Paths Beyond (Under Rewrite)

The orange lightning struck with the force of a god's wrath, its blinding brilliance swallowing Grey whole.

From beyond the indigo barrier, Tear's scream pierced the night—a raw, desperate sound that seemed to cut through even the roar of the storm. Serene collapsed to her knees beside her, her trembling hands clutching at the snow-dusted earth as tears carved hot paths down her cheeks.

It was over.

The world went silent, save for the faint crackle of fading static in the air.

Behind them, the sharp crunch of boots against frostbitten ground signaled the arrival of Keen, Brawl, and Shot. They skidded to a halt, their wide eyes locked on the storm's aftermath. Keen's breath caught in his throat; Brawl's hulking frame seemed to deflate slightly as if the weight of failure had fallen upon him. Shot's sharp gaze flicked between the glowing embers of the lightning strike and the motionless silhouette at its center.

But then... Grey moved.

He was still standing.

His ash-gray hair was wild and crackling with faint static. His silver eyes glowed with a light not entirely his own, sharp and steady beneath a layer of ash and sweat.

Serene's tear-filled gaze locked onto him, her breath hitching as realization dawned. Some of his wounds... they're fading. The deep puncture in his arm no longer gaped; instead, it was closing, faint threads of lightning knitting the torn flesh back together. Even the shallower cuts across his torso and face looked less raw, less severe.

Grey's breathing was steady—almost too steady, considering what had just happened. His chest rose and fell in smooth rhythms, as if he hadn't just been struck by the heavens themselves.

But inside, Grey understood.

The knives of green light had been unnatural—they fought against the current, pushing, twisting, forcing their paths against the natural order of the river of Will. Each attack caused ripples, disruptions he could see and predict.

But the lightning...

The lightning had flowed with the current. It wasn't fighting the Will—it was part of it. It swam through the river like a serpent gliding through its native waters, effortless and sure.

Grey realized something profound in that moment:

Even if I had wanted to dodge it, I wouldn't have been able to.

It wasn't a weapon—it was a channel, a force of raw purpose, unclouded by malice or intent.

And when it struck him, it hadn't brought agony—it had brought warmth.

The energy had surged through his body, not tearing him apart, but renewing him. His burned hand, his slashed shoulder, the deep puncture wound—all were closing, faint trails of light tracing over the damaged flesh like golden threads through a tapestry.

But there was something else.

Deep within him, past the renewed energy in his limbs and the clarity in his mind, something rumbled.

It wasn't loud—it was faint, distant, but heavy. Like the low growl of thunder rolling across distant mountains.

The green blades still circled him, their humming chorus vibrating in the cold air.

Grey didn't flinch. He didn't raise his arms in defense. He stood, breathing in, letting the rhythm of the current flood his senses.

When the blades dove toward him again—sharp, relentless, and hungry—he moved only slightly.