Chapter 37:

  "What You Truly Are"

  Arc 4: Chapter 3

  POV: "???" + Amanda Graymon

  In the memories of greatness.

  That was me.

  Amanda Graymon.

  Young. Strong. In my prime.

  The most powerful mage of all.

  From a small family of mages—the Gendards. A name without weight, without history, without anything that impressed anyone. But I trained my entire life thanks to my father, and I became a Graymon. I married the name, yes, but more than that: I became it. As my whole family did. As they always had.

  That was the world of the strongest. Whoever was strong got what they wanted. Simple as that. Brutal as that. Fair as that.

  On that stage, when Marcos Lighting was already weakened, I became the third strongest. Alongside Alfredo and Bruce. In the pantheon of gods of that world.

  A woman.

  Even with the kingdom's patriarchal rules, with arranged marriages, with looks that said "you should be at home," I was there.

  They looked at me with pride.

  That was power. That was a strength.

  Even being a woman, they couldn't force me to marry some fool from the mages' house. They tried, of course. They always tried. But none of them had the power to force me to do anything.

  I liked the freedom I had.

  I liked it as if it were an extension of my body—like an arm, like a leg, like the air that entered my lungs.

  Until that moment came.

  In that bar.

  Where I liked to hang out with soldiers after missions, drink something strong, and laugh at things I wouldn't remember the next day.

  I found him.

  His name was Flávio.

  He was fun. He always said exactly what I wanted to hear—not by calculation, not by strategy, but because his words seemed born knowing exactly where they needed to land.

  He wasn't strong. His power was stupid. Everything about him was stupid.

  He was two centimeters shorter than me.

  On missions, I sometimes carried him in my arms after battles. He would scream, smiling, not caring about the shame of it. He'd hang on to me like a child, arms around my neck, laughing at the faces of the soldiers who watched us.

  Even with that world prioritizing strength—especially male strength—that was...

  Kind of cute, actually.

  One day, because of the solar rays in the Safe Zone, the Infernal Zone's dome became flooded with curses.

  They had been attracted for decades. They waited. Accumulated. And now there were around a thousand.

  A thousand curses.

  Bruce and Alfredo were nominated for this mission, but they were busy with trade disputes with the other part of the kingdom. Politics stuff. Things of strong men who forget that strength also serves to protect.

  So I went.

  I wanted to show everyone.

  My strength.

  That I wasn't so far behind Bruce and Alfredo, even being a mage, and not one of the primordial powers.

  In the fight, everyone watched me with fascination. I faced four hundred curses at once. Magic, strength, and agility—a dance of death and power.

  That was me.

  But I had a weakness.

  Confidence.

  And wanting everyone to see me.

  For looking at a soldier who was cheering me on—for a second, just one second of distraction—I let my guard down.

  A stronger curse hit me.

  A bite.

  Almost to my waist.

  My husband was there.

  The one I had a daughter with. Juliet. Small, fragile, with the curious eyes of someone who hasn't yet learned the world is cruel.

  And finally, I realized.

  That way of mine of escaping the world's reality—the easy laughter, the bar affair, the carrying him in my arms after battles—was false.

  The weakness was that.

  While soldiers ran to protect me, while some died to save me, my husband—my beloved husband—had his back turned.

  Running.

  He fled.

  He was a coward.

  Soldiers died to protect me. People I barely knew, who owed loyalty to the House, not to me. And they died.

  And my husband fled like a rat.

  I didn't die.

  But I lost my legs.

  And I couldn't even recover them. The movements, disintegrated by the curse's power, could never return. Not even with science. Not even with magic. Not even with everything the kingdom could offer.

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  I was in a wheelchair forever after that.

  I gave up on strength.

  I focused completely on Juliet.

  And I left him.

  It doesn't matter how many times he tries to reconcile.

  It doesn't matter how many times he cuts his hair, changes his clothes, tries to look different.

  It doesn't matter how many times he bothers people to put faith in him, to gain trust lost the moment he became the coward he was.

  It doesn't matter how many times he comes to see Juliet, trying to make me smile at you just because you take good care of her.

  I will never forgive you.

  I want you to feel it one day.

  Feel what I felt.

  About what cowardice is.

  And pay for it.

  But...

  When "Everything" emerged.

  When the destruction began.

  When chaos took over the streets.

  "I'm going there!" he said.

  Idiot, I thought.

