Paths Beyond (Under Rewrite)

The indigo barrier pulsed like the beating heart of some celestial leviathan, its translucent walls thrumming with raw energy. Trapped within its embrace, Grey stood frozen, his sharp silver eyes scanning the space. Above him, orange lightning coiled and twisted within the swirling heavens, crackling currents making the fine strands of his ash-gray hair stand on end. The storm above felt alive, predatory—waiting.

Before Grey could fully process his surroundings, the green blades of light began to stir. They weren't just energy—they were Will made manifest. Each blade hung suspended in the air, shimmering with faint luminescence. They vibrated in place, emitting a low hum—a soundless whisper that reverberated deep within Grey's chest.

Then, like falcons spotting their prey, they moved.

The first blade struck with inhuman speed, slicing through the air toward him. Grey's body reacted before his mind could—a sharp twist, a dive to the side. The edge of the blade grazed his torso, leaving behind a searing line of agony. Warm blood soaked into the thick fur of his pelts, dripping onto the shimmering floor beneath him.

The blade stopped mid-flight, spun once in the air like an eagle banking for another pass, and then hovered silently, waiting. Its companions joined it—dozens of emerald harbingers, encircling Grey in a slow, deliberate orbit.

From beyond the indigo barrier, a sharp, panicked voice cut through the electric hum.

"Grey!" Tear's small figure emerged from the edge of the shattered remains of their home. Her turquoise hair whipped wildly in the wind, her pine-green eyes wide with terror. Serene stood frozen behind her, paralyzed by the spectacle before them.

Tear stumbled forward, her bare hands reaching desperately for the barrier. But before she could take another step—

"Stop! Don't come any closer!" Grey's voice cracked through the chaos, raw with fear and command.

But he couldn't focus on them. The blades were moving again.

The green light surged. This time, they didn't come one by one—they came in a sequence, a relentless rhythm of death.

Grey twisted and ducked, his worn boots sliding across the smooth floor of the arena. One blade grazed his cheek, leaving behind a stinging heat. Another clipped his shoulder, spinning him halfway around before he caught himself.

"Argh!" he cried, stumbling as more blades danced past him—each one narrowly missing vital points but carving shallow cuts into his arms, his legs, his side.

The air burned with metallic scent of blood. His breaths came in ragged bursts, white mist spilling from his lips as if his spirit itself was escaping with every exhale.

The blades stopped, suspended once more in their silent orbit. Grey fell to one knee, his hand pressed against a deep gash on his side. His chest heaved as blood dripped steadily onto the arena floor.

"No..." he rasped, silver eyes blazing with raw defiance. "I can't die here. I won't die here."

But the blades weren't listening.

They moved again, diving toward him in a flurry. Grey pushed himself backward, stumbling toward the edge of the indigo barrier. His boots skidded against the energy field, the faint hum of the barrier vibrating through his bones.

Then, by some miracle—or perhaps sheer, desperate instinct—Grey lunged to the side, throwing himself flat against the shimmering floor. The blades hissed past him, slicing into the snow piled against the edges of the barrier.

For a heartbeat, silence. Grey blinked, his face inches from the cold, crystalline surface of the arena. Had he—

A sickening sound pierced the stillness—a wet crunch, followed by sharp, blinding agony.