CHAPTER 129: AN ATTEMPT WAS MADE

The first wind construct hit hard. Harder than she expected.

Grace went flying. Her back slammed into rock hard enough to knock the air from her lungs. Pain shot through her spine.

It was mainly the surprise that made the hit so painful, but still, she realized she needed to be careful.

She rolled sideways just as the construct’s fist shattered stone where her head had been. Rock fragments peppered her face.

"Ow! Fuck!"

Her blade swept up in a desperate arc. Golden light met angry wind.

The construct exploded like a violent sneeze. Air scattered in every direction, whipping her hair into her eyes. She pushed it back, squinting through the chaos.

The scattered wind was already pulling back together ten feet away.

[Of course they regenerate. Why wouldn’t they regenerate?]

Three more constructs charged from different angles. Their faces—if those swirling voids could be called faces—looked personally offended by her existence.

Grace’s blade extended into a whip of pure light. She spun, catching all three in one sweep. They burst apart with weird screaming sounds.

Then reformed.

Then charged again.

"Seriously?" She jumped back. "That’s just unfair!"

She ducked under a wind-fist that whistled past her ear. The force of it made her teeth ache. Another construct tried to grab her wings. She spun away, driving her blade through its center.

Pop. Reformed. Attack.

[This is like fighting angry bubbles that refuse to stay popped.]

The Tempest laughed from above. The sound made Grace’s fillings hurt.

"Can’t decide if they should die or not! Isn’t it wonderful?"

"It’s annoying!" Grace shouted back, dodging another fist.

"Same thing!"

More constructs materialized from the storm walls. Ten. Twenty. Thirty. All circling her like sharks made of compressed air.

Grace closed her eyes briefly, trying to focus up. She darted between them, stabbing at their centers where the wind seemed densest.

Stab. Pop. Reform.

Duck under a haymaker. Pop. Reform.

Jump over a leg sweep from two at once. Pop. Pop. Reform. Reform.

[This isn’t working. At all.]

One caught her shoulder with a glancing blow. Another hit her ribs while she was off-balance.

"Shit!"

She stumbled, nearly going down. A third construct’s fist caught her in the kidney. Grace’s knees buckled.

[Okay. Ow. Everything hurts now.]

"Having fun yet?" The Tempest called down, voice dripping with fake concern. "You look a little winded! Get it? Winded?"

Grace channeled more energy into her blade. The golden light burned brighter, hotter. Hot enough that the air around it shimmered.

When she struck the next construct, it screamed and stayed dead.

[Finally! Just needed to put some more oomph into it.]

She carved through them with renewed vigor. Light searing wind into nothing. The constructs fell faster now, their dying shrieks echoing off the mountain.

Some tried to reform but couldn’t hold together. They’d pull halfway back into shape before collapsing into regular breezes.

Twenty left. Fifteen. Ten.

Grace’s blade was a golden blur. Duck, stab, spin, slash. Her body moved on its own, every motion flowing into the next.

Five left. Two.

She grabbed the last construct by what might have been its throat. The wind felt weird under her fingers—solid but not, cold but burning.

"Stay dead!" She drove her blade through its swirling face.

It screamed—somehow—and dissolved into a gentle breeze that ruffled her hair before fading.

Grace stood among wisps of dissipating air, breathing hard. Her ribs protested every inhale. Blood ran down her back from where that one construct had caught her.

"Not bad!" The Tempest descended slightly, still floating but now close enough that Grace could see the madness swirling in those color-changing eyes. "But I can’t decide if that was impressive or pathetic."

"Make up your mind."

"I CAN’T!" The Tempest’s form scattered into wind before snapping back together. "That’s the whole fucking problem!"

Grace straightened, trying not to wince as her ribs shifted.

"Look, can we just talk? I dealt with your wind buddies. Violently. Let’s figure this out like reasonable people."

"Figure what out?" The Tempest tilted her head. "How to fix me? How to make me whole? How to give me back what she stole?"

"I don’t know! Something! Anything’s better than this... storm tantrum!"

The wind picked up. Not attacking this time, just swirling in agitated patterns.

"Do you know what indecision feels like when it’s all you are?" The Tempest’s voice cracked. "Every thought splits into infinite possibilities. Every choice branches endlessly. I can’t even decide how angry I am! Am I furious? Mildly annoyed? Devastated? All of them? None?"

"That sounds—"

"DON’T PITY ME!"

Lightning struck so close Grace felt the heat. Her hair stood on end.

"I don’t want your pity! Or your help! Or YOU!" The Tempest rose higher, wind whipping into a frenzy. "I have all the companionship I need right here."

