CHAPTER 128: FORGIVENESS

The stitched man chose that exact moment to remind everyone why he was stitched in the first place.

He barreled forward still, picking up speed now, ripping through the heap of relics and blades in the center of the plaza like an artisan disassembling a poorly-made sculpture, shards of steel and splinters of wood flying in all directions.

Each step landed like a drumbeat, vibrating up my battered spine until my teeth rattled, every swing of his maul promising to make paste of anything that stood in its way.

The mage mirrored him, pace accelerating into a jog that somehow looked leisurely even as it promised planetary extinction.

Their trajectories aligned, and at the epicenter of that cataclysm sat Rodrick—slumped, bloody, his face a ruin, yet still clutching his sword in defiance like the stubborn bastard he was.

Saints preserve him, if I wasn’t quick, he’d be reduced to a smear on the cobblestones and my therapist—if I ever lived long enough to hire one—would have entirely too much material to work with.

And so I moved.

My hand shot to the ground, snatching up my pen with one hand and the stopwatch with the other, the familiar weight biting into my fingers like iron promises.

And gods help me, I felt it then—the current still coursing through my veins, the forgiveness I hadn’t earned and the power I didn’t understand.

My body thrummed like a harp strung too tight, every nerve a burning string waiting to snap, latent with impossible energy. The plaza itself seemed to shrink around me, air tightening, stone vibrating, each breath too thick to swallow.

The mage’s blade began to raise.

The stitched man’s maul followed, rising higher, higher still, his face twisting into some grotesque parody of anticipation.

And I? I pressed the stopwatch.

Click.

Time shuddered into desolation. The world staggered, slowed, dragging itself like a drunkard billowing through tar.

Screams became long, echoing howls, blood pooled in slow viscous arcs across the air, banners overhead trembled in impossible winds.

And at the center of it all, those two weapons—sword and maul—descended like twin verdicts, hanging just above Rodrick’s broken body.

I inhaled. Long. Deep. And with that breath, I let my body relax—not stiff like prey awaiting death, but loose, every muscle unraveling until I was nothing but a line waiting to snap.

Then I triggered it. Salem’s sonic burst.

The air detonated beneath me, my feet carving thunder into the stones as my body warped forward with a violence that made nonsense of distance.

In one blink, I was at the far edge of the plaza, heart hammering in my throat. In the next blink, I was back again—right there, planted above Rodrick’s crumpled body, my boots skidding against cobblestones as I braced between titan and monstrosity.

I belted my stopwatch and pen. And then—

Time snapped back.

And gods above, everything collapsed.

The sword came down. The maul came with it. And I caught them both.

Bare-handed.

Immediately the world screamed in protest as my enhancements roared through me, five, no six in each arm, my veins lighting like molten rivers, skin blistering, palms splitting as the weight of destruction pressed against them.

The ground beneath me shattered outward, the cobblestone splitting in jagged lines that raced across the plaza.

Windows burst from every building, raining shards like glass confetti onto the chaos below. Air compressed, shrieked, detonated in waves that sent men and zealots alike flying into the air, their screams torn away in the gale.

I couldn’t help it. I screamed as well.

A guttural, ragged roar ripped itself from my chest, not language, not wit, just raw, animalistic defiance tearing its way free as blood began streaming from my hand, painting both weapons crimson.

My vision blurred, my ears rang, my teeth rattled, but I held. Gods damn me, I held. Steam began pouring from every pore, my body exhaling smoke and fury until I looked less like a man and more like a furnace cursed into flesh.

In that instant, every last sword and spear clattered to the floor in complete shock. Even the nobles above, those grotesque parasites dangling from their balloons, stilled their laughter.

Not a whisper, not a cheer, not a gasp—just silence. The silence of hundreds staring at the impossible and wondering whether they’d just witnessed the work of divinity or utter madness.

I felt it then—the weight in the maul beginning to ease. Not gone. Not defeated. But shifting.

I snapped my head toward the stitched man, eyes wild, blood dripping from my mouth as I bared my teeth in something closer to fury than sanity.

And he—he faltered. I saw it. Saints, I saw it. Absolute, unfiltered fear. His lips quivered, his monstrous jaw slackened, and in that instant, he broke.

