The silence that descended upon the high plateau was absolute. The fury of the battle, the shriek of the Griffin, the crackle of lightning—it all vanished, swallowed by the profound quiet of the Cinderwood. Ren was on his knees, his body a trembling, aching protest against the absolute void in his Aetheric core. Every muscle screamed, and his head throbbed in time with his racing heart.
He had won. But victory felt remarkably like just another form of survival.
The reality of his situation settled in with a chilling clarity. He was alone, miles from the Nautilus, with the massive, cooling corpse of an A-Rank Aether Beast at his back. The scent of blood and ozone, faint to his human senses, would be a roaring beacon to every lesser scavenger and predator in this dead forest. He had won the duel only to find himself in the center of a new, more dangerous battleground.
With a surge of pure, desperate will, he forced himself to his feet. He activated his comm-bead, his voice a strained, ragged whisper. "Anya… it's done. But I'm spent. I need time."
Her voice came back instantly, a mixture of relief and sharp, tactical concern. "I read the energy signatures. Both yours and the beast's just… vanished. I was preparing for the worst. I have your location, Ren, but moving the Nautilus now would be a mistake. The Griffin's death will create a power vacuum. Every predator in this sector will be on the move. My ship's Aetheric signature would draw them like a dinner bell. You need to find cover. Now."
She was right. He stumbled across the shattered plateau, his eyes scanning for any defensible position. He found it: a small, deep cave set into the base of the mountain, its entrance partially obscured by a curtain of petrified, vine-like roots. It was cramped, dark, and perfect. He dragged himself inside, his body screaming in protest, and collapsed onto the cold stone floor.
He immediately entered a shallow, desperate state of meditation. He couldn't cultivate, not in this state. This was about triage. He focused on drawing back the barest dregs of Aether from the thin, fire-tinged air, coaxing a few precious drops of power back into his barren core. It was a slow, agonizing process, but after what felt like hours, the trembling in his limbs subsided, and a sliver of strength returned.
He rose and returned to the Griffin's corpse. It was time to claim his prize.
"Be precise, boy," Zephyrion's voice was a low, guiding hum, his own energy still weak but focused. "The Heartstone is not a simple organ. It is a crystalline nexus, a jewel of pure storm essence, grown over a century of the beast's life. It is intertwined with its primary Aetheric arteries. Raw force will shatter it."
Ren knelt beside the magnificent beast, his new Soul-Forge Gauntlet glowing with a soft, analytical light. He placed his gauntleted hand on the Griffin's chest, and the azure crystal pulsed. Through the gauntlet, he could see a perfect, 3D image of the creature's internal structure, its Aetheric channels now dark and fading. And there, nestled beside the beast's massive heart, was a swirling, brilliant star of pure energy. The Resonant Heartstone.
This was not a task for a Thunder's Needle. It was a task for a surgeon.
Ren focused his will, his control over his kinetic arts now more precise than ever. He formed the Aether into invisible, razor-thin blades, scalpels of pure force. He began the meticulous process of cutting through the Griffin's incredibly tough, magically-reinforced hide. It was slow, draining work. He would cut, then pause to meditate, drawing back a few more drops of Aether before continuing.
Finally, after an hour of intense, focused effort, he cleared a path. He reached into the beast's chest, his hand closing around the source of its power. He pulled it free.
He held it up in the dim, grey light. The Resonant Heartstone was the size of his fist, a flawless, multi-faceted crystal that seemed to absorb the light around it. But it was not solid. Trapped within its crystalline prison was a miniature, swirling storm cloud, a perfect, living tempest. Tiny, silent arcs of azure lightning danced and flashed within its depths. It hummed in his hand, a low, powerful thrum that resonated with his armor, making the Raijin metal on his own body vibrate in a song of longing.
He had the heart of the storm in his hands.
He returned to the safety of his cave, the glowing Heartstone illuminating his determined, exhausted face. He was still weak, still a fugitive. But he now held the key to his ascension, the power of flight. The next, and perhaps most dangerous, part of his trial was about to begin: the forging. He had to find a way to integrate this wild, living storm into the heart of his own armor, a process that would either grant him the wings of a god or consume him in its fury.