  And then...

  "No!" I said.

  In that moment, I understood.

  I was also a coward.

  "I have a plan."

  Back to the battle in front of the Tower of Light, in the crater:

  Amanda breathed with the crater before her.

  The air still trembled with the explosion's energy. Dust danced around like ghosts.

  She perceived it.

  What was about to happen?

  "Teleport everyone, Raphadun!" she shouted.

  Raphadun obeyed. His bluish energy enveloped the wounded, the fallen, those who could still be saved, and in a blink, they disappeared from the line of fire.

  The next instant, Empty—or "Everything"—emerged from above.

  Flying.

  His fluorescent green eyes fixed on her. There was no haste in his movement. Only the certainty of someone who has seen all futures and knows how each one ends.

  A green light began to concentrate in his fist.

  Amanda moved.

  Crystallized power materialized before her—a translucent shield, hard as diamond, protecting her wheelchair.

  Empty teleported.

  He appeared behind her.

  But she was agile. She had already premeditated where he would be. Another crystallized shield materialized in the air, blocking the attack.

  Empty began to move faster.

  Much faster.

  The crystals she created almost shattered under the pressure of his blows—fine cracks running across the surface like spiderwebs.

  Shit, Amanda thought.

  Then, moving her hands in a gentle gesture—almost a caress in the air—she murmured:

  "Staff of Calazzar."

  Something emerged from her hands.

  A purple, crystalline staff. From ages and ages of mages. Used only by those chosen—not by the strongest, not by the most powerful, but by those whom magic itself decided deserved it.

  She drove it into the ground.

  The impact propelled her upward.

  In the air, Amanda materialized crystal platforms beneath her feet, invisible steps that held her. Empty leaped toward her, but with a movement of the staff in her right hand, she rose higher.

  From the skies, stones began to appear.

  Golden and orange circles opened like portals, and from within them, enormous rocks plummeted toward Empty.

  He flew, dodging.

  Amanda moved her hands again. The staff disappeared, materializing into a purple glove on her hand—agile fingers, precise, ready to command.

  The falling stones, dodged by Empty, didn't hit the ground.

  They stopped in the air.

  And moved.

  Following him.

  Empty flew fast, but the stones were faster. They surrounded him from all sides, a swarm of rocks closing like a fist.

  They came together.

  Created an enormous stone—larger than the small meteor Empty had used before. Suspended in the skies like a moon about to fall.

  Amanda moved her hands again.

  The stone began to shrink.

  Empty was inside there. She felt his presence, his energy, his resistance. The pressure increased—tons of rock compressing around him, squeezing, crushing.

  He emanated power.

  Tried to escape.

  For a moment—a single moment—Amanda believed.

  Could it be...

  Then he broke through.

  The stone exploded into a thousand fragments.

  Empty emerged, his perfect form now marked by small scratches, his green gaze more intense than ever.

  Amanda's glove materialized back into a staff.

  She raised her arms.

  Bluish power began to concentrate before her—not common power, but something ancient, something guarded, something few mages in history had had the courage to use.

  The air around boiled.

  The purple light intensified, becoming a continuous beam, thick as a tree trunk, pulsing with contained energy.

  "Roxian Signal!" Amanda screamed.

  The beam shot forth.

  It was one of the ancient spells—a continuous jet of magical destruction, purple and blue intertwined, that pierced everything in its path.

  Empty felt the power.

  But with a movement of his hands, the beam began to change.

  Green particles appeared on its surface. Dissolving it. Transforming it. Amanda's power turned into fragments of light that scattered through the skies like dust.

  No, she thought. It's not possible.

  Empty moved.

  Fast.

  Faster than she could follow.

  Amanda didn't have time to create another shield. Didn't have time to teleport. Didn't have time for anything.

  But she had one last move.

  Down below, on the ground of the devastated square, a spell she had prepared in secret—before the fight, before the chaos, before everything—waited.

  "Dragon's Arrow!"

  The arrow shot from the ground.

  It traveled impossible paths—zigzags that defied physics, curves that shouldn't exist—until it reached the skies.

  And pierced Empty's chest.

  At the same time, his hand closed around Amanda's neck.

  "Shit..." she managed to say, her voice already failing.

  Empty looked at her.

  Even with the arrow embedded in his chest—a spear of pure energy piercing his newly-formed flesh—his green eyes remained fixed on her.

