A chill ran down Belial's spine like ice water, sharp and unyielding. The hairs on the back of his neck bristled as a cold hand settled on his shoulder, lighter than air but unmistakably real. His breath caught in his throat, a ragged gasp that echoed in the hollow of his chest.
For a fleeting heartbeat, all he could think was, I have to kill that thing now.
Instinct screamed for action. His hand twitched toward the sword at his side, fingers curling around the familiar leather grip, but his body betrayed him. His arm refused to obey, locked in place as if bound by invisible chains.
His knees buckled, and he collapsed to the rocky floor of the forge, his body quivering uncontrollably. A sharp, jagged ache erupted in his chest, hot and relentless, spreading like wildfire. His heart pounded wildly, a frantic drumbeat, then stuttered in a sickening, uneven rhythm. The pain was overwhelming, a blade twisting in his core. He clenched his teeth, fighting to stay conscious as the world blurred at the edges.
Behind him, a voice emerged, soft at first, its words tangled in the high-pitched ringing that flooded his ears. Something about a shadow, a presence—fragments of meaning that slipped through the haze of pain. His hearing sharpened slowly, each syllable slicing through the fog like a knife. The voice was low, almost melodic, but it carried a weight that made his skin crawl.
"Nero!" The name tore from his lips, a desperate shout as he rolled onto his side, his eyes fluttering open. The world swam in his vision, a kaleidoscope of blurred shapes and muted colors. His body still trembled, limbs heavy and unresponsive, as if they belonged to someone else. He tried to draw a breath, but it turned into a sharp, hacking cough that rattled his chest. The pain dulled to a throbbing ache, a lingering reminder of whatever had gripped him.
"What's going on with you?" Rose's voice cut through the fading haze, sharp but laced with concern. She stood over him, her silhouette framed by the dim glow of the forge's lanterns, her dark eyes narrowed as she studied him.
Belial groaned, forcing himself to sit up. His pulse was still erratic, a wild rhythm that refused to settle. "I think I probably had a heart attack or something," he muttered, his voice rough, barely above a whisper. He waved her off weakly, unwilling to meet her gaze. He couldn't explain what had just happened—not the cold hand, not the voice, not the paralyzing terror that had seized him. Not yet. The thought of sleep, once a refuge, now felt like a trap.
Night descended again, heavy and oppressive, the cracked moonlight slanting through the high windows of the forge. The air was thick with the scent of molten metal and ash, a familiar comfort that did little to ease the tension coiled in Belial's chest. He lay on the giant bed, staring at the shadowed ceiling, his sword resting within arm's reach. Sleep eluded him, chased away by the memory of that cold touch.
Rose woke first, stretching lazily as the pale light of dawn crept into the room. She glanced at the headboard, expecting to see Belial's familiar form, but the space was empty. Her brow furrowed, a flicker of unease passing through her. No sign of him. She swung her legs over the side of the bed, her bare feet brushing against the cold stone floor as she padded down the spiral staircase, yawning.
The lower level of the forge was a different world. The training room echoed with the sharp clash of steel, a rhythm both fierce and desperate. The floor was slick with sweat and speckled with blood, the air heavy with the metallic tang of combat. Rose's gaze narrowed as she reached the railing overlooking the training floor.
There he was.
Belial, nearly equal in height to the General, fought like a man possessed. His movements were a blur of motion, darting and twisting with a grace that belied the desperation in his eyes. He wielded his sword with practiced precision, parrying the monstrous black Jian of the General, a crystalline figure of ancient power that loomed over him like a storm made flesh. Each swing of the General's weapon sent tremors through the stone floor, cracking it beneath the force. Each strike was aimed to kill, a relentless assault that left no room for error.
Belial danced on the edge of survival, his body a study in controlled chaos. His dark hair clung to his sweat-drenched forehead, and his breath came in sharp, measured gasps. He dodged a blow that would have cleaved him in two, rolling to the side and springing back to his feet in one fluid motion. There was something primal in his movements, a raw determination that bordered on obsession.
Rose leaned against the railing, her expression one of detached interest. She crossed her arms, her gun slung lazily over her shoulder. "Shadow Boyo," she called out, her tone casual, almost teasing.