The temperature plummeted so fast Grace’s next breath came out as ice crystals. That bone-deep, soul-freezing cold she knew too well crept up her spine.

[Oh no.]

The storm wall split open. The Primal Demon emerged like a nightmare given form and a bad attitude.

Level 80 floated above its head in burning red letters. Almost the same as Grace’s Bravery attribute.

It looked wrong even for a Primal. Most had somewhat consistent forms—big scary monster shapes that at least made sense. This one kept shifting like it was cycling through a catalog of "Things That Should Not Exist."

Wolf head on a bear body. Then spider legs on a snake torso. Then something with too many teeth and not enough skin. Then combinations that made her eyes water.

[Of course. Even the Primal here can’t make up its mind.]

"My friend doesn’t like visitors," the Tempest said conversationally. "Or maybe it does. We can never tell. It might want to hug you. Or eat you. Or both!"

The Primal charged. Or flowed. Or teleported. Grace couldn’t tell because one second it was there and the next it was in her face.

She brought her blade up just in time. Light met shadow with a sound like reality tearing.

The impact sent shockwaves through her arms. Her bones creaked.

[Holy shit it’s strong.]

They traded blows at speeds that blurred. The Primal hit like Diana on her worst day—all power and rage with zero holding back. Each strike aimed to break something important.

Grace ducked under claws that changed from bear to eagle mid-swipe. She jumped over a tail that couldn’t decide if it was a scorpion stinger or a club.

Her blade found something that might have been a shoulder. Or a hip. Hard to tell when it kept shifting.

The Primal screamed. Its form rippled, then solidified around her blade, trapping it.

[Shit shit shit!]

A fist made of solid shadow caught her in the stomach. Grace folded like a lawn chair, all the air leaving her lungs in a whoosh. Her blade dissipated, reforming in her hand a second later.

But the Primal was already moving.

Claws raked across her back, shredding through her armor like it was made of tissue paper. She felt skin tear. Warm blood immediately soaked her robes.

"Fuck!"

She spun, slashing wildly. The Primal flowed around the strike like water, then solidified its fist directly in her face.

Grace’s nose crunched. Stars exploded across her vision. The taste of copper flooded her mouth.

[Can’t see. Can’t breathe. Everything tastes red.]

The Primal grabbed her wings with hands that felt like frozen hate. It lifted her like she weighed nothing.

Then slammed her into the ground.

The impact drove every thought from her head. Rock cracked beneath her.

Again. Her ribs screamed.

Again. Something in her shoulder made a wet pop.

[Can’t... can’t breathe...]

Through the haze of pain, she managed to stab upward. More luck than skill. The blade found something vital in the Primal’s shifting mass.

It roared and dropped her.

Grace rolled away on instinct, body moving without conscious thought. She tried to stand. Her legs had other ideas, wobbling like jelly.

The Primal advanced. Its form finally settled on something consistent—a giant mantis made of living darkness with too many eyes in all the wrong places.

[I... I need to fall back.]

The thought hit her like another punch. Not here. Not alone. Not with the Tempest cackling above like this was the best entertainment she’d had in centuries.

Grace made a decision.

She turned and ran.

Right off the edge of the peak.

"Really?" The Tempest called after her. "Running away? I can’t decide if that’s cowardly or smart!"

The Primal’s roar followed her down. So did the Tempest’s laughter, echoing through the storm.

Grace fell through clouds that couldn’t decide if they were rain or snow or hail. Lightning crackled past, close enough to singe her already ruined robes.

She tried to fly. One wing responded sluggishly. The other just sent spikes of agony through her back.

[This is gonna hurt.]

So she tucked into a ball and fell.

And fell.

And fell.

Until she hit a snowbank halfway down the mountain.

Grace dug herself out of the snow, spitting out a mouthful of slush mixed with blood.

Everything hurt. Her ribs were definitely broken—she could feel them grinding with each breath. Blood ran down her back in warm streams that froze in the mountain air.

But she was alive.

[Intact. Mostly. Still technically winning.]

She looked up at the peak. Storm clouds swirled around it like a crown of pure fury, lightning crackling between layers in patterns that spelled out "FUCK YOU" in electric script.

[Subtle.]

"Next time," she muttered, limping through knee-deep snow. "Definitely bringing backup."

A fish fell from the sky and smacked her in the head.

"Ow! Seriously?"

The fish flopped once in the snow, gave her an accusing look, then froze solid.

Grace kept limping down the mountain.

Next time, she’d bring backup.