Chapter 8 Save Me, Someone!
727 Words
"Do you feel that?" The bone-chilling cold gripped Alistair just as Constantine's voice cut through the air—no illusion this time.
"That's Spiritual Awareness." From Alistair's deer-in-headlights expression, Constantine knew he didn't understand.
"It means projecting your Spiritual Force to sense surroundings," Constantine explained. "Every Myrkvalen cultivator learns this. Are you certain your world lacks practitioners?"
"Not to my knowledge." Alistair had heard strange tales, but they were just unsubstantiated legends. No sane person believed in the supernatural here.
"Curious... This awareness isn't weak—at least mid-level First Order strength. Two possibilities: either your understanding is fundamentally flawed, or..."
"Or what?"
Constantine paused, enunciating each word: "Or we aren't the only visitors from Myrkvalen."
Ice flooded Alistair's veins. More of them? Myrkvalen's cultivators wielded reality-bending powers. If others had crossed over, the world would burn.
The oppressive presence intensified. That watchful gaze in the distance now felt closer, sharper—needles drilling into his spine.
"He's found us. Closing in. We're the target." All mockery drained from Constantine's voice.
"What do we do? Run?" Alistair's voice cracked.
Constantine's wooden frame shuddered. "Run? Brilliant strategy! Abandon your physical body?"
"Uh..." The threat was nearly upon them now. "Grimble, we need a plan now!"
"Grimble?" Constantine's wooden jaw clacked. "Stand your ground, fool! You're peak First Order—why fear a mid-tier?"
"I don't remember how to fight! Can't you help?" Outside, darkness swallowed everything—except one speeding black dot.
"I'm a sentient doorstop! Frankly, your death means my freedom—the seal breaks!"
"You treacherous wretch!" Alistair grabbed the puppet and thrashed him wildly.
"Aargh—quit it! Fine, I'll help! Just stop shaking me!" The violent rattling forced Constantine to wheeze out his surrender. "Close your eyes and mentally repeat 'Help me!'"
"Are you trying to get me killed?!" Alistair's grip tightened, shaking the wooden puppet harder. "This isn't funny!"
"I'm serious—stop! Do it now before I lose my lunch! Ugh—" The puppet's voice cut off as the brutal shaking knocked him unconscious.
At that moment, the distant shadow sharpened into focus. Alistair's blood ran cold—wasn't that Caleb, the wife-killer from the vision? But now his eyes burned crimson, inhuman, while his fingers clenched a gleaming dagger.
"Grimble! Constantine! Wake up!" Cold sweat poured down Alistair's neck as the figure closed in.
Caleb leaned forward like a predator, his blade catching the dying light—a silver flash aimed to cleave him in two. The murderer's lips twisted in a smirk, his demonic eyes already feasting on imaginary c*****e.
With no options left, Alistair squeezed his eyes shut and thought desperately: Help me!
The moment the plea formed, a buzzing calm enveloped him. Time stretched like taffy. Even with his eyes clenched shut, he felt the dagger halt mid-thrust, frozen inches from his throat.
The power thrummed through him, dizzying and sweet. The threat, the blade—all faded beneath this rushing current of energy that made the very air feel like part of his flesh.
Was this connection? This effortless awareness where answers bloomed like instinct? Then something tugged at his mind—
Emerald glyphs erupted behind his eyelids, pulsing and squirming. They resembled writing, but twisted away whenever he tried to focus, alive with impossible motion.
As Alistair puzzled over the chaos, that guiding force flared within him once more. The scattered symbols stirred to life, swirling into an intricate dance as their movements locked into perfect sync.
The characters fractured into shimmering fragments—coalescing into a solid mass one moment, scattering like stardust the next. *Is this... teaching me?* In a flash, he understood their pattern. United, their energy stood solid as bedrock; dispersed, it wove a vast, clinging net.
Then, from his soul’s depths, a voice echoed, deep and primordial:
*"Before time, the Way was. Spirit and Way are one. All forms arise from it; all laws obey it! Shapes clash, force is born—yet force too bows to the Way. Channel it, wield it: sulfur blooms fade at a touch, yet summon storms."*
The words shattered his hesitation. Symbols swarmed toward his body, and with a sweep of his left arm, they fused into a shield of interlocking emerald light—one foot wide and two long—flaring to life on his forearm.
**"Spirit Arts XIII: Sulfur Blossom Rain Barrier."**
- Writer
