Thud!
Jean flew across the room, his back landing violently on the wall with a sickening, bone-jarring crack that resonated through the very foundations of the old structure.
The ancient stone groaned, splintering around him to leave the grotesque, almost art-like imprint of his body, a ghostly silhouette in the dust that billowed outwards.
Blood, warm and stark against the faded floral patterns of the once-pristine wallpaper, immediately bloomed from where his head had struck the unforgiving surface.
This wasn't the opulent, sprawling main Melanthos mansion, but the guest house—a more unassuming, yet equally robust, stone tower nestled deep within the vast, untamed forest that surrounded their ancestral lands.
From the outside, it appeared like a weathered, almost camouflaged pillar, nearly swallowed by the dense, concealing canopy of ancient trees. Inside, however, the circular chamber on one of the upper floors was surprisingly spacious, designed with a practical comfort: a few plush, somewhat worn armchairs, a polished wooden table serving as a centerpiece, and tall, arched windows that now offered no vista of escape, only glimpses of swaying treetops under a perpetually shadowed, ominous sky.
It was meant to be their sanctuary, their predictable haven after the chaos always erupted at the main house.
Ignoring the searing pain that shot through his spine, a jolt of agony that threatened to buckle his knees, Jean immediately pushed himself upright. His muscles screamed in protest, a chorus of protest from every bruised fiber. Blood, warm and sticky, streamed from a deep, jagged gash on his temple, mingling freely with the sweat that already coated his pale, strained face.
His breaths came in ragged, desperate gasps, each one a fight for air, each exhalation a cloud of vapor in the cool, dust-filled air. He was battered, bruised, but his eyes, though clouded with the haze of pain, held an unyielding, almost feral resolve. He took a quick, strained glance at Leo and Priya, his heart clenching with a primal, protective instinct that overrode all else.
Leo stood before Priya, a small, unyielding shield against the encroaching threat. His arms were spread wide, a fiercely protective older brother, a small knight in a world too big, guarding his younger sister. Priya, despite the nascent strength that sometimes shimmered within her, the potential that quietly simmered beneath her surface, was still the youngest. Her mind was sensitive, her composure fragile, her strength not yet fully matured.
Her wide eyes, usually so vibrant with childlike curiosity, were now clouded with a raw, uncomprehending fear that mirrored Jean's own desperate, simmering terror.
Leo, perhaps too young to fully grasp the utter gravity of the situation, instinctively assumed a curious, almost contradictory stance: a rigid defensive posture balanced with a readiness to spring forward, a child's innocent courage against an adult's insurmountable threat.
"Tired already, butler?"
The feminine voice echoed across the circular room, cold and precise, slicing through the tension like a freshly sharpened blade. It carried a chilling menace, a sheer, unadulterated evil that made the hairs on Jean's neck prickle and stand on end.
It belonged to a woman, utterly composed, poised in the absolute center of the room as if she owned it, every inch of her posture radiating an unnerving, almost chilling confidence. Her attire was a striking contrast to the grim reality of the situation and the traditional, often opulent, garments of the Melanthos household.
She wore a fitted, dark navy blouse/jacket with gold buttons, stylish and undeniably feminine in its cut, yet it hinted at a practical, almost tactical design beneath its refined appearance. It was paired with a knee-length pleated skirt in the same deep, dark color, clearly chosen for freedom of movement rather than mere aesthetics, allowing for swift, unhindered action.
Her legs were encased in dark tights or leggings, providing both warmth and agility, and sturdy ankle boots or loafers completed her ensemble, making her movements eerily silent on the polished wooden floor.
She held no visible weapon, her hands bare, yet her stillness, her unruffled composure, was more threatening than any drawn blade.
Jean swallowed hard, a dry, painful effort, adjusting his already precarious stance, the blood still trickling down his face, a warm rivulette reaching his jawline. This wasn't how it usually went. This wasn't how it ever went.
