CHAPTER 1201: UNDERCUT.

The morning after the storm broke gray and raw. Smoke still hung in the air, low and heavy, clinging to the ruins like a shroud. Cain sat on the edge of a broken wall, his sword buried point-first in the mud before him. The metallic scent of blood still lingered, but he had stopped noticing it hours ago. He was numb, staring at the sky that refused to brighten.

The world around him was quiet—too quiet. Every gust of wind carried the echo of the night before: screams, collapsing stone, the sound of divine energy tearing through flesh and steel alike. It wasn’t war anymore. It was a purge.

"Still breathing, huh?" a voice rasped from behind.

Cain turned his head slightly. Eira limped toward him, her armor in pieces, her left arm bound tightly with what looked like the remains of a flag. Her once-silver hair was soaked dark red at the tips, plastered to her neck.

He grunted, pulling his blade from the dirt. "Barely."

She sat beside him with a pained sigh, glancing toward the distant horizon where the sun tried and failed to rise above the haze. "You look worse than I do."

Cain smirked faintly. "That’s saying something."

For a while, neither spoke. The battlefield stretched endlessly before them—burned-out trenches, shattered relics of divine barriers, and the bodies of humans, beasts, and aberrations alike. The ground still pulsed faintly with leftover energy, unstable and dangerous to touch.

"Do you think any of them made it out?" Eira asked.

Cain didn’t answer immediately. His hand tightened on the hilt of his sword. "If they did, they’re scattered. We were cut off before the end. I saw Vance fall. I don’t know about the rest."

Eira’s jaw clenched. "And Baldur?"

He glanced toward the east, where the crimson dome had once stood. "Gone. The dome collapsed after our last clash. But I didn’t feel his essence fade. He’s not dead."

She exhaled sharply. "Then this isn’t over."

Cain rose to his feet, stretching his back with a quiet groan. "It never is."

He started walking down the slope, boots sinking into the soaked soil. His movements were sluggish, deliberate. The rain had washed away most of the blood from his skin, but the stains remained under his fingernails, beneath his eyes.

Eira followed. "Where are we going?"

"South. There’s a supply point near the ridge. If the others survived, they’ll head there."

They walked in silence for a while, the only sound being the squelch of their boots and the distant crackle of fire. Cain’s expression stayed blank, but his thoughts weren’t still. The battle replayed over and over behind his eyes—the explosion, the shockwave, the feel of his bones rattling against the sheer force of Baldur’s strikes. He’d been close to dying more than once.

But that wasn’t what disturbed him.

No, what lingered was the memory of the air splitting open—the faint shimmer of something descending through the smoke. A shape. A sound like whispering glass.

It hadn’t been human, nor beast, nor angel.

He hadn’t told anyone yet. Not even Eira.

They crested the ridge, and the remains of the supply point came into view. Half the tents were gone, replaced by a crater and the remnants of defensive wards. The ground was glassed over from intense heat.

"Damn," Eira muttered.

Cain crouched, brushing ash from a broken emblem lying half-buried in the dirt. It bore the symbol of their faction—two overlapping wings surrounding a radiant eye. The edges were melted.

"They found it before we did."

She drew her blade halfway from its sheath, scanning the haze. "Then whoever’s left might still be close."

"Or dead."

Before she could respond, the ground trembled. Faint at first—then stronger, like something massive was approaching from below. Cain’s eyes sharpened.

"Get back!" he barked.

Eira jumped aside as the earth split open where they’d been standing. A surge of molten metal burst upward, forming a twisting column that hardened into a jagged structure. From within, something began to emerge—a figure, tall and pale, its flesh wrapped in threads of liquid steel that pulsed with inner light.

Cain froze. His grip on {Eidwyrm} tightened until his knuckles cracked.

The figure tilted its head, its voice mechanical and wrong. "Residual signature... confirmed. Cain Veyr."

Eira took a step back, whispering, "What the hell is that?"

"An echo," Cain muttered. "Left behind by the Celestial influence."

The figure’s chest opened like a blooming flower of blades, exposing a core burning with golden fire.

"Target acquired."

Cain’s eyes darkened. "Guess rest time’s over."

He moved first—launching himself forward, blade flaring red as it collided with the creature’s metallic arm. Sparks exploded into the air, followed by a shockwave that sent chunks of earth flying. The creature responded instantly, adapting, reshaping its limbs into serrated claws that met every strike with inhuman precision.

Eira joined the fray, striking from the flank, but her blade barely left scratches on the creature’s body.

"This isn’t working!" she shouted.

Cain ducked under a cleaving swing, slashing upward in return. "Then we’ll make it work!"

The ground erupted again, and the fight grew faster, louder, wilder—two mortals and a construct locked in a dance of destruction as the morning sun finally broke through the haze.

The light didn’t reach them.

It only made their shadows longer.

The echo didn’t slow down. Every strike it blocked seemed to teach it something new; every blow Cain landed only made it faster. The ground beneath their feet turned to molten slag from the sheer heat bleeding out of the core.

Cain’s breath came hard. He moved like a machine—slashes, counters, feints—but the thing mirrored him, almost perfectly. It wasn’t just copying his style. It was learning him.

"Fall back!" Eira shouted again.

He ignored her, driving his sword straight into the creature’s chest. For an instant, he thought it worked—until the echo smiled with his own face and whispered, "You can’t kill what’s already inside you."

Then it detonated.