CHAPTER 125: I REFUSE

Run. That was it. That was the whole plan, the entire grand strategy my brain could conjure after witnessing the universe throw its newest, shiniest middle finger into our already overcrowded tragedy.

There were no clever angles, no cunning stratagems, no heroic last stands—just one shrieking word pounding through my skull like a war drum with a drinking problem: run.

And so, like a man who had belatedly realized he’d left the oven on during the apocalypse, I bolted.

The plaza, of course, did not bolt with me.

Instead it froze. Every last idiot, zealot, and noble above seemed caught in the tidal wave of dread pouring off the newcomer, their bodies rooted in place, mouths half open in disbelief, like theater-goers watching the curtain rise on a play they suddenly regretted buying tickets for.

Even the stitched man, that howling monstrosity, began to thrash violently, pulling himself further away from the Lady of Fang’s invisible leash, his screams raw and desperate.

And gods above, the look on Fitch’s face then—the smug little bastard’s grin melted away, replaced by a pale and twisted horror that almost made me want to laugh, if only because schadenfreude was my last remaining hobby.

But I had no time to laugh. No time to stop. No time to do anything but keep my legs moving before my body remembered it had bones that could break.

Behind me, I caught the flicker of motion and nearly tripped from sheer disbelief—the High Priest, of all people, was running too. Yes, the golden god-smiled terror of my nightmares, trailing me like an old friend who’d decided we were going on a morning jog together.

His armor clattered, his radiant blade bobbed, and there he was, not even striking, just running, as though gravity itself had declared us reluctant partners in a relay race toward doom.

Then the mage raised his sword.

Obsidian, jagged, cruel, it cut through the air as easily as breath, and from its tip bloomed a sigil, a deep and blistering purple, brighter than wounds, darker than the void between stars. It sizzled into being above the tip and then—

The world collapsed.

One instant, I was running with the grace of a startled rat, the next, I was kissing the cobblestones so hard I thought we might be wed in holy union.

The air turned molten and heavy, as though the sky had remembered that I was a mortal speck who had no business pretending at rebellion.

The pressure didn’t just push—it crushed, sinking through skin and sinew, into organs, into marrow, as though the earth itself had grown bored of supporting me and decided I’d look better spread into paste.

I couldn’t breathe.

Gods, I couldn’t even twitch. My fingers lay flat against the stones, trembling only from the weight dragging them down.

Around me, I could hear them—the screams. Guttural, choking, cut off mid-breath as bones cracked and flesh tore beneath the unbearable gravity.

A man not five feet away collapsed entirely, his ribcage splintering with a noise I will never forgive myself for hearing, his body flattened into the ground until he was no longer a man but a red smear.

Gravity. Saints above, gravity. That was his specialty, his art, his joy. Not shadows, not lightning, not the flashy nonsense of lesser magi—no, this one controlled the very weight of existence, and under his gaze we were no more significant than ants beneath a boot.

I forced my head up, just barely, every tendon in my neck threatening to snap.

My cheek scraped the stones raw as I twisted to see the others. Salem, who had defied gods and men alike with that devil’s grin, now lay pinned, muscles straining, jaw clenched, sweat pouring as he tried to lift himself.

Rodrick was nearby, his face purple with effort, pushing against the weight as though stubbornness could alter physics.

Nara and Dunny both had tears in their eyes, small bodies quivering under the press of air itself, the bravado drained out of them and replaced with raw, childlike terror.

Fitch—saints help me, Fitch—was on his knees, shaking, his face twisted into something between disbelief and dread.

And the stitched man? Gone. Nowhere in sight, as though even the monster had known better than to stay.

The naked knight lay on his back, chest rising and falling in shallow gasps, his sword slack beside him. Even he, the lunatic who laughed at fire and broke men with bare hands, could do nothing here but breathe heavy, waiting for the inevitable.

The mage began to walk.

That was the worst of it—his walk. He moved through the battlefield not as though he were in combat, but as though he were strolling a garden, a lord among flowers, pausing only to pluck a bloom or crush a weed.

His sword dragged lazily at his side, scraping sparks, until he reached the nearest man pinned to the stones.

The man screamed. Saints, how he screamed, begging, weeping, promising anything—gold, service, prayers, his very soul.

The mage said nothing. He simply lifted the sword and planted it into the man’s back, the steel sliding in with all the ceremony of a gardener putting down a spade.

The scream ended.

Then he walked again. Another man lay groveling, tears streaking his dirt-caked cheeks, his hands reaching, clutching, desperate for mercy.

The mage tilted his helm slightly, then cleaved his head from his shoulders with such ease the body didn’t even realize it was dead before it grew still.

My heart slammed so hard against my ribs I thought it might burst free and attempt its own escape. The executions were methodical, inevitable, and with each one, he drew closer. Step by step. Body by body.