No answer. Belial didn't even glance her way. His focus remained locked on the General, his blade meeting each strike with a precision that spoke of years of training—and something darker, something that drove him beyond reason.
She sighed, her breath puffing out in the cool air. The fight continued, a brutal ballet of steel and will. The General pressed forward, its crystalline form glinting in the dim light, its movements unrelenting. Belial countered, his body weaving through the onslaught, but there was a strain in his posture, a tightness that hadn't been there before.
A few moments passed, the rhythm of combat unbroken. Then, a gunshot rang out, a thunderclap that shattered the air. The sound reverberated through the chamber, bouncing off the stone walls.
The General froze, its massive Jian halting mid-swing. For a heartbeat, it stood motionless, a statue carved from crystal and shadow. Then, slowly, it lowered its weapon and sat cross-legged in the center of the training room, its form settling into a meditative stillness, like a monk retreating into contemplation.
Belial turned his head, his chest heaving as he caught his breath. His eyes found Rose standing at the railing, her dark hair tousled from sleep, her gun resting casually against her shoulder. She yawned, unfazed by the scene below.
"Why did you make it stop?" he asked, his voice flat, devoid of its usual warmth.
"Geez, who put your panties in a twist?" she shot back, shrugging as she turned and walked away, her footsteps echoing faintly on the stone.
Belial didn't respond. He sheathed his blade with a practiced motion and made his way back to the bedroom, his steps heavy with exhaustion. He collapsed onto the edge of the giant bed, his body slumping as if the weight of the world had settled on his shoulders. Without a word, he reached for a strip of dried monster meat from the table beside him and began chewing, his gaze fixed on the opposite wall.
Rose followed a few minutes later, her gun now propped against the wall. She plopped down across from him, her movements deliberately casual. The half-finished chess game sat between them, pieces scattered across the board like the remnants of a forgotten battle. She picked up a rook, spinning it between her fingers as she studied him.
"So what's got you so hung up?" she asked, her tone light but probing.
He kept eating, his jaw working methodically. No answer.
The silence stretched, heavy and uncomfortable. Rose narrowed her eyes, her fingers pausing on the rook. The fire crackled in the hearth, casting long shadows across the room. The flickering flames danced on Belial's face, highlighting the weariness etched into his features—lines that hadn't been there a week ago, a pallor that spoke of sleepless nights and something deeper, something unspoken.
She leaned forward, resting her elbows on her knees. "You gonna talk, or are you just gonna chew that meat like it owes you money?"
Still nothing. Belial's eyes remained fixed on the wall, his expression unreadable. The firelight caught the faint scar that ran along his jaw, a reminder of battles fought and survived. But this was different. Something had shaken him, something that lingered in the air like a shadow.
Rose set the rook down with a deliberate clink, her patience thinning. "You know, for someone who's usually got a quip for everything, you're awfully quiet. What happened last night? You looked like you saw a ghost."
His jaw tightened, the only sign he'd heard her. He swallowed the last of the meat and reached for another piece, his movements mechanical. The silence was deafening, broken only by the soft pop of the fire.
"Nero," she said, her voice softer now, almost gentle. "Talk to me."
He finally looked at her, his dark eyes meeting hers for the first time since the training room. There was something raw in his gaze, something vulnerable that he quickly masked. "It's nothing," he said, his voice low. "Just a bad night."
"Bullshit," she replied, leaning back with a skeptical look. "You don't fight the General like that over a bad dream. You were moving like you were trying to outrun something."
He didn't answer right away. His fingers tightened around the strip of meat, and for a moment, she thought he might snap it in half. "I don't want to talk about it," he said finally, his tone final.
Rose studied him, her lips pressing into a thin line. She wasn't one to push, not usually, but the way he was acting—the way he'd fought, the way he'd collapsed last night—it wasn't just a bad night. Something was eating at him, something he wasn't ready to face.
"Fine," she said, standing up and brushing her hands on her pants. "Keep your secrets, Shadow Boyo. But don't think you can hide forever."
She grabbed her gun and headed for the door, pausing just long enough to glance back at him. He hadn't moved, his gaze once again fixed on the wall, lost in whatever haunted him.