The village lay still beneath him, a fragile calm that seemed almost deceptive. Even after Rho had appeared and quelled the villagers' restless unease, there remained a tension like a coiled spring, invisible yet palpable. The sun, pale and thin, cut across the dusty streets, reflecting off shattered roof tiles and dry earth, scattering light in jagged, irregular lines. Trees leaned subtly, almost instinctively, as if expecting a predator. And from the ridge above, the figure of Sloth waited, unmoving, limbs elongated, body unnaturally tense, gray eyes scanning the boy like a predator sizing up prey.
The boy felt the weight of the moment pressing against him, heavy, almost physical, a mixture of fear, anticipation, and determination. The Eighth Card pulsed faintly against his chest, syncing with his own heartbeat. His fingers twitched as he pressed it closer. The warmth that surged from the card was intense, flowing into every nerve ending, every tendon, every muscle fiber. His body trembled—not from fear, but from raw transformation.
Muscles coiled and thickened, shoulders broadened, chest expanding as if filled with steel. Bones lengthened and strengthened, subtly reshaping themselves to optimize balance, agility, and resilience. He could feel the subtle alignment of each joint, each ligament tightening to provide perfect leverage and force. His legs, once thin and fragile, now bore the weight of his potential, spring-loaded and precise, every step capable of lethal grace.
His brown hair darkened naturally, strands thickening and catching the light with a faint sheen. Cheekbones lifted, jawline sharpened, eyes glimmered with a clarity that felt almost unnatural, perceiving the smallest movements, the faintest shifts of air and dust. His hands, once soft and untested, now bore the potential for exacting precision, fingers capable of tracing countless sword movements in the blink of an eye.
The pulse of the Eighth Card thrummed deep in his chest, almost audible in its intensity. It was alive, in sync with him, whispering knowledge through nerve endings and muscle memory alike. He could feel the wind differently now, the way each gust brushed over his skin, how every dust particle moved in micro-currents. He could sense the subtle weight of stones, the tension in the bending trees, and the sharp contrast of sunlight against shadow.
Seventeen years old now, but born of far more than time, he felt the combination of instinct and experience surging through him. Every reflex, every potential reaction, every trace of combat memory was now instinctual, flowing naturally through his body. The Eighth Card had made him a weapon before he even lifted a sword.
From the ridge, Sloth's gray eyes fixed on him. Dust swirled around the Sin's elongated limbs, rocks hovered slightly above the earth, and even the air seemed to thicken in anticipation. Sloth's presence was oppressive but calculated, the kind of calm that hides imminent violence.
"You've changed," Sloth said calmly, almost conversationally, but each word carried a weight that pressed down like stone. "Change alone will not save you."
"I'm ready," the boy said, dropping into a low stance, dagger in hand, muscles coiled, heartbeat steady. "I'll survive. That's all that matters."
The air seemed to pause. Dust hung motionless in shafts of sunlight. The boy could see every micro-detail: the way the wind twisted around Sloth's chains, the subtle tension in the Sin's fingers, the shift of weight as if the earth itself were aware of the coming collision. Every sense was alive; even the faint scent of the dry grass, the dust, and the ozone in the air reached his perception as if amplified.
He traced a line in the air subconsciously. A faint sword shimmered along the path, almost imperceptible, like a memory of a blade he had drawn a thousand times in practice. The sword vanished as quickly as it appeared, but his fingers retained the sensation of its weight, balance, and arc. The Eighth Card had granted him this instinct, this ability to anticipate and project combat moves as if they were physical extensions of his body.
The wind picked up, dust swirling in thin spirals. Sloth shifted, and suddenly the terrain seemed alive. Stones lifted, chains coiled and spun in anticipation, and the shadows beneath the ridge lengthened unnaturally. The boy felt the subtle pressure of the Sin's aura, a psychic weight that hinted at every strike, every dodge, every potential trap. He tensed, feeling the energy coiling in his own body, muscles ready to spring, mind calculating in milliseconds.
A memory flashed—Rho's quiet strength in the village, his calm interventions, the weight of responsibility carried silently. It was a quiet, unspoken lesson: endurance was more than brute force; it was awareness, adaptation, and patience. The boy inhaled deeply, letting the calm settle over him, and allowed his instincts to take over.