Soon he would reach me.

I wanted to run. Saints, I wanted to run more than I had ever wanted anything in my cursed, miserable life. But there was no running. Not when the air itself chained me to the earth, not when every nerve in my body cried mutiny beneath his gravity.

I swallowed hard, forcing my head to turn again, drinking in the faces of those still alive.

And then I saw it.

The pile. The ugly, chaotic mound of weapons and relics we’d bled for. And standing atop it—standing, not writhing, not pinned, not even inconvenienced—was him.

The Man in White.

I blinked once. Twice. My brain tried to reconcile what my eyes were screaming and came back with static. He wasn’t straining. He wasn’t gritting his teeth or trembling under invisible weight.

He was simply...there.

Perfectly composed. White coat unblemished. His boots sank a little into the jumble of blades and hilts, but otherwise, he looked as though the whole "crushed beneath god-tier gravity" thing didn’t apply to him.

My mind promptly packed its belongings and whispered, nope, too much, before sitting down in the corner to hyperventilate.

The mage saw him.

The mage’s faceless helm turned, those slits of violet locking onto the Man in White. I could feel it. The weight shifted, just subtly, like the air had noticed its master had grown distracted.

The Man in White strolled. Yes, Strolled. Down the mound, hands tucked lazily in his coat pocket as though this were a pleasant afternoon walk.

No hurry. No strain. Each step slow and precise, carrying him closer and closer to the figure clad in obsidian. And when they stopped, just inches from one another, the entire world seemed to hold its breath.

Neither of their faces could be seen. But saints preserve me, I felt it—the weight of their gazes colliding, piercing, clashing in silence sharper than any blade.

The Man in White tilted his head, and when he spoke, it was with that casual, mocking lilt that always made me want to strangle him.

"So this is the mighty king? I was expecting something more. The way the competitors whisper about you, one would think the very sun bent to kiss your boots. But no... you’re just another brute with a parlor trick."

The mage gave no answer. Not a sound. Not even a tilt of the helm. He was silent, statuesque, immovable as the mountains.

The Man in White sighed, softly, as though disappointed in the quality of his company. Then—his demeanor shifted. Just the faintest tightening of his shoulders, the angle of his elbow, a subtle movement of his hand sliding deeper into his pocket.

He was going to draw something.

My eyes went wide.

Gods help me, I don’t know what I expected—a relic? A letter opener? A deck of cursed playing cards? But whatever it was, he meant to use it. And just as the tension reached the breaking point—

"I refuse."

The words cracked across the battlefield like lightning, ragged, furious, raw. My head snapped toward the voice.

It was Salem.

Salem, who lay sprawled against the cobblestones moments ago, pinned like the rest of us, now trembling violently as he forced his body upright.

Both swords were planted into the ground like anchors, his hands white-knuckled on the hilts as his frame shook. Bones creaked audibly—loud, sick, unnatural pops as his body screamed against him. His eyes glazed, not with weakness, but with an otherworldly, feral determination.

"I refuse!" he roared again, louder now, every vein straining as though the words themselves were tearing him apart. "I refuse to be weak!"

And then—saints above—he stood.

Not gracefully. Not easily. But he rose. Inch by tortured inch, muscles tearing, bones snapping under the strain of the spell, until he towered fully against the weight that held the rest of us captive.

Then, with a guttural snarl, he yanked his swords free from the stones.

I wanted to scream at him to stop, to collapse, to not tear himself apart for this insane show of defiance. But the words wouldn’t come. My throat was too tight, my chest too heavy, and truth be told—I couldn’t look away.

He hurled one sword.

Not tossed. Not flung. Hurled.

He angled it high, compensating for the unnatural pull of gravity, and the blade sang through the air like a comet.

Faster, faster, so fast it blurred into silver, and before I could blink, it crashed into the King-Class mage’s helm. Metal shrieked. The impact resounded throughout the plaza like a bell before Salem’s sword lodged itself into the cobblestone next to the mage’s figure.

For the first time, the mage faltered. Just slightly. A stagger, a tilt of the helm. But it was enough.

The weight vanished.

Like a shroud torn away, the crushing spell lifted, and I sucked in a lungful of air so fast it scorched my throat.

My body jerked, every muscle twitching in manic relief as if the stones themselves had finally let me go. Around me, men gasped, choked, rose shakily to their elbows, the sound of dozens rediscovering breath all at once.

I laughed. A short, broken bark of disbelief. Saints above, it was over. We were free.

The Man in White laughed too. A little chuckle, quiet and sharp, like he’d just been given the punchline to a private joke.

But the mage—no, he wasn’t laughing.

He moved. Swift, sudden, terrifying. His obsidian blade slashed sideways with a speed that made my heart seize, arcing straight for the Man in White’s temple.