  There was no rage there.

  No triumph.

  There was only...

  "You caught me by surprise," he said. His voice was calm. Almost respectful. "You are strong..."

  His hand tightened.

  Just enough.

  Amanda felt consciousness slip away—like water running through fingers, like sand carried by the wind.

  Then, nothing.

  Empty held her.

  With a gentle movement—surprisingly gentle—he carried her to the ground and placed her among the debris.

  Away from danger. Away from the battle. Away from him.

  Then, he descended.

  When he did, Aldert Fingard emerged.

  His warrior sons were at his side. The House commanders. Various soldiers. A miniature army forming before the Tower.

  "You will pay for this... YOU ABERRATION!" Aldert screamed.

  Empty looked at him.

  And in his green eyes, finally, something changed.

  It was no longer that distant calm. No longer the tired patience. No longer waiting.

  It was hatred.

  He moved.

  But beams and flowers began to sprout from the ground.

  "The Vagrant's Floriculture!" Aldert shouted.

  Thick beams, hard as steel, wrapped around Empty. Flowers with thorns that pierced the skin. They tightened, trapped, and immobilized him.

  Aldert's sons screamed, emanating the same powers.

  Leonas, the darkness commander, advanced.

  Varlet, the mages' commander, prepared his spells.

  Nyra, the exploration commander, drew her weapon.

  All attacked at once.

  Diverse powers—darkness, magic, brute force—converged on a single point.

  Empty was trapped.

  In all the powers.

  In all the bindings.

  In all the wills.

  And he screamed.

  In the hospital:

  Bruce moved to bed.

  He tried to get up. His legs wouldn't respond. His arms trembled with the effort. After the fight with Alfredo, his body was a battlefield in itself.

  "Shit!" he muttered between his teeth. "I'm useless..."

  He forced himself again. Nothing.

  "ALFREDO, YOU BASTARD!" The scream came out hoarse.

  The door burst open violently.

  Veronica entered.

  Her face, always so controlled, so scientific, so distant, was now disfigured by desperation.

  "Bruce!" she screamed, running to him.

  She hugged him.

  A gesture neither had made in decades.

  "He's turned into something unimaginable!" The words came out broken. "His power... what he did..."

  "Who?!" Bruce interrupted.

  Veronica raised her eyes to him. They were brimming with tears.

  "YOU KNOW WHO!"

  Bruce looked away toward the window.

  Outside, smoke rose in columns. Debris. Chaos. The distant sound of explosions.

  "Damn it!" he clenched the sheets with his fists. "What are we going to do! I can't move."

  Veronica took a deep breath. When she spoke again, her voice was more controlled—but there was something in it Bruce hadn't heard in a long time.

  Fear.

  "You know there's no other way..."

  "NO!"

  The refusal was instantaneous. Violent.

  "That can't happen, Vee," he said, and now his voice was calm. Too calm. The kind of calm that precedes terrible decisions.

  "You know... After the war..."

  "WE CAN'T THINK ABOUT THAT NOW!" Veronica interrupted, her hands gripping his shoulders. "They need to understand."

  "They won't," Bruce shook his head. "I'd be a hypocrite. It's thanks to this that the House of Darkness has more power now..."

  "Bruce..." Veronica leaned closer. "Do you think that will matter when you save the world? They won't need Luna anymore. Especially not after today."

  Bruce nodded slowly.

  And then, without control, his mind was invaded.

  Flashbacks.

  Images he couldn't master.

  Ancient wars. Decisions he had made. People who died. People he had killed.

  Everything passing before his eyes as if time were a circle, not a line.

  Veronica didn't wait.

  Her hands went to the inner pocket of her coat. When they came back, they held a small metal square—smooth, cold, with no apparent markings.

  Her fingers typed a code.

  The square opened with a soft click.

  Inside, a stone.

  It wasn't like the others. It didn't have the Future's green, nor the Restoration's white. It was dark. Deep. As if it absorbed light instead of emanating it.

  "The true stone," Veronica said, her voice a whisper. "With us. From the beginning."

  Bruce looked at her.

  "You need to use it to recover and fight."

  He didn't respond.

  He just extended his hand.

  Veronica placed the stone in his palm. The contact was electric—a current that ran through his arm, his chest, his mind.

  "And it doesn't matter if they find out who you truly are," she completed.

  "The Destroyer's Curse..."