His grip vanished, his monstrous hands releasing the weapon as if it had become fire. And then he turned, bolting, a hurricane of limbs pounding into the distance, his hulking form vanishing into the shadows of the city with a speed that belied his size.

The maul fell with a thunderous clang, forgotten.

My focus snapped back to the blade.

The mage hadn’t flinched. Not a word, not a twitch, not a whisper of fear. He was silent. Always silent. And that silence taunted me more than any laugh, more than any sermon, more than any scream ever could

"Fine, you won’t talk?" I snarled, my voice tearing raw from my throat. "Then listen."

I stacked more enhancements into my arm. Seven. Eight. Ten. My bones vibrated, muscles tearing, blood bursting from capillaries until I was certain I’d break apart. Eleven. Twelve. Saints above, twelve enhancements, my arm nothing but fire and agony, my palm splitting further as I wrapped tighter around the blade.

"You hear me?!" I roared, every word tearing out of my throat like shrapnel. "I am not some name to be crossed out! I am not a stone in your road! You wear inevitability like a crown, but I’ve made inevitability kneel before me!"

The sword resisted. Of course it did. The obsidian was forged in something older, crueler, bound to gravity itself. But my grip only tightened, pressing, seeking.

That’s when the voices began to stir.

"Come on you beautiful bastard!" A competitor bellowed, ragged and desperate.

"Do it, gods damn it. Break it!" Another shouted, eyes alight with madness.

The nobles above began clapping. Then cheering. Soon the entire plaza erupted with sound, voices hammering, echoing, chanting as though they had always believed in me, as though they weren’t parasites desperate for spectacle.

The mage refused to move, refused to back away. His violet eyes burned brighter, silent and pitiless, locking into mine as though daring me to finish what I’d begun.

And so I did.

I leaned in, blood dripping down my chin, rage dripping from every word. "Here’s the difference between you and me, you fucking bastard! You think ego equates to strength. But I know better. Strength is getting knocked into the dirt, spat on, beaten, forgotten—and then laughing in its face when it comes to kill you!"

I squeezed harder, my vision bleeding white with agony, my throat ripping another roar into the storm of cheers.

And then—

The cracks began to form

Tiny at first. Hairline fractures spiderwebbing across the blade where my blood hissed against the edge. Then more, splintering faster, glowing faintly with the heat of pressure too great to bear.

In that instant the mage tried to wrench his sword free, but I wasn’t about to let him off so easy. I dug deeper, power screaming through my arm, and with one final surge—

The blade shattered like glass.

Obsidian shards exploded outward in a storm, slicing the air, one slashing hot across my cheek.

The mage staggered, reeling, and before he could regain his footing I spun through the chaos, driving a fist deep into his gut. The impact crushed against the armor with such force my own fingers snapped in response, bones twisting at grotesque angles.

Didn’t matter.

He flew—an obsidian titan turned into a ragdoll, hurled back across the plaza in a crash of stone and dust.

I glanced down at my hand, at the ruin of it, and found myself almost laughing. Shattered fingers twitching, bent wrong like snapped quills.

It was then, when I finally gathered enough time to breathe that I noticed it.

My leg no longer screamed. The pain was gone. Healed. Whole again. And before I could even question the absurdity of it, my hand began stitching itself back together before my eyes, bones sliding into place, flesh knitting, skin sealing smooth. Saints, I didn’t even have time to marvel.

Because the mage was already rising again.

I braced myself, expecting the usual trick—the flicker, the sudden cut from behind. But no. He spread both hands wide this time, obsidian claws stretching toward the sky, and then he slammed them down. Straight into the cobblestones.

The plaza erupted.

Blazing purple light tore outward in a blistering wave, searing across the floor. Just then a dome, thin and nearly-invisible, materialized overhead with a heavy snap, sealing us in like insects in a jar.

At our feet the sigil bloomed brighter—script layered in dizzying patterns, lines intersecting in a complexity that made my head throb just looking at it.

My breath hitched. My face went cold.

"What in all the—"

"Cecil!" Salem’s voice, raw and torn, ripped across the chaos. He was staggering to his feet, bloodied, barely standing as he braced himself against the wall, but his eyes burned pure, unbridled fear. "He’s going to use it!"

"Wha—" I began to say, even knowing what was to come.

"He’s going to use a King-Class spell!"