Every single cycle, without fail, after the initial riot invariably erupted at the main Melanthos mansion – a predictable, cyclical devastation – he would use his teleportation ability to bring Leo and Priya to this very guest house. It was a well-practiced routine, a predictable safe haven they had relied upon, a small, desperate island of normalcy they clung to amidst the recurring, terrifying apocalypse.
But this time, it was different. Terribly, fundamentally different. The very fabric of their routine had been torn asunder.
The moment he materialized with the children within these familiar walls, they were not alone. They were standing directly before her. A Rebellion member, without a doubt. Her functional, almost uniform-like clothing, so distinct from the elegant garments of the Melanthos household or the drab practicality of most survivors, screamed her allegiance to the anti-Aura faction.
Jean's mind, despite the throbbing pain in his head, raced, a torrent of frantic, desperate questions.
How had the Rebellion, usually so focused on grander, more public objectives, figured out they would be here?
This had literally never happened in the last nine cycles he and Aira had lived through, fought through, and remembered. With all the shared memories he possessed alongside Aira – memories of past lives, past strategies, past failures, each a ghost in his mind – they had never once encountered a Rebellion member, much less a high-ranking Contractor like this one, in this supposedly secret, sacrosanct sanctuary.
Now, he found himself battling against an opponent who should not even know this place existed.
"Tchhh…" Jean let out a low, defiant grunt, a sound that was a mix of raw physical pain and burning, impotent resentment.
He had no true abilities apart from his raw teleportation and rudimentary Aura blasts, making him a baffling anomaly among Ascendants. He didn't fall into any of the standard classifications like Timers, Spacers, or Manifestors; his Aura was a simple, blunt force, powerful enough for short-range combat but utterly lacking in the finesse or specialized utility of the more common Ascendant types.
His limited but vital abilities were now put to a brutal, unprecedented test against this Contractor. He had already tried teleporting away with the children – multiple times, frantically trying to break the unseen barrier – but it hadn't worked.
Each attempt had felt like trying to push through a thick, invisible wall, his Aura sputtering, refusing to obey, pushing against an unseen resistance. It was as if the woman was contracted to some sort of demi-human entity, something that specifically weakened the Aura abilities of its opponents, tethering them in place with an unbreakable, ethereal chain that radiated cold.
The thought sent a cold dread through him, a chilling realization that burrowed deep into his bones. This was a new variable, a catastrophic wrench thrown into the predictable, terrifying machinery of the cycle.
The woman smirked, a slow, cruel twist of her lips that sent a shiver down Jean's spine.
"This little game of yours, running to your hidey-hole? It's over. And your precious anomaly will be ours."
Jean's breath hitched, a sharp, ragged intake of air.
Anomaly? She knows about Leo?
The words hit him harder than any physical blow, striking at the very core of his desperate protectiveness. This wasn't just about a compromised safe house; it was about Leo, the very heart of Aira's eternal struggle, the one fragile hope they held onto through countless apocalypses.
He remembered Aira's grim face, her countless whispered plans, the crushing weight of their shared knowledge of the cycles. They had never encountered a threat this precise, this informed.
Every fiber of his being screamed that this was a pivotal, terrifying departure from all known patterns, a shift in the game that he couldn't possibly account for.
The very air seemed to thicken with a suffocating sense of doom, pressing down on him. His body was failing, betraying him with every aching muscle, but his will burned brighter, a fierce, desperate ember against the encroaching darkness.
"Tchhh... I just started," Jean snarled, a desperate, blood-smeared grin splitting his face, a mask of defiance against the inevitable. He lowered his stance, focusing the last vestiges of his Aura, ignoring the throbbing pain in his head and back, ignoring the fatigue that threatened to drag him to his knees.
He knew he couldn't win, not against this, not trapped like this, with the children behind him. But he could buy time. He could make her bleed. He could make her work for it.
He took a single, deliberate step forward, then, without hesitation, charged for the woman, a human battering ram fueled by pure, unadulterated defiance and a father's desperate love.
Klaan!