He felt his body settle into rhythm. Muscles aligned, sinews coiled, bones positioned perfectly for balance and launch. Fingers tightened on the dagger handle. The pulse of the Eighth Card synced fully with his heartbeat now. He could feel the faint echo of hundreds of sword tracings flowing through his nervous system, each one informing the next move even before it began.
Every instinct pointed toward the first strike. It would come fast, sudden, lethal. He was ready.
He lifted his gaze and locked eyes with Sloth. The Sin's elongated limbs tensed, gray eyes unblinking, chains coiling like serpents ready to strike. The world seemed to tilt, wind swirling in arcs he could almost see, dust floating in spirals as if frozen midair. Every muscle, every thought, every fiber of his being was poised for a single purpose: survival.
The boy swallowed, feeling adrenaline surge without fear. Every micro-muscle adjusted, every tendon pulled tight, every nerve alive. The Eighth Card hummed faintly against his chest, its power alive, aware, guiding. His darkened brown hair fell over his sharpened forehead as he raised the dagger, stance low, eyes fixed, body ready.
Sloth's lips curved faintly. "Then let us see what you are capable of."
Time stretched, the wind hung suspended, and the first strike was imminent.
The wind picked up across the ridge, carrying dust and the faint metallic tang of tension. The boy's body hummed with anticipation, every muscle coiled, every sinew aware, every sense heightened. Sloth's gray eyes glimmered across the clearing, chains coiling and uncoiling like serpents ready to strike, rocks hovering unnaturally in the air. The Sin had waited, watching, calculating, testing his opponent's limits with mere presence.
Then, with a sudden lurch, Sloth launched. His chains whipped outward, faster than the eye could follow, twisting and snapping toward the boy from multiple directions. Rocks spiraled along unnatural arcs, ricocheting off invisible currents of force, aiming to crush, pin, and disorient simultaneously.
The boy reacted without thought. He rolled to the side, dust curling around his boots, and traced a short sword in mid-air to intercept a chain. Sparks erupted as metal met metal. He projected twin daggers in both hands, deflecting two spinning rocks while simultaneously spinning to avoid a whip descending from above.
Each projection moved seamlessly with his body, every movement instinctive, honed by the Eighth Card. His brown hair, now darkened and sharp against the sunlight, whipped around his face, eyes glinting with focus. Muscles coiled and uncoiled with lethal grace, every sinew perfectly attuned to anticipation and reaction.
Sloth did not pause. Chains lashed again, twisting and coiling around the trees and rocks, striking with calculated unpredictability. Rocks launched in rapid succession, some spinning, others ricocheting off the ground at odd angles. The boy leapt, rolled, and pivoted in a fluid ballet of survival, projecting a curved saber to intercept a chain, twin short swords to deflect two rocks, and tracing a longsword in the air just in time to catch a third spinning boulder.
"You endure well," Sloth said, voice calm but edged with tension. "But endurance will not save you forever."
"I'll adapt," the boy replied, voice steady, heart racing. He vaulted onto a jagged rock, using it as leverage to project a greatsword in a downward arc, intercepting another chain and deflecting it into the earth. Sparks flew as metal clashed with metal, dust swirling into the air like frozen chaos.
The battle escalated. Every second brought new attacks, more complex, faster, and unpredictable. The boy traced multiple swords simultaneously, projecting them in arcs, thrusts, and spins. Each projection was a thought made real—a sword anticipating another sword, another whip, another rock. His movements were a perfect rhythm of instinct, experience, and strategy.
Sloth's Mystic Eyes flared, subtly warping perception. Chains lashed in impossible arcs, rocks ricocheted unpredictably, and fissures opened in the earth beneath him. The boy felt the shifting terrain beneath his feet, projected twin daggers to pin two rocks mid-air, and traced a curved saber to sever a whip descending toward his back. He twisted mid-flight, landing on a fractured ridge, and projected another sword just in time to intercept an incoming boulder.
