Fourteen days.
Fourteen days of meditation. Fourteen days of control exercises. Fourteen days of Malvorn, the World Destroying Behemoth, trying desperately to reduce the magnitude of his footsteps, his voice, his very existence.
Fourteen days of failure.
Draven stood at the edge of the clearing, watching Malvorn attempt the walking exercise again. One hundred meters away, the Overlord stood motionless—twenty-five stories of obsidian-black chitin and molten veins, concentration visible in every tense muscle. The morning sun barely crested the eastern peaks, painting the wilderness in shades of amber and gold. Birds had long since fled this part of the forest. Smart creatures knew when a god prepared to move.
"Focus on the earth beneath you," Draven called out, voice steady despite two weeks of disappointment. "Feel each particle. Each grain of soil. You are not separate from it—you are part of it. Move with it, not against it."
Malvorn nodded slowly. Even that small head movement caused a magnitude-two tremor. Trees swayed. The river beside camp rippled outward in concentric circles. Small stones tumbled down the nearby slope.
Genesis Codex hovered beside Draven, its green-gold glow dim in morning light. Pages rustled softly despite no wind. As if troubled by what it witnessed.
Then Malvorn lifted his leg.
Carefully. Slowly. Every movement deliberate, muscles coiling with visible effort. He'd spent an hour preparing mentally—meditation, breathing exercises, visualization. Everything Draven taught him.
Placed his foot down as gently as a twenty-five-story beast possibly could.
Magnitude seven earthquake.
The ground split. A fissure opened twenty meters long, earth buckling outward in concentric rings like ripples frozen in stone. Trees within fifty meters cracked at their bases, ancient oaks groaning under seismic stress. The river's flow disrupted, water surging upstream briefly before gravity reasserted itself with violent correction.
Malvorn froze. Stared down at the destruction his single step caused.
"No. No no no. I focused. I felt the earth. I tried—"
His voice—magnitude six tremor—caused more damage. The words themselves became weapons. More cracks spreading through soil. More trees leaning at dangerous angles. A boulder upstream dislodged, splashing into the river with explosive force.
He stopped speaking. Clamped his mouth shut. Body shaking now. Not from effort. From despair.
Draven approached slowly. Stopped at fifty meters—closer than when they'd started two weeks ago. At least that was progress. Small. Insufficient. But progress nonetheless.
"You're trying," Draven said, keeping his voice calm. Professional. Teacher mode despite mounting doubt. "That matters. Two hundred years of slavery doesn't heal in two weeks."
Malvorn's eyes—molten gold, anguished—focused downward on Draven's small form. "But it's not healing at all. Magnitude seven. Same as day one. Same as when I destroyed the capital. I haven't improved. Not even slightly."
"Your awareness has improved," Draven countered, though the words felt hollow even as he spoke them. "Two weeks ago you didn't notice the destruction until minutes after. Now you notice immediately. That's growth."
"Noticing destruction while still causing it is not growth, Draven." The name came out carefully—magnitude five this time, slightly better—but still shook the ground. "It's just conscious suffering."
Draven had no response. Because Malvorn was right.
"Take a break," he said quietly, turning away before his expression betrayed the doubt gnawing at his confidence. "We'll try again this afternoon."
Malvorn sat. The impact created a crater fifteen meters wide, magnitude-five rumble that sent birds fleeing from trees three hundred meters distant. He noticed. Winced. But was too tired to apologize again. They'd both exhausted their capacity for apologies days ago.
Draven returned to his own camp—small tent, dying fire, provisions running low. The wilderness isolation that had seemed necessary two weeks ago now felt oppressive. Suffocating. Just him and an Overlord who couldn't whisper without causing earthquakes.
Silence stretched between them. One hundred meters of distance. Two weeks of failure. Three months' deadline counting down with mechanical inevitability.
Seventy-six days remaining.
Through the bond—invisible thread connecting him to Genesis Codex's sanctuary—voices reached him. Soft. Concerned.
Draven. We see your frustration. We feel it through the bond. Zor's voice carried steady reassurance despite sharing the same doubt Draven felt.
You're doing everything you can! Don't blame yourself! Feyra's voice held that motherly worry, ears probably drooping even in sanctuary's timeless peace.
Two weeks is insufficient for Overlord-scale trauma. Velnar's ancient wisdom felt patient as stone. Patience required. As with all deep growth.
