And that time started now.
Lein-Da lunged—no warning, no hesitation—her claws raking toward Knuckles' ribs with just enough force to sting but not maim. He sidestepped on instinct, his muscles remembering combat faster than his pacifist mind could protest. The movement was ugly, imperfect, but effective. Stone scraped beneath his boots as he shifted, bioluminescent algae smearing underfoot like spilled stars.
"Good," she purred, already pivoting into a second strike.
This one was aimed at his throat—closer, sharper, her claws glinting in the sickly glow that pulsed from the veins of Overlord Beryl threaded through the chamber walls. Knuckles barely twisted away in time. The edge of her talon skimmed the air where his windpipe had been a heartbeat earlier, and the glyphs etched into his armor flared crimson in alarm.
Her smirk widened.
"But hesitation will get you gutted."
She didn't let him breathe.
Her third strike came low and fast—a knee driven into his diaphragm. The impact knocked the air from his lungs in a wet gasp that echoed too loudly in the cavern. His feet slid back, heels skidding against damp stone. Pain flared, sharp and humiliating, and his body betrayed him in a dozen small ways: muscles tensing, shoulders hunching, claws flexing despite his will. The dagger at his hip suddenly felt heavier, like it was pulling at him, whispering through the metal.
Lein-Da circled him like a current dragging prey deeper. Her smile showed too many teeth.
"Defense," she crooned, "is just delayed surrender."
Her claws raked down his backplate in a shriek of metal-on-glyph that set his teeth on edge. Sparks of warped light spat outward where her talons scraped the etched vows across his armor. Those glyphs—once carved with prayers of restraint and preservation—now pulsed an angry violet beneath her touch, their edges fraying like rotten stitches pulled too hard.
O'Nux stumbled forward, catching himself against the damp wall of the chamber. The stone was warm, faintly alive, thrumming with the slow heartbeat of the island itself. Lein-Da's laughter pooled around him, dark and pleased.
Her next strike was calculated: a graze along his ribs, just deep enough to draw beads of scarlet. Blood welled and slid, glowing faintly before dripping to the floor. It hissed when it hit the Beryl-slick stone.
"Still waiting for your gods to intervene?" she taunted.
She lifted her claws and licked the blood from them with theatrical relish, eyes never leaving his face.
The fifth blow came as a backhanded slash across his cheek—shallow, precise. Fire traced its path along his skin, heat blooming into pain a half-second later. O'Nux spat copper onto the algae-slick floor and tasted brine and corrosion and something older, something wrong.
His fingers twitched toward the dagger's corrupted hilt.
Lein-Da saw it immediately.
Her grin widened impossibly.
"There you are."
She sidestepped his half-hearted counterstrike as if it were a child's tantrum. His swing was wide, restrained, almost apologetic. Her knee met his gut again, harder this time. His stance buckled, and he went down to one knee with a choked sound.
"Violence isn't a choice, heir," she said softly, almost kindly. "It's a language your bones remember."
By the seventh strike, O'Nux's breath came ragged—each exhale flecked with blood, each inhale sharp with brine and the metallic tang of Overlord Beryl. His chest burned. His vision swam, edges blurring as bioluminescent light smeared into streaks.
Lein-Da's claws traced the fresh wound along his collarbone. Her touch was deceptively light, almost intimate, like a predator savoring the tremors of cornered prey.
"You're thinking too much," she murmured, voice slick with mock pity. "Violence isn't philosophy. It's reflex."
Her knee slammed into his ribs again.
Something cracked.
Not bone—glyph.
One of the etched sigils across his armor split clean in half. The pacifist scripture carved into it dissolved into Beryl-stained vapor, curling upward like a dying prayer.
O'Nux staggered back, boots slipping. His fingers finally closed around his dagger's hilt—not to strike, but to steady himself. The metal felt warm. Alive.
Lein-Da laughed. The sound cut deep.
"Still clutching relics?"
She lunged. Her claws raked across his wrist, forcing his grip to tighten reflexively. Pain flared bright and immediate. Blood welled where her talons grazed his pulse point, dripping onto the corroded glyphs of his blade.
The scripture hissed where his blood touched it.
Warped.
Bent.
The lines twisted into something jagged and unfamiliar, symbols collapsing in on themselves like teeth.
"See?" she whispered, pressing close. Her breath was hot against his ear, smelling of iron and ozone. "Even your tools know what you are."
Even if she didn't really want to do this.
Even if, in some other configuration of the universe, she might have chosen another method, another lesson.
She still cared about the Sunken Demon Island.
