ShadowBound: The Need For Power

Sylvathar let out a low growl as he levitated from the shattered crater, his silhouette momentarily cloaked in the mist of crumbling stone and swirling dust. As he floated higher, bits of mountain debris rolled off his coat, and yet his eyes never strayed from the figure above—Galen Magna, poised midair like a god unbothered by the world beneath him.

'This human… is far stronger than I anticipated,' Sylvathar mused, eyes narrowing as they locked onto Galen's cold, glowing crimson irises. 'Just from those last two strikes, I can say with certainty—his strength rivals that of Aesmirius. But even Aesmirius was giving his all back then… pushing that vessel to its limit. This bastard, however—he hasn't even begun to show his full power.'

Galen, still with hands buried deep in his pockets, gazed down at him with icy disinterest.

"What?" he said with that mocking, bored drawl. "Already figured out how pathetic you are? I hope not—'cause I don't plan on wrapping this up anytime soon."

Despite the insult, Sylvathar's expression remained unreadable. Slowly, he rose further, coming to hover at the same height as his opponent—his face calm, but something sharp simmered beneath the surface.

"For a mere human," Sylvathar began, voice collected and slow, "you carry yourself with astounding arrogance." His emerald gaze flickered faintly. "But I must admit… you've earned the right. You are strong—far stronger than I gave you credit for. I underestimated you, and for that, I offer an apology."

Galen tilted his head just slightly, as if mulling over whether that was worth anything.

Sylvathar went on, lips curling into a slight smirk. "Now that the pleasantries are out of the way… I believe it's in both our interests to fight without restraint."

A tense silence lingered in the air for a heartbeat, then two. Galen sighed softly, like he'd just been asked to deal with another annoyance.

"All you freaks," he muttered, "keep calling me arrogant… arrogant this, arrogant that." He scoffed and slowly looked back at Sylvathar. "Is it really that hard to tell the difference between arrogance… and confidence?"

His tone grew firm, sharp with clarity. "Arrogance is running your mouth without backing it up. Bold words without results. But me? Every claim I make, I deliver on. That's confidence. So don't get it twisted."

Sylvathar's smirk widened, aura crackling faintly. "I see. Then allow me to rephrase… your confidence will be your undoing."

At that, his emerald myst ignited, spiraling around him in violent flares, casting eerie green light across the wasteland.

Galen scoffed again. "Funny. The last person who said that was one of your generals." His eyes gleamed darkly. "And guess what? He's already waiting for you on the other side."

The sky around them suddenly groaned, warping under the weight of their combined pressure. The air grew dense with myst, trembling under the strain of two apex forces poised to unleash devastation.

Then Sylvathar moved back first.

With a subtle flick of his fingers, the emerald flames that cloaked him twisted, condensed, and erupted behind him like twin wings of spectral light. He vanished—a blur of viridian streak—racing toward Galen with terrifying speed, his cloak trailing behind like a serpent's tail. In a blink, he was upon him, arm cocked back, cloaked in raw myst energy. He threw a strike laced with dimensional force, fracturing the space around his fist as it neared Galen's face.

But Galen tilted his head with surgical precision. The punch missed by the width of a blade's edge.

Then Galen retaliated.

He pivoted midair, driving his elbow into Sylvathar's ribs. The soundless impact sent a shockwave spiraling downward, carving a spiral crater into the mountains below. Sylvathar grunted, forced back, but twisted his body and flipped mid-flight, turning his backward momentum into a reverse spinning kick. His heel, glowing with emerald energy, came toward Galen's chest like a guillotine—but Galen blocked it with his forearm, and the resulting clash caused the atmosphere to collapse in a ripple of invisible force.

Galen countered with a hook punch, fluid and sharp. Sylvathar caught it, only for Galen's knee to slam upward into his stomach. The eemon lord's body bent around the strike, but he used the motion to coil into a backflip, releasing a burst of emerald spikes from his coat that flew outward like enchanted shrapnel.

Galen snapped his fingers.

His myst surged as a shimmering red barrier formed midair around him, angled like an angular dome. The spikes struck it, were deflected, and then instantly incinerated as the barrier turned into a pulse of heat that lashed out in all directions.