Perhaps mortal methods are not enough, Draven. Sylvara's gentle suggestion carried weight he couldn't ignore. Perhaps something greater must guide him.
Draven sat by the dying fire, staring at embers. "But what? I've taught freed beasts for months. Hundreds of them. This methodology works. Why isn't it working now?"
No answer came. Because none of them knew.
---
Two weeks ago, standing before the High Council in Bloomring's war room, Draven had felt certain. Confident. This was necessary work. Important work. He could do this.
Now, watching Malvorn sit defeated in a self-made crater, that certainty felt distant. Fragile. Like morning mist burned away by harsh sun.
How had he gotten here?
---
"I leave within the hour," Draven had said, standing before the assembled council. Maps spread across the war table showed the eastern wilderness—vast, unmapped territories where an Overlord could exist without threatening civilians. "Malvorn waits five hundred kilometers from here. Beyond settled lands where his presence won't endanger anyone."
Brenn's arms were crossed, expression grim but accepting. "We hold Bloomring. You do what you must. Three months?"
"Minimum. Maybe longer. Depends on progress."
Lysara asked carefully, "And if there is no progress? If the Behemoth cannot be calmed?"
Draven had no easy answer. "Then I try harder."
The message arrived without warning.
Draven stiffened mid-sentence, hand going to his temple instinctively. Not pain—just sudden pressure. Telepathic intrusion. Powerful. Ancient. Unmistakable.
Draven.
The voice resonated through his mind like standing too close to a forge. Deep. Ancient. Heat radiating through telepathic link with almost physical presence.
This is Raziel Ignaryx, The Molten Sovereign, Overlord of Scorched Vale.
Draven closed his eyes, focusing on the voice. Council members watched, recognizing something significant was happening but unable to hear the other side of this conversation.
I have watched the child's rampage. One hundred eighty-five thousand dead. Continental threat manifest. My patience—and that of Frostina The Glacial Queen and Naelvorn The Abyssal Crown—has limits.
The heat intensified. Not hostile. Just... present. Undeniable reality of an ancient god's attention.
Three months, Draven. Ninety days. Calm the World Destroying Behemoth or we intervene. Mercy kill. Quick death. Kinder than allowing him to destroy himself through guilt and madness.
Draven's jaw tightened. He'd expected this. Known it was coming. But hearing it formalized...
I support your ideals. You know this. We spoke before the war. I believe in your vision. But I cannot allow continental devastation for one broken soul. Choose: heal him or step aside. Three months. Starting now.
The connection severed like a door slamming shut. Draven exhaled slowly, opened his eyes to find the council watching him with varying expressions of concern.
"That was Raziel," Draven said quietly, hand dropping from temple. "The Molten Sovereign. Overlord from Scorched Vale. He's giving me three months. If Malvorn isn't stabilized by then, he and two other Overlords will execute him."
Silence. Heavy. Oppressive.
Mira spoke first, voice tight with worry. "Three months isn't much time. Not for healing two hundred years of trauma." Her eyes—younger sister looking at older brother about to walk into danger—showed fear she tried to hide.
"It's what I have," Draven replied. "I'll use it."
Brenn grunted. "At least they're giving you time at all. Most Overlords would have killed him already after what he did to the capital. Raziel's patience is noted."
"Not patience," Draven corrected. "Pragmatism. He knows I might succeed. Wants to give me the chance. But he won't gamble the continent on 'might.' Three months is fair."
Lysara nodded slowly. "Then we hold Bloomring for three months. And trust you'll return with an Overlord ally instead of news of execution."
"That's the plan."
---
Genesis Codex floated forward at Draven's thought. The Grimoire expanded—pages flipping rapidly, green-gold light intensifying. Space rippled before them, reality bending as a doorway formed.
Through it, glimpses of sanctuary. Endless skies. Crystal oceans. Ancient forests. Timeless peace.
Zor emerged first, eight-foot Thunder Raven materializing from wherever he'd been perched. Violet lightning crackled softly along his feathers. "Three months, Draven. We wait inside. Return safely."
Velnar followed, twelve-foot Everthorn Scorpion manifesting as crystalline bark and chitin. "The child can be saved. You proved this with us. You will prove it with him."
Sylvara drifted forward, white robes pristine, verdant eyes gentle with motherly concern. "Heal him as you healed us, Draven. Patience is your gift. Use it well."
