Aamon stood at the edge of the gorge, his shoulders trembling—not from exhaustion, but from the storm inside him.
The elf girl was dead.
She had thrown herself into harm's way, not out of desperation, but to save him. She didn't even know his name.
She died with a smile, with nothing but a single plea on her lips: "Save the princess…"
Aamon exhaled slowly. The sound came out broken, like the last ember of something burning out. His fists clenched, nails digging into his palms. Rage coiled in his chest, sharp and suffocating.
He needed something to break. Something to bleed.
Without a word, he swept the gorge of its loot—healing herbs, beast cores, and forgotten relics—and stepped out into the night.
That's when the ground trembled beneath his feet.
A distant howl cut through the wind.
Then another. Then a dozen.
The beast tide had come.
The battle in the gorge must've stirred the creatures of the wild, drawing them in a maddened frenzy toward the city. Aamon's eyes narrowed as he saw the distant walls of the frontier settlement under siege. Beasts—dozens, maybe hundreds—thundered against the gates like waves crashing on stone.
The guards, though valiant, were faltering. Arrows fell. Screams echoed.
And then, a golden blur fell from the sky.
Aamon landed in the heart of the tide like a comet, a shockwave rippling outward. Dust exploded from the impact. Beasts growled and turned. The humans on the walls shouted in shock.
But Aamon didn't hear them.
His mind was a void of noise.
This was no longer about survival. It was no longer about the mission.
He was venting.
The first beast—a horned direwolf—lunged at him, fangs bared. Aamon's hand blurred. He caught the wolf mid-leap by its throat and ripped it in half. Blood soaked his arms.
Another beast—a spined lizard—rushed him. Aamon spun, heel smashing into its jaw and sending it crashing into a tree. He dashed forward, fists breaking bone and hide. He didn't even bother drawing a weapon. His hands were enough.
Blood rained.
Each kill pushed something inside him. Deeper.
[+12 EP]
[+8 EP]
[Awakening Skill Activated.]
Then it happened.
The Aura of Death in the battlefield—thick, metallic, maddened—rushed toward him like a flood breaking a dam.
It surged into Aamon's body. His skin pulsed, bones cracking, muscles tightening. Something inside him twisted and snapped into place.
Aamon's eyes turned red.
Not the glowing red of magic.
But blood-red.
His mind slipped.
He stopped thinking.
He became instinct.
He became fury.
Aamon roared—an inhuman, bestial sound that echoed across the plains.
He dropped his sword. He no longer needed it.
He leapt onto a giant bearbeast, fists slamming into its skull again and again until it crumpled. Another beast tried to bite him from behind. He spun and drove his elbow through its jaw. He tore its heart out with his bare hand.
His movements were fluid, feral. Unchained. Every punch carried the weight of his grief, every blow a scream he didn't know how to release.
And as he fought, his physique evolved—muscle fibers weaving tighter, bones hardening, reactions sharpening.
He was no longer human in that moment.
He was a beast among beasts.
And the monsters—driven by instinct—knew.
They tried to run. But it was too late.
The battlefield had become his cage.
Aamon stood atop a mountain of beast corpses, drenched in blood, his breath ragged and chest heaving. His fists were torn, skin cracked from the raw force that had surged through him. The battlefield was quiet now—every beast had either fled or perished.
The air around him simmered with violent aura and death essence, funneling into his body. His green eyes had turned crimson, lost in the primal haze of awakening. His mind had shut down long ago—now ruled by instinct alone.
Alexia and Yue arrived at the edge of the battlefield.
"Aamon!" Yue called, her voice laced with worry.
Aamon's head snapped toward them, feral and sharp. His body tensed, ready to pounce.
Alexia immediately recognized the signs. "He's not in control!"
The aura of death clung to him like a second skin, warping his instincts, driving him to madness.
Yue stepped forward carefully. "Aamon, it's us… You're safe now."
But Aamon didn't respond. His body lunged—not with hatred, but with a blind, feverish intensity driven by the raw impulses left in the wake of his berserker state.
In a flash, Alexia opened the territory portal, her eyes steeled with urgency.
"Now!"
Yue nodded, and in one swift move, she lured Aamon toward the portal. As he charged, the two of them vanished into the light.
Alexia exhaled, slumping to the ground. "He's gone too far… we'll need to find a way to bring him back before he hurts himself—or anyone else."
The air within the Celastine Domain shimmered faintly, heavy with the lingering aftermath of violence and raw power. Aamon lay sprawled across the soft moss-like bedding of the Recovery Chamber, shirtless, blood still dried across parts of his chest and arms. His breathing had slowed, no longer beast-like, though the primal fury he had unleashed still echoed faintly in the energy around him.
Yue sat beside him silently, her fingers curled on her lap, her expression unreadable. The soft glow of the crystal ceiling reflected off her pale hair, casting a faint halo around her form. Alexia had withdrawn to give them space—this wasn't her moment to intrude upon.
Aamon stirred.
His eyes opened slowly, no longer crimson, but a calm emerald green. He blinked once, twice, then sat up sharply as memories surged back. The fight. The blood. The way he lost control.
"Yue…" His voice was low and gravelly.
"You're awake," Yue said softly, meeting his gaze. "You scared us."
He looked down, shame coiling tightly in his chest. "I almost hurt you."
"But you didn't," Yue said, moving closer. "You stopped. Even when you were overwhelmed… something inside you held back. You recognized me. You chose not to cross that line."
"I didn't feel in control." His voice cracked. "I threw away everything. I fought with nothing but rage. I let the rage consume me. I wasn't… me."
She placed her hand gently over his. "You came back. That's what matters."
He turned toward her, really seeing her now. Yue, who had followed him into danger without hesitation. Yue, who had smiled softly through his darkest moods. Yue, who didn't flinch even when he was at his most monstrous.
He reached up, brushing a lock of her hair behind her ear. "You've always been here. Quiet, but unshakable. I don't know when I started depending on you this much."
Yue leaned into his touch, her cheeks flushed, but her eyes clear and steady. "Maybe we never needed to say it until now."
Aamon's chest rose and fell heavily. "After everything… after what we've been through… I don't want to keep pretending. I don't want to hide how I feel."
He pulled her gently into his arms. She didn't resist. Instead, she leaned into his chest, listening to the rhythm of his heartbeat.
"I love you, Yue," he whispered. "Not because of what you've done, but because of who you are. Steady. Brave. Mine."
Yue looked up at him, her breath catching in her throat. "Then let's stop pretending."
She reached up, and their lips met.
It wasn't a kiss of fiery passion—but something deeper, heavier. The kind that whispered of vulnerability and permanence. A moment that didn't need words.
In the quiet that followed, they lay side by side, hands entwined, hearts bared. When they kissed again, it was slower, deliberate, filled with the weight of all their shared pain and all their unspoken dreams.
There, beneath the protective veil of the Celastine Domain, they gave in to each other—not as warrior and follower, not as legacy bearer and spirit, but as two souls bound by something greater than fate.
Their bodies moved in sync, a gentle dance of trust and closeness. Every touch was a promise. Every sigh, a confession.
No shadows haunted the chamber that night.
Only warmth.
Only healing.
Only love.