She cared about the Echidnas who lived and died in its shadowed hollows, who built homes into coral-stone and Beryl-veined rock, who whispered prayers to ancestors drowned by history and salt. She cared about the children who played in phosphorescent tidepools and learned early how to hold their breath when the tremors came.
And O'Nux—Knuckles, heir, pacifist fool—had the potential to protect them.
Truly protect them.
On his own.
If only he would stop hating the power braided through his veins.
If only he would stop pretending that refusing to use it made him better.
Perhaps in another time.
In another place.
In another world.
He did enjoy it.
Perhaps there was a version of him who reveled in the snap of bone and the certainty of force, who laughed as enemies fell and called it justice.
But this was not that other time.
Not that other place.
Not that other world.
Not even fucking close.
Her next strike was precise: a kick to his knee, angled just right. Hard enough to buckle his stance. Not hard enough to cripple.
O'Nux hissed through clenched teeth as he staggered sideways, catching himself again before he could fall completely. The dagger trembled in his grip. The glyphs along his arm pulsed erratically, their light dimming like dying embers starved of air.
Lein-Da tilted her head, studying him.
She circled slowly, steps unhurried, claws grazing his ribs again as she passed. Fresh welts bloomed, red against crimson fur.
"You're holding back," she murmured. "But why?"
Another shallow slash across his shoulder. Blood ran warm down his arm.
"Do you think mercy will save you?" she continued. "Or them?"
The chamber's bioluminescence flickered in sympathy with his failing glyphs, shadows stretching and shrinking like something breathing just out of sight. Overlord Beryl veins pulsed beneath their feet, glowing brighter, reacting to the spill of blood and rising tension.
O'Nux staggered, breath ragged.
"So many others think we are nothing more than bloodthirsty savages," he said, voice low but steady despite the pain. "King Maxx Acorn. Overlanders. Even Merkia."
His eyes burned, not with fury, but with something stubborn and old.
"But we are more than that. We have survived when others have fallen."
He straightened as much as he could, shoulders squared despite the ache screaming through him.
"And you think me weak because I hesitate?" he went on. "Because I refuse to become what they fear?"
His glyphs pulsed weakly, light guttering like a drowning man's last gasp.
For just a fraction of a second, Lein-Da's smirk faltered.
It was subtle. Anyone else might have missed it.
O'Nux did not.
Then she laughed, sharp and dismissive, and the moment vanished.
"You mistake survival for weakness," she said, flexing her claws. The veins of Overlord Beryl beneath them flared brighter, casting warped shadows across the walls. "But tell me, heir—what happens when survival demands you kneel?"
She stepped closer.
"When it demands you break?"
Her voice dropped to a whisper, smooth and venomous.
"Will your pacifist gods lift you up then? Or will you finally understand that mercy is just the lie the strong tell the weak?"
O'Nux's fingers twitched around his dagger's hilt.
Not tightening.
Not loosening.
Just existing in that awful, liminal space between defiance and surrender.
The glyphs along his forearm flickered once, twice—then guttered out entirely.
For a heartbeat, there was only darkness.
Then they reignited.
Not crimson.
Not gold.
But a sickly, phosphorescent teal—the color of Anarchy Beryl runoff, of drowned scriptures, of promises rotting at the bottom of the sea.
Lein-Da watched, rapt.
His pupils constricted—not from fear, but from calculation. Cold. Precise. The arithmetic of survival ticking behind his eyes.
This wasn't submission.
This was acceptance of a truth he had spent his life denying.
His fingers twitched again.
The glyphs flickered between condemnation and surrender, their shapes warping, smoothing, sharpening all at once. Lein-Da's smirk deepened into something almost proud.
"Yes," she breathed. "There it is."
The chamber seemed to lean in.
The island itself listened.
O'Nux inhaled slowly, deeply, drawing in brine and Beryl and blood. Pain still screamed through him, but it no longer ruled him. It became data. Feedback. Something to be used.
His grip on the dagger changed—not tighter, not looser, but correct. The weapon felt lighter now, balanced. Eager.
"I don't enjoy this," he said quietly.
Lein-Da chuckled. "You don't have to."
He moved.
Not fast.
Not reckless.
Efficient.
He stepped into her space before she could fully react, shoulder checking her just hard enough to throw off her center. Surprise flickered across her face as she stumbled back half a step.
His dagger came up—not in a killing arc, but in a tight, controlled motion that scored across her forearm. Shallow. Measured.
Her blood hissed when it hit the stone.
Lein-Da laughed, delighted. "There we go."
She retaliated immediately, claws flashing. O'Nux blocked with his forearm, glyphs flaring teal as impact reverberated through him. Pain flared, but he held.
Again.
And again.