Feyra bounded last, four-foot Fennec Fox with oversized ears twitching anxiously. "Please be careful! Overlords are dangerous even when they don't mean to be! Don't get crushed!"
"I won't get crushed," Draven promised, crouching to scratch behind her ears one last time. "Codex protects me. And I'll stay far enough away. Promise."
One by one, they entered. Zor flew through with lightning trailing. Velnar walked steadily, deliberate as stone. Sylvara glided like mist between worlds. Feyra hesitated—turned back, ears drooping, then bounced through with determined squeak.
The doorway closed. But Draven felt them still. Through bond. Present despite distance. Watching through his eyes. Voices available through thought.
---
Mira pulled him aside after the meeting. Empty hallway. Private moment.
"You're doing something impossible again," she said quietly, arms crossed but posture relaxed. Trust evident despite worry. "Trying to teach an Overlord peace after he killed one hundred eighty-five thousand people. You know that's impossible, right?"
Draven smiled slightly. "I specialize in impossible."
She huffed—half laugh, half exasperation. Reached into her pocket, pulled out a small wooden carving. Bird. Wings spread. Mid-flight. Freedom captured in grain and curve.
"Father made this before he died. Symbol of freedom. You freed millions of slaves. Now you're freeing one more. From himself. From what they made him."
Draven took the carving carefully. Smooth wood, warm from her pocket. "I'll bring it back. Promise."
"You better, big brother." She hugged him. Quick. Tight. Sisterly affection and worry combined. Released. Stepped back. "Go save your broken Overlord. Prove impossible wrong. Again."
He smiled. "That's the plan."
---
That had been two weeks ago. Draven walking out eastern gate. Bloomring behind. Wilderness ahead. Five hundred kilometer journey. Reaching Malvorn. Beginning training with confidence born from years of success.
But Overlord-scale trauma proved different. Deeper. More resistant than anything he'd faced before.
Two weeks of failure. Seventy-six days remaining.
And still no progress.
---
Afternoon brought different exercise. Walking clearly wasn't working. Time to try voice control.
Draven stood sixty meters from Malvorn—farther than morning, accounting for vocal magnitude. Genesis Codex hovered beside him, pages rustling in the breeze despite calm air.
"Speak my name," Draven instructed, keeping his voice calm. Professional. Teacher mode despite mounting frustration. "Just my name. As quietly as you can manage."
He forced patience into his tone. "Focus on controlling vibration. Your voice is frequency. Frequency can be modulated. Think of it like... like speaking to a flower. Something precious. Something you don't want to harm with sound alone."
Malvorn nodded. Took deep breath—even that caused magnitude-one tremor, earth shifting beneath him. Then spoke.
"Draven."
Magnitude six earthquake.
The word rumbled like tectonic plates grinding. Bass frequency so deep it felt more than heard. Draven's bones vibrated. His teeth ached. The river beside camp surged violently, water leaping meters above normal flow.
Three trees within forty meters cracked straight through their trunks. Fell. Crashed into undergrowth with explosive sound.
Malvorn's eyes squeezed shut. "Still too loud. Always too loud. Cannot whisper. Cannot speak softly. My voice destroys everything."
"Try again," Draven said, forcing patience he didn't fully feel. "Softer this time. Imagine the flower in your mind. See it clearly. Speak to it, not to me."
Malvorn tried. "Draven."
Magnitude six again. Identical. No variation. No improvement.
"Again."
"Draven." Magnitude six.
"Again."
"Draven." Magnitude six.
"Try humming it," Draven suggested, grasping for anything different.
Malvorn hummed. Low note vibrating through earth. Magnitude six.
"Just breathe the name. Like wind through leaves."
Attempted whisper. Magnitude six.
Five attempts total. Zero variation. Zero progress. Just mechanical repetition of failure.
"Stop," Draven said finally, voice sharper than intended. Harsher than he wanted. "Just—stop. For today. We're not making progress. Repeating the same exercise won't magically change results."
The words came out harder than he meant. Frustration leaking through despite efforts to stay patient.
Malvorn fell silent immediately. Hurt visible in molten gold eyes but understanding too. He knew. They both knew.
This wasn't working.
Draven turned away. Walked toward river's edge. Needed space. Needed to think without Malvorn watching his doubt manifest in facial expressions.