Sylvathar narrowed his eyes, hands forming a quick series of sigils. Space behind Galen warped as three emerald arms—each the size of a dragon's claw—manifested and crashed forward.

But Galen didn't move.

Instead, from his back flared spectral wings—crimson in color, shaped like broken swords. They flared outward with immense force, slicing the air with such sharp precision that the arms were cleaved through cleanly before they could reach him.

Then Galen dashed forward.

He moved with pure speed, enhanced by mystic precision and predatory focus. One second he was still, the next, he was in front of Sylvathar, driving a palm into his chest. But it wasn't the blow—it was the effect.

The impact point lit up, a complex red glyph burned into Sylvathar's armor, and then—

Collapse.

The glyph detonated inward like a vortex, sucking part of Sylvathar's energy into a compressed sphere of blood-red light.

Sylvathar roared, pain flashing across his expression. He bit his own thumb, drawing dark green ichor, and smeared it over his collarbone. The blood shimmered and transformed into plated emerald scales that rapidly crawled across his chest and throat, shielding his core.

"You're evolving in the middle of battle?" Galen said, watching with slight amusement. "Desperate already?"

Sylvathar didn't respond with words. He clapped his hands.

The skies behind him peeled open—literally ripping apart like paper—and a massive emerald serpent slithered through. Its body was made of liquid aura, eyes twin stars of viridian light. It wrapped itself around Sylvathar's arms like living gauntlets, and the moment it did, his speed multiplied.

He launched forward again.

Faster this time. Galen's eyes narrowed, his irises sharpening like blades. He ducked the first blow, but the second strike—a double palm thrust—grazed his cheek and sent him spiraling midair. He righted himself quickly, only for Sylvathar to already be above him, spinning like a drill and slamming both fists downward.

Galen crossed his arms and caught the blow.

The force dropped them both from the sky. They crashed into the mountainside, splitting it apart like glass under pressure. Trees, cliffs, stone—all exploded outward in slow-motion shrapnel as the ground warped violently from their landing.

Dust billowed.

Then it cleared.

Sylvathar was on the offensive now—blows raining from every angle. He used the serpent-wrapped arms to lash, strike, whip, and feint. Each movement was unpredictable—liquid and precise. Galen parried most, weaved around others, and took a few—letting them graze his body to find openings.

And then he found one.

Galen let a hook graze his ribs—and then slipped inside Sylvathar's stance, driving an open palm to his chin. The strike snapped the demon's head upward, and before his body could recover, Galen followed with a roundhouse kick that cracked the emerald scales along Sylvathar's left side.

Sylvathar stumbled.

Galen advanced—each step creating fiery glyphs beneath his feet that launched him forward like a railgun. He struck again—a flurry of precise jabs to the midsection, then an uppercut so fierce it sent Sylvathar shooting back into the sky, arms flailing, aura unstable.

But Galen wasn't done.

He raised a hand, fingers spread—and reality split open behind him. From the tear, crimson chains erupted—dozens of them—each one made of raw myst shaped by his will.

They snapped toward Sylvathar, binding his limbs, anchoring him midair like a puppet caught in a web.

"You want me to go all out?" Galen said, eyes glowing as myst poured off him in sheets. "No problem."

He brought his hands together. C.h@a@pt#er prov.i-de+d+ via [email protected]^YR.%

Then the sky cracked.

From above, a massive construct formed—a sphere composed of countless floating swords, rotating like celestial rings. Each blade pulsed with runes—old and ancient. The sphere hummed, then dove.

It crashed down upon Sylvathar like divine judgment.

The impact wasn't explosive—it was silent, controlled, and suffocating. Like the entire atmosphere folding inward. The mountain range below disintegrated, crumbling under the force of suppression. The chains tightened, the construct pressed down, and for the first time—Sylvathar let out a cry of agony.

But still, he refused to fall.

His eyes snapped open, glowing a deep, blinding emerald. His body burst outward with myst as he screamed in defiance, shattering the chains. His form expanded—six arms now, each wrapped in ethereal flame, his size nearly doubling, wings stretching wide behind him like a devil from legend.

"I will not fall to a mortal!!" he howled, his voice echoing across the ruined land.

Galen cracked his neck. Then his knuckles.

And he grinned.

"I was hoping you'd say that."