the heavier, staggered steps of Itekan and the others moving the opposite way.
Good.
They were moving.
That was all that mattered.
He exhaled slowly; the breath shuddered as it left him. The world swam for a moment. His legs felt distant, as if they belonged to someone else. Each heartbeat was a hammer strike against his ribs, irregular and fading.
The bean Korimer had given him—the fragile, stolen reprieve—was dying inside him. He could feel it. Like embers turning to ash.
"Two," he whispered, tasting iron at the back of his throat. "Just two."
Branches parted.
They did not emerge with noise or haste. Two figures cloaked in matte black stepped into view, as if the forest itself had yielded them.
Men in black.
Even without seeing their faces, he felt their pressure. Their spiritual signatures were dense, compressed, like blades sheathed in velvet.
One carried a long, narrow sword, faintly serrated—designed for tearing rather than clean cuts. The other bore a chain-linked sickle, its curved blade glinting as it swung with idle precision.
Weapons meant for killing. Weapons wielded by those who often did it.
They stopped several paces away, assessing.
The swordsman tilted his head slightly. "You are dying."
It was not a question.
Illiopo laughed—a thin, brittle sound that scraped his throat raw. "Then you'd better hurry."
The chain wielder shifted his grip. "Move."
"No."
The word surprised even him with its steadiness.
Behind his ribs, something fragile aligned.
They took a step forward.
Illiopo moved first.
His body screamed in protest as he forced spiritual energy through pathways that felt half-collapsed. The ground cracked beneath his foot as he lunged, blade flashing in a desperate, unrefined arc.
Too slow.
The swordsman parried effortlessly; steel met steel with a sound like a bell struck underwater. The force traveled up Illiopo's arm, exploding into his shoulder. Bone ground against bone. His grip faltered.
The chain whistled.
Instinct—or stubborn refusal—made him drop. The sickle carved through the air where his neck had been, biting into a tree trunk behind him. Bark and splinters exploded outward.
He rolled, vision blurring, lungs burning.
They were not rushing him. They were measuring him. Good. Let them.
He forced himself upright again, swaying. Blood dripped from his fingers, from his lips, from the reopened seams of wounds that had never truly closed.
"I said," the swordsman repeated flatly, "move."
Illiopo spat red into the dirt. "And I said no."
He stepped forward again—not to win, but to delay.
The next exchange was a storm he couldn't track. Steel rang. The chain shrieked. He blocked one strike, failed to see the second, and felt the serrated edge bite into his side, tearing flesh in its wake.
Pain flared white.
His knees buckled—but he did not fall. Not yet. Not while they were still behind him.
He drove his shoulder forward, slamming into the swordsman with clumsy desperation. It did nothing. The man did not stagger. A palm struck Illiopo's chest—not hard, not dramatic—and the world imploded. Air vanished from his lungs.
He crashed to the ground, skidding through leaves and dirt, vision collapsing into pinpricks of light.
Get up.
He could not feel his legs.
Get up.
Somewhere far away, he heard footsteps—calm, unhurried—approaching.
So this is it.
For a moment, fear flickered—not of death, but of insignificance. Of ending exactly as he had lived: unseen, unacknowledged, unnecessary.
His fingers dug into the soil. No. If this was where he ended, it would have to mean something.
His spiritual sea stirred—not with strength, but with clarity. The frantic desperation that once filled it was gone. In its place was a single, unwavering intent.
One more chance. Not to win. To matter.
He forced himself to his knees. The motion alone felt like dragging a mountain.
The men in black paused, perhaps sensing the change.
Illiopo lifted his head. Blood ran freely down his chin, dripping onto the forest floor.
"You're right," he rasped. "I'm dying. But I finally understand."
The air shifted—not violently, not with explosive flare, but with quiet, stubborn pressure, like roots forcing their way through stone.
Power is a redeeming force. Not to dominate. Not to survive. But to choose what your end means.
His spiritual signature steadied. It did not grow vast. It did not become overwhelming. It became immovable.
The chain wielder moved first, sensing the shift. The sickle snapped forward, aiming to end it efficiently.
Illiopo stepped into it. The blade cut deep into his shoulder, lodging against bone.
He did not retreat. He seized the chain with both hands. The metal tore his palms open. Blood slicked the links. The wielder pulled, expecting him to yield.
He didn't.
He planted his feet—or what remained of their strength—and held.
For a heartbeat. Then another.
The swordsman advanced, irritation breaking through composure. His blade thrust forward—precise, lethal, inevitable.
Illiopo twisted, dragging the chain taut. The sword's path altered by a hair's breadth. Instead of piercing his heart, it drove through his side.
He gasped—a wet, choking sound—but his grip did not loosen.
"Go," he whispered, though no one remained to hear it. He imagined them running: Nuelle, teeth clenched, refusing to look back; Itekan, eyes burning, carrying the weight he always carried; Kutote, silent, enduring. Good. Let them live.
The swordsman wrenched his blade free. The chain wielder kicked him in the chest. Something cracked. His body finally gave, collapsing into the dirt.
The forest ceiling spun above him, leaves dissolving into a dark blur. Footsteps receded. They were moving on.
He had done it.
A laugh bubbled up—weak, broken. It hurt too much to let it out. Warmth spread beneath him, soaking into the soil. The bean's fading spark winked out at last.
In the quiet that followed, Illiopo Sengares felt something he had never felt before: not power, not victory, but recognition. Not from the world—from himself.
His fingers loosened around the chain. The forest exhaled. And at last, he was still.
.
.
.
Spiritual Energy (SE)
Spiritual Sea (SS)
Spiritual Signature (SST)