---
Fourteen days. No progress. Not even marginal improvement.
Draven stared at river current. Water flowing south. Constant. Eternal. Unconcerned with mortal struggles.
Malvorn's trying. Gods, he's trying harder than anyone I've ever seen. Desperate to change. Cooperative. Follows every instruction. But trying isn't enough. Effort without results is just... suffering.
He picked up a smooth stone from riverbank. Turned it over in fingers. Cold. Solid. Real.
What am I missing? Meditation doesn't work. Visualization doesn't work. Controlled exercises don't work. I've taught freed beasts for months. Hundreds of them. Thousands. This methodology WORKS. It's proven. Tested. Refined through experience.
So why isn't it working now?
The stone felt heavy in his palm.
Zor learned control. But Zor was Lord-tier when we bonded. Velnar, Sylvara, Feyra—all Lord or King-tier. Never Overlord. Never god-level power requiring god-level control.
What if I'm not qualified for this? What if Malvorn needs someone who actually understands Overlord existence? Another Overlord as teacher?
But Raziel won't teach him—he'll execute him. That's not teaching. That's countdown to death.
Seventy-six days. Less than three months. And he'd made ZERO progress. Not even one magnitude reduction. Nothing. Complete failure.
What if I can't do this?
The question sat in his mind like poison.
Through the bond, voices reached him. Softer than usual. Hesitant. Concerned.
Draven... we feel your doubt. Through the bond. It's okay to be uncertain. Feyra's voice carried gentle reassurance.
You have never failed before. This... this frustrates you. We understand. Zor's steady presence felt solid despite sharing the same confusion.
Perhaps mortal methods are insufficient for god-scale problems, Draven. Velnar's ancient voice carried slow realization. You teach as mortal teacher. Malvorn requires god-scale guidance.
There is something inside Codex. Sylvara's gentle voice held certainty. We know this. Feel it. Something ancient. Something powerful. Perhaps... perhaps it can help where we cannot?
Draven looked at Genesis Codex hovering beside him. Green-gold glow steady. Pages rustling despite no wind.
"The presence inside Codex? The thing that judged me worthy?"
Yes. Velnar's voice carried weight. Perhaps ask. Directly. For guidance. Pride is luxury you cannot afford with seventy-six days remaining.
---
From one hundred meters distant, Malvorn spoke. Carefully. Trying to control magnitude even now. "Draven."
Magnitude five. Slightly better. Trees shuddered but didn't break.
"I am sorry. For wasting your time. For failing. You freed me. Gave me chance I did not deserve. And I cannot even walk quietly. Cannot whisper your name."
Draven turned back. Saw Overlord sitting in crater, head bowed, massive form radiating defeat.
"Two hundred years," Malvorn continued, voice trembling—magnitude four now, emotion making control harder. "Two hundred years they chained me. Forced me to destroy. Made weapon of me. Maybe... maybe that is all I am now. Just weapon. Cannot be anything else. Chains are gone but I am still chained. To this. To what they made me."
"You are not just weapon—"
"Then what am I?!" Magnitude six—emotional spike. Earth cracking. Trees groaning. "If not weapon, what?! I try to be gentle. Result: destruction. Try to whisper. Result: earthquakes. Try to exist quietly. Result: continental threat threatening millions. Raziel is right. Execution is mercy. For me. For everyone. Stop wasting your time, Draven. I am not worth saving."
"No." Draven's voice cut through. Firm. Absolute. Walking closer now—fifty meters, dangerous proximity but necessary. "I didn't free you to watch you die. I didn't walk five hundred kilometers to give up after two weeks."
"You have tried everything—"
"I've tried beginner techniques. Meditation and visualization. Those work for normal beasts learning control. But you're not normal beast. You're Overlord. God-level power. Maybe—"
He stopped. Looked at Genesis Codex hovering nearby. At the green-gold glow. At pages rustling like they wanted to speak.
"Maybe you need god-level teaching."
Malvorn's eyes focused on him. Confusion mixing with desperate hope. "What do you mean?"
"I mean maybe I'm not the right teacher." The admission hurt. But truth mattered more than pride. "Maybe you need guidance from something that understands cosmic-scale power. Something ancient. Something that has existed since before the Fracture."
He reached toward Codex. Touched its leather cover gently.
"Something like whatever lives inside this Grimoire."
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