Chapter 23: Red Over Green
Aren did not wake.
He was dragged back.
Pain hooked into him from somewhere deep and lightless and tore upward with no warning, no mercy, no gradual return. It came as pressure first—crushing, absolute—like his body had been buried alive and the earth was collapsing inward.
Then it became fire.
Fire in his ribs.
Fire in his spine.
Fire in his limbs.
His lungs convulsed as he tried to breathe, each inhale ripping through him like broken glass dragged across raw flesh.
"AHHH—!"
The scream tore out of him, ripped from his throat before thought could catch up. His body arched violently, back bowing so hard the cot groaned beneath him.
Hands slammed down.
"Hold him!"
"Hold him down!"
Aren thrashed, vision exploding into white and red as pain detonated everywhere at once. His wrists burned as restraints bit into skin. His shoulders screamed as hands forced him back.
"Don't let him bite his tongue—!"
Something hard was shoved between his teeth. He bit down instinctively, jaw locking as another wave of agony tore through his chest.
"AHHHHH—!"
The sound was not human anymore.
It was too raw. Too broken.
Something hot and bitter was forced down his throat. He choked, coughed violently, body convulsing as the liquid burned its way inside him. His stomach clenched, threatening to empty itself, but there was nothing left to give.
Then the screams came.
They were worse.
Burning.
Numbing.
Alive.
The screams tore out of him again and again as his body rejected every attempt to stabilize it. Muscles seized. Tendons locked. Bones ground against one another beneath skin that felt too tight to hold what was happening inside.
The pain spiked so sharply his vision went white, then black, then white again.
"AH—AHHH—AHHHHH!"
Outside the medical tent, soldiers froze.
The first scream made men flinch.
The second made them turn.
By the third, no one moved at all.
The sound carried through canvas and night alike—ragged, tearing, endless. Fires crackled weakly as soldiers stood rigid, fists clenched, listening to Aren fight something none of them could see.
Not an enemy.
Not fate.
His own body.
Some soldiers turned away, shoulders shaking.
Others stared at the tent as if it were a battlefield they had been barred from.
"Is he—?"
"He's still alive."
A healer's voice cut through the chaos inside the tent.
"He's fighting it."
Minutes stretched.
Aren's screams grew hoarse, voice shredding itself raw. The sound broke into choking gasps, then thin, ruined cries. His body trembled violently, muscles locking and tearing as if being pulled apart from the inside.
After five minutes, the screaming weakened.
It faded into broken breathing.
A few soldiers outside exhaled shakily.
"…it's over," someone whispered.
Then—
"AHHHHHHHHH—!"
The scream came again.
Louder.
Longer.
As if his body had found new places to break.
The night dragged on.
And Aren screamed through all of it.
Every muscle spasmed like it was being torn from bone. Every fractured rib shifted with each breath. His spine arched again and again, tendons screaming in protest.
"AH—ah—ah—!"
Sometimes it was a howl.
Sometimes a sobbing gasp.
Sometimes a thin, ruined sound that barely resembled a living thing.
Soldiers rotated watches outside the tent.
No one slept.
By the time dawn crept over the Northern Plains, Aren's voice was gone.
Only ragged, shallow breathing remained.
Inside the tent, a healer collapsed against a post, hands shaking uncontrollably.
"…he's alive," she whispered, disbelief thick in her voice.
"By all the gods… he's still alive."
Alive.
Unconscious.
Broken.
His body had won.
Barely.
---
The order came at dawn.
Seraphina Valecrest did not raise her voice.
She did not need to.
"Break camp," she said.
"We march."
Several officers stiffened.
"With respect," one began, "our condition—"
"We march," Seraphina repeated.
Her eyes were cold. Clear. Absolute.
Aren was moved with grim care, wrapped in layers of padding and blankets meant to keep shattered bone from shifting again. He did not stir as they lifted him. His breathing remained shallow but steady.
A reinforced carriage was prepared.
Rovan took the reins without being asked.
Corin and Lethan rode on either side.
The elite formed a tight ring around the wheels, shields raised, weapons ready.
No one questioned it.
The army moved.
And as if the Northern Plains themselves had been waiting—
The enemy arrived.
Dark formations crested the horizon, stretching wide and deliberate. Infantry moved in disciplined blocks. Heavy units advanced with grim confidence. Banners snapped sharply in the wind.
At their center rode a single figure.
A mid-core aura knight.
Green aura coiled tightly around his body, sharp and vibrant.
He raised his voice, amplified by aura, carrying easily across the field.
"The foolish man who tried to fight me before," he said.
"If he is alive—bring him to me."
Silence fell.
"I want to kill him personally," he continued, smiling.
"Slowly."
His gaze swept the opposing army.
"Do that," he said,
"and I might consider leaving some of you alive."
Rage exploded.
Before Seraphina moved—
before she dismounted—
she raised her sword.
"Kill them all," she said.
That was it.
The order they had been waiting for.
The army surged.
Soldiers ran forward like unleashed beasts, screaming, blades raised, fury boiling over discipline. Steel met steel as the battlefield ignited.
Only then did Seraphina dismount.
She drew her sword.
The moment steel left its sheath—
The world changed.
Aura erupted around her in a violent surge.
Red.
Deep. Dense. Furious.
The enemy commander charged to meet her, green aura flaring—
They clashed.
Steel met steel.
The impact shattered the ground beneath them, shockwaves flattening snow and throwing soldiers from their feet.
Only then—
Only when his blade met hers and was crushed—
Did the enemy commander understand.
His green aura buckled.
Red swallowed it.
His eyes widened in pure terror.
Two stages.
She was two stages above him.
"You—" he gasped.
Too late.
Seraphina attacked.
Not clean.
Not efficient.
Each strike was punishment.
Each blow shattered armor, cracked bone, drove him deeper into the ground. Red aura wrapped her blade as she smashed him down again and again, refusing to kill him, choosing instead to break him.
The battlefield burned.
Behind the lines, the carriage rolled forward.
Inside, Aren remained unconscious.
Alive.
And because he lived—
The war had changed.