He could feel the strain, every fiber of his body screaming, yet every sense remained sharp. The Eighth Card hummed against his chest, syncing with his heartbeat, guiding instincts and reflexes. Each sword he traced, each move he made, was informed by hundreds of thousands of theoretical scenarios, perfectly calculated and executed in real-time.
Sloth struck again, a chain lashing upward with brutal speed, followed by a rock spinning along a spiral trajectory. The boy ducked under the chain, rolled across the dirt, and swung a twin sword projection horizontally to deflect the rock, barely maintaining balance on a sloped ridge. Sparks screamed, dust exploded into the air, and the trees shivered violently with the sheer force of their clash.
For a moment, both combatants paused, circling, gauging. The boy's chest heaved, sweat running down his face, muscles quivering from exertion, but his eyes never wavered from Sloth. Every trace of steel, every projection, every pivot, was instinctual, yet deliberate.
"You anticipate far more than I expected," Sloth said, gray eyes narrowing, chains coiling like living serpents. "But endurance and instinct are not enough. Can you adapt beyond what you know?"
The boy's eyes glinted. He projected a series of rapid swords—curved, straight, twin daggers spinning around him like a cage of light—and darted forward. Rocks were deflected mid-flight, chains severed before they could lash, and the earth itself seemed to yield beneath his feet as he leapt, rolled, and pivoted with lethal precision.
Every motion was calculated. He traced a sword, projected it, felt its weight, arc, and momentum as if it were real steel. Another rock came spinning toward him from the ridge; he projected twin curved sabers in a crossing pattern, smashing the rock into dust mid-air. Chains whipped at his legs; he pivoted, rolling with the arc, tracing a greatsword to sever the whip just before it could wrap around his ankles.
The fight became a dance of chaos and precision. Dust rose in clouds, rocks shattered, trees shivered, and the air crackled with the energy of their power. Every move, every trace, every sword projection was perfectly timed, perfectly executed. The boy's brown hair stuck to his forehead, sweat streaked across his face, but his darkened eyes remained sharp, unwavering.
Sloth lunged with a chain whip from above, twisting in mid-air, aiming to strike the boy's shoulder. Instinct kicked in. The boy projected a twin-sword arc upward, deflecting the chain, and pivoted mid-roll to land on a jagged rock. He projected a curved saber diagonally, slicing through a spinning rock ricocheting off the ridge. He twisted again, projecting a longsword to intercept another chain descending at impossible speed.
Finally, he saw an opening. One chain struck too close, a boulder followed a predictable arc. He rolled under the chain, projected twin daggers to redirect the boulder, and pivoted to strike Sloth's flank with a curved saber projection. Sparks flew, chains coiled back, and Sloth staggered, gray eyes widening slightly.
The Sin retreated, fading into the ridge's shadows. The boy's chest heaved, sweat dripping, muscles trembling, but his stance remained ready. Victory had come—for now. The clearing, though battered and strewn with dust and shattered rock, had fallen silent. He had endured, adapted, and overcome.
But he knew it was only the beginning. Other Sins waited. He lowered his gaze, noticing how the sun caught the projections still faintly shimmering in the air. One last trace of a sword lingered, a memory of the battle crystallized into instinct.
He exhaled slowly, letting the dust settle. The wind whispered across the ridge, carrying the faint metallic tang of tension. He flexed his fingers, feeling the burn of muscles and the hum of the Eighth Card against his chest.
Sloth had been defeated, but not destroyed. And the path forward was clear: one battle down, six more to survive, and countless more to come.
The wind had quieted, leaving the clearing in an eerie stillness. Dust settled slowly onto shattered rocks, broken branches, and the faintly scorched earth where the battle had raged. The boy stood alone at the center of it, chest heaving, sweat dripping from his darkened hair, muscles trembling from the exertion. He had survived. He had endured. But the cost of that survival pressed against him like a weight in his chest.
His body ached in ways he had never felt before. Every muscle, from his shoulders to his calves, burned with fatigue, as if each sinew had been stretched to its breaking point and then reinforced. He flexed his fingers, feeling the faint sting of blisters where the projection of swords had traced in rapid succession. The Eighth Card pulsed softly against his chest, a faint warmth reminding him that the magic that had transformed him remained alive, still guiding, still urging him forward.
