As he moves closer, the orb grows—no longer a dot, but a looming presence swelling at the edge of vision. Grotesque. Unyielding.
The air thickens with every step. The ground beneath his boots turns rigid, as if the world itself resists him.
Then he sees it.
A barrier surrounds the orb—vast and violet, shifting like oil across glass. Runes flicker in and out of existence, impossible to read, vanishing the moment his gaze lands on them. It hums with power. Ancient. Malicious.
A prison, or perhaps a warning.
Zen stops at its edge. The orb pulses once slow, deliberate. The same rhythm as his own heart.
He doesn't hesitate.
His fingers found the hilt slung across his back. The blade came free with a whisper of old steel, worn and tired, like it had fought too many battles already.
One more, he thought. Just one more.
He raised it high—and brought it down.
Steel met magic. A screech ripped through the air, unnatural and sharp. The blow jolted up his arms, nearly wrenching the sword from his hands.
He grunted, steadied his grip.
Again.
Clang.
The barrier shimmered but didn't give. Sparks danced in the air like dying fireflies.
"Break," he muttered, jaw tight.
Another swing.
Harder.
Clang.
Still nothing. The sword shook in his grip, splintered slightly at the edge.
Clang.
Crack.
His breath hitched.
He looked down. A fracture ran through the blade. One more strike and—
Snap.
The sword broke mid-swing. Half the blade clattered to the floor. He stared at the jagged edge left in the hilt, panting. Sweat dripped from his brow.
"No," he whispered. "No, no, no—"
His knuckles turned white around the ruined hilt.
That orb. That barrier. That single thing stood between him and the one person who mattered.
His sister.
He took the hilt and stabbed it into the barrier.
Again.
And again.
Sparks flew. The jagged metal shrieked against the surface.
And then the blade's tip shattered too.
He was left holding a handle.
Just a handle.
He let out a hollow laugh. It was almost funny. Almost.
But he didn't stop.
His eyes flicked to the ground—there, a loose stone, about the size of his skull.
He lunged for it, hands trembling. Lifted it with both arms and smashed it against the wall of light.
Once.
Twice.
Over and over.
Nothing.
The stone cracked, then broke in half, then shattered completely in his bleeding hands.
He fell forward, catching himself on his elbows. Breathing like a beast. Arms trembling. Vision blurring.
No sword. No tools. No strength.
Just him.
And the wall.
Why won't it break? Why won't anything ever work?
His sister's voice, faint and small, echoed in his mind. Laughing. Teasing. Calling his name.
He gritted his teeth.
"She's all I have left," he whispered.
He pressed his fists against the barrier—and started punching.
Bone met magic. Flesh split open.
Blood smeared the shimmering surface.
He punched again.
And again.
His knuckles tore. Fingers snapped.
But he didn't stop.
He didn't feel it.
He wouldn't feel it.
All he saw was the orb.
All he heard was her voice.
All he knew was that this could not be the end.
When his hands gave out, he kept going. He pressed his forehead against the barrier—and slammed it forward.
Once.
Twice.
His skull rang with every blow.
Blood ran down his face, hot and wet.
Still—he didn't stop.
He was beyond reason now. Beyond exhaustion.
He slumped against it, breath ragged, vision darkening.
His body was giving out.
But his mind—
No.
He opened his mouth.
And bit.
His teeth scraped across the magic.
And then—
A crack.
Small. Splinter-thin.
But it spread.
Light fractured.
A pulse tore through the air.
And then—
The barrier shattered.
Like crystal.
A thousand shards fell away, soundless and blinding.
The orb hung in the air, exposed. Vulnerable.
Zen fell to his knees. Not from pain. Not from exhaustion.
But from the sheer weight of relief.
He didn't smile.
Didn't celebrate.
He just breathed.
The world tried to resist him.
But it could not bend his will.