Each exchange stripped away another layer of hesitation. His movements grew sharper, cleaner. He stopped apologizing with his body. Stopped pulling strikes at the last second.
Still restrained.
Still controlled.
But no longer paralyzed.
Lein-Da pressed him hard, forcing him to react, to adapt. She drove him back toward the center of the chamber, where the Beryl veins were thickest and the light brightest. Every strike she landed taught him something: angle, timing, intent.
Every strike he blocked rewrote a piece of himself.
"You see now," she said between blows. "This isn't about cruelty."
Her claws flashed.
"It's about responsibility."
He ducked, countered, felt the shock of impact run up his arm.
The glyphs along his armor stabilized, no longer flickering wildly. They pulsed in steady rhythm with his heartbeat.
"I can protect them," he said, breath steady despite the fight.
Lein-Da's grin sharpened. "Yes."
"And still choose restraint," he added.
That earned him a hard kick to the chest that sent him skidding across the floor.
He hit the stone hard, breath knocked loose again. The dagger clattered but stayed in his hand.
Lein-Da loomed over him, claws poised.
"Then prove it to me then," she said.
O'Nux looked up at her.
Really looked.
At the scars etched into her armor. At the wear in her stance. At the way her eyes flicked, just briefly, toward the deeper tunnels—toward the island, toward its people.
Understanding settled in his chest, heavy and unwelcome.
This wasn't punishment.
It was training.
Cruel.
Necessary.
He pushed himself up.
Slowly.
Deliberately.
"I will," he said.
And this time, when he lunged, there was no hesitation at all.
She sidestepped him, while he was the next in line for the Overseer of the Overlord Beryl, he was still very young and inexperienced. She moved with a fluidity that made the shadows themselves seem sluggish, her smirk never fading even as the chamber's algae pulsed erratically around them. The dagger in his grip felt heavier now—not with guilt, but with possibility, its glyphs flickering between condemnation and something far more dangerous.
Lein-Da's claws twitched, anticipating his next move, her pupils dilating in the dim light like a predator savoring the chase. "You're learning," she purred, circling him as the Overlord Beryl veins beneath their feet throbbed in time with his ragged breaths. "But knowledge without application is just another form of cowardice."
Her tail lashed once, stirring the stale air into something electric—her quills bristling not in fear, but in anticipation. Her grin could very much be all teeth when she wanted it to be, and right now, it was. The combat room smelled like ozone and old blood, but she'd long since stopped noticing. "You're so predictable O'Nux," she drawled, the sound echoing across the room.
It was deberate.
It was her mocking him.
Not her words—her stance. The way she tilted her head just slightly to the left, exposing the old scar running down her throat. The way she balanced on the balls of her feet, coiled but relaxed, like she already knew how this would end. O'Nux's fingers tightened around the dagger's hilt. The glyphs along his forearm pulsed once, twice—teal light bleeding into the chamber's gloom—before steadying.
Lein-Da's smirk widened.
"You're thinking again," she said.
And she struck him.
Her claws raked toward his face—not to maim, but to provoke. He dodged left, pivoting on his heel, dagger flashing up to deflect the blow. The impact sent a shockwave of corrupted teal light radiating through the chamber, illuminating the warped scripture along his blade. Lein-Da exhaled sharply through her nose, pleased.
"It's a bit better," she conceded, tail lashing behind her like a whip testing its range. O'Nux didn't respond—his breath was too ragged, his focus too fractured—but the way his grip adjusted on the dagger told her everything. The glyphs along his forearm pulsed teal again, brighter this time, reacting to the many Anarchy Beryl veins beneath them as they throbbed in sync with his heartbeat.
Lein-Da's smirk deepened even more at that.
It wasn't often she got to play with her food—but O'Nux was proving to be a rare exception.
The chamber pulsed around them, bioluminescent algae flickering erratically as the many Anarchy Beryl veins beneath their feet hummed with corrupted energy. Her claws twitched, eager for another strike—another lesson—but she held back just long enough to watch him adjust his stance, his grip tightening on the dagger in a way that was no longer hesitant.
His glyphs flared teal again, reacting to the many Anarchy Beryls' resonance, and this time, O'Nux didn't hesitate.
He lunged—dagger flashing in a tight arc—but Lein-Da twisted mid-motion, her claws catching his wrist and wrenching it sideways with brutal precision. Bone groaned under pressure; tendons screamed. O'Nux gritted his teeth against the pain, his glyphs flaring brighter as the chamber's Beryl veins pulsed in sympathy. She leaned in, breath hot against his ear.