He knelt, resting on one hand, taking in the devastation around him. Rocks lay shattered, trees bent unnaturally, the dirt scarred with grooves from chains and sword strikes. Faint fragments of his sword projections shimmered in the sunlight, a ghostly echo of the battle just passed.
He let out a slow breath, closing his eyes, and felt his body begin to steady. The physical pain was intense, but more than that was the emotional weight. He had faced Sloth—the embodiment of sloth itself, twisted by Rider-class powers—but he had survived. More than surviving, he had adapted, improvised, and triumphed. Yet even in victory, the boy knew the path ahead was far from over.
The battle had revealed much about him. He had tested his instincts, his agility, and the strategic knowledge gifted by the Eighth Card. Every projection, every trace of steel, every pivot and dodge had flowed seamlessly, instinct meeting execution. But there was also something else—a deeper awareness of his limits. Even now, muscles trembling, he could feel how close he had come to failure.
He rose slowly, adjusting his stance, the sunlight glinting off the faint sheen of sweat on his skin. His darkened brown hair clung to his forehead, strands fluttering in the breeze. The boy looked down at his hands, calloused now in a way foreign to his original frame, fingers trembling slightly but still precise, capable of exacting action. The transformation granted by the Eighth Card had left him strong, yes, but not invincible.
He thought of the villagers below. Safe, for now. He had carried their safety on his back during this fight, every instinct, every sword trace, every movement informed by the responsibility he bore. It was not just about surviving the Sins. It was about protecting those who could not defend themselves, even if it meant pushing himself to the edge of human—and superhuman—endurance.
The wind shifted, carrying the faint scent of stone and dust, and he glanced toward the ridge where Sloth had vanished. The Sin had not fled entirely; only retreated, regrouping, assessing. He would return eventually, if only to test the boy again. The thought was unsettling, but it also brought clarity. Each Sin, each battle, was a trial, a measure of his ability to endure, to adapt, to overcome.
The boy exhaled, letting his shoulders relax slightly, though tension still lingered like a shadow. He walked slowly through the clearing, noting the scars left by battle—the grooves in the dirt, the shattered branches, the small fragments of stone scattered like shattered glass. Each mark told a story of the fight: a near-miss, a counter, a pivot that had saved him from certain injury.
As he moved, he projected a faint trace of a sword, just to feel the weight, the arc, the flow of combat instinct still alive within him. Even though the battle had ended, his body remembered the rhythm, the timing, the precision of strikes. The Eighth Card hummed faintly, almost approvingly, as if acknowledging that he had learned, adapted, and survived.
He paused at the edge of the ridge, looking down at the village. The people went about their tasks, unaware of the magnitude of the battle that had taken place above them. Safe, for now. Yet the boy could feel the undercurrent of danger—other Sins waiting, each more cunning, more lethal than the last. Pride, Lust, Gluttony, Envy, and the others remained, watching, plotting, waiting for their moment to test him.
The weight of that knowledge settled on his shoulders. He could not falter, not even for a moment. Each battle would push him further, demand more of him, and force him to grow in ways that were both terrifying and necessary. He had survived Sloth, but the path ahead was long, fraught with peril, and littered with the echoes of Sins yet to come.
The boy knelt once more, closing his eyes. He felt the rhythm of his heartbeat, the pulse of the Eighth Card against his chest, the tremor of exhaustion in his limbs. For a moment, he allowed himself to feel the weight of his accomplishment, the quiet triumph of enduring and surviving. But even in that brief pause, he knew the fight was not over.
Slowly, deliberately, he rose again, adjusting his stance, feeling the coiled power within him. The transformation had changed him—his body, his reflexes, his awareness—but it had also changed his resolve. He would face each Sin in turn. He would endure, adapt, and overcome. No matter the cost.
The sun dipped lower in the sky, casting long shadows across the clearing. The wind whispered through the trees, carrying the faint echo of chains and the memory of battle. And the boy, standing tall, chest heaving, eyes sharp, and body honed by the Eighth Card, knew one thing with certainty: the fight was far from over, but he was ready.
Sloth had been the first challenge. The others awaited. And he would meet them all.