Silence.
And then... a sound.
Crack.
The golden chains shimmered above Zhen Hu's chest—but one link… fractured.
Veyrith paused.
The envoy frowned, eyes narrowing. He pressed his palm harder, pouring Transcendent Zen into the seal.
But the ground beneath Zhen Hu began to rot.
A stench filled the air—sweet and foul, like fresh death.
Then came the second sound.
Crack. Crack. CRACK.
Zhen Hu's body arched violently. Veins blackened. His bones popped like firecrackers beneath his skin. His mouth opened, and he vomited not blood, but shadow—writhing, living, seething shadow.
And in the deep...
A name was spoken.
Not in words. In essence.
Aelira screamed from within him, not in pain—but in fear.
"Zhen Hu—no—DON'T LET IT—!"
Too late.
The seal shattered.
And the world bent.
Zhen Hu rose—not standing, but dragged up by strings of necrotic energy, like a puppet resurrected in fury. His head hung limp. His limbs twitched.
And his eyes glowed red.
Not the crimson of blood, but of something deeper. Pre-celestial decay.
His voice, layered and broken, echoed out:
"No chains will bind what was born to rot."
"Not life. Not you. Not the sky."
He launched forward—blurring faster than Veyrith could react.
"Nytherion Secret Art – Marrowgate Rend!"
His palm slammed into the envoy's ribs. Not a blow—a detonation.
Veyrith screamed as bone cracked and skin split open. He flew back—tumbling through trees, smashing through stone, coughing black ichor.
He had never been wounded like this.
Never.
Zhen Hu didn't give him time.
"Gravewalker Descent!"
He dropped from the sky with both heels, aiming for Veyrith's chest. The ground exploded, sending a shockwave across the valley. The air filled with screams of the dead—not metaphorical. Real.
Souls howled.
Aelira, now fully within him, bled power with each breath. But she was no longer in control.
Zhen Hu was riding the storm. Not steering it.
In the mountain halls, panic spread.
Zhen Xun stood frozen. His son's energy was no longer Nytherion.
It was... something else.
Older. Forbidden.
He whispered, "What have you awakened, my son?"
Elder Qiao dropped to one knee. "We must stop this!"
But the Patriarch raised a trembling hand.
"No one interferes. Not yet. I must know… if he survives this... or devours himself."
Back in the grove—
Veyrith coughed blood. Staggered. For the first time, his blade trembled in his hand.
"You're not just possessed," he rasped.
Zhen Hu stepped from the mist—his face half-shadow, half flame.
"No," he said, voice still layered. "I am what possession becomes when the soul chooses to stay."
"Nytherion Grand Art – Lament of the Corpse-King!"
An aura erupted around him. Graves formed beneath his feet. The air thickened with rot.
The envoy rose shakily.
And activated his final form.
"Transcendent Rite – Armor of the Bound Sky!"
Celestial light roared. Wings of pure Zen burst from his back. The earth wept. Heaven trembled.
They clashed.
Blow for blow. Flesh for bone. Blade for claw.
The land broke beneath them.
And just as Veyrith aimed for Zhen Hu's heart—a black blade formed in the boy's hand.
Forged from his own spine.
"Final Burial: Eternal Regress!"
He drove it into the envoy's chest.
The light dimmed.
Blood poured.
Veyrith screamed.
And still… the battle wasn't done.
Because Zhen Hu collapsed too, his body flickering—burned from the inside.