"You're still holding back," she murmured, voice dripping with mock disappointment, her claws tightening just enough to make the tendons in his wrist creak. O'Nux's breath hitched—not from fear, but from the dizzying realization that she was right. The dagger's corrupted glyphs pulsed in his grip, its scripture warping further with every throb of the island's many Anarchy Beryl veins beneath them. Lein-Da's smirk widened when she felt his pulse stutter against her palm.
"Good. Now break it."
He did not hesitate.
Not even close.
The dagger's scripture shattered—not from resistance, but from surrender to the inevitable. The glyphs exploded outward in jagged arcs of phosphorescent teal, embedding themselves into the chamber walls like shrapnel before dissolving into vapor. O'Nux exhaled sharply through his nose, his grip on the hilt tightening not from pain, but from revelation. Lein-Da released his wrist, stepping back to observe her handiwork with the cold satisfaction of a sculptor stepping away from a finished piece.
The entire sunken island itself seemed to hold its breath as the last of the glyph light faded, leaving only the dull pulse of Overlord Beryl beneath their feet.
The silence that followed was not empty.
It was listening.
The dull pulse of Overlord Beryl beneath their feet slowed, stretched, as though the island itself were recalibrating around what had just happened. The chamber's bioluminescent algae dimmed to a low, wary glow, casting long shadows that clung to the walls like reluctant witnesses. Vapor from the shattered glyphs lingered in the air, teal mist curling and dissolving, carrying with it the faint scent of scorched metal and something far older—salt, stone, memory.
O'Nux stood very still.
His dagger no longer hummed with scripture. The blade was bare now—no condemnation, no absolution. Just metal, darkened and warm in his grip, as honest as a truth finally spoken aloud. His breathing slowed, not because the pain had gone away, but because it had found its place. It no longer drowned him.
Lein-Da studied him in silence.
Her posture had changed. Not relaxed—never that—but sharpened, like a blade drawn halfway from its sheath. Her claws hung loose at her sides, no longer twitching with impatience. Her pupils had narrowed again, predator-focus giving way to something colder, more precise.
Assessment.
"Well," she said at last, her voice echoing softly in the chamber. "That's one way to do it."
O'Nux didn't answer. His eyes were fixed on the place where the glyphs had shattered, where the wall still bore faint scorch-marks like afterimages burned into stone. His reflection stared back at him in the glossy Beryl veins—fur matted with sweat and blood, eyes too bright, expression caught somewhere between horror and clarity.
"I didn't—" He stopped, jaw tightening. Tried again. "I didn't mean for it to happen like that."
Lein-Da snorted, the sound sharp and humorless. "Intent is a luxury. Outcomes are what matter."
She began to circle him again, but slower now. Deliberate. Each step echoed faintly, boots striking stone in a rhythm that no longer matched his heartbeat. The chamber responded to her movement, algae flaring slightly brighter as she passed, as though recognizing her.
"You didn't lose control," she continued. "That's the important part. You let go of a lie."
Her claws traced the air inches from his shoulder, not touching. Not yet.
O'Nux swallowed. His throat felt raw. "That scripture… it was supposed to keep me anchored."
"Yes," Lein-Da agreed. "Anchors are useful."
She stopped in front of him, close enough that he could see the fine scars crisscrossing her muzzle, the faint glow beneath her skin where Beryl exposure had long since stopped being an injury and become an adaptation.
"They're also very good at keeping you from swimming when the tide changes."
The island pulsed again, stronger this time, as if punctuating her words. O'Nux felt it through the soles of his boots, up his legs, into his chest. The sensation was no longer foreign. Uncomfortable, yes. Dangerous. But not alien.
He flexed his fingers experimentally. His forearm glyphs—what remained of them—did not flicker wildly anymore. They had dimmed, their light subdued, reorganizing themselves into simpler patterns. Less scripture. More circuitry.
"What happens now?" he asked.
Lein-Da smiled, but there was no mockery in it this time.
"Now?" She shrugged. "Now you find out what kind of Overseer you're going to be."
That word landed heavier than any blow she'd struck him with.
Overseer.
Not heir. Not pacifist. Not idealist clinging to the remnants of a gentler doctrine.
Overseer of the Overlord Beryl.
The title came with histories he had tried not to learn, responsibilities written in blood and stone. He had always told himself he would be different. That he would find another way.
Lein-Da seemed to read the tension in his shoulders, the way his grip tightened just slightly on the dagger.
"You're thinking again," she said mildly. "Careful. You might sprain something."
He shot her a look, but there was no heat behind it. Just tired resolve. "If I'm going to lead—if I'm going to protect them—I need to know where the line is."
She raised a brow. "Which line?"
"The one where necessity becomes cruelty."