Kael lay on the floor, staring up at the ceiling.
The world around him felt distan, hollow. His mind drifted in a slow, empty vacuum without direction or thought.
'Seems like the roof was not able to avoid the tendrils either.'
His vision blurred in and out, but he could still make out the ceiling above him, carved apart by countless thin cuts.
He tried to turn his head. It did not move.
He tried his arms. Nothing.
'Am I paralyzed?'
The thought formed sluggishly, as if wading through mud.
He tried to sigh, then realized no air entered his lungs.
'Ah. I see…'
A faint, mocking smile touched his lips.
'I am drowning in my own blood.'
After surviving the Eye's assault, he had fallen backward, too exhausted and clouded to understand the consequences. Summoning the golden rod in desperation had only fed the disaster. The tendrils had passed through it without resistance, destroying it completely, and thus damaging his soul and organs, causing his mouth to fill with blood.
Unable to move, suffocating in slow, heavy silence, the only thing he had left was himself.
For most Luminaires, losing a soulbound mote was enough to end their life in all but name. Some fell into despair. Some ended themselves. It was not cowardice. It was the truth of the world. A shattered soulbound mote tore at the foundation of one's identity, leaving a wound few ever recovered from.
Gathering new motes after such a loss was nearly impossible. A Luminaire's natural talent was aligned with the motes they awakened with. Those early foundations dictated everything that came after. Remove them, and the entire structure collapsed into ruin.
Kael was an anomaly even among anomalies.
His Thoughts regenerated at an unnatural rate, far faster than anything he had read about. That alone had allowed him to maintain six motes in his inner realm at rank two, while most Luminaires could sustain only two, and three at best before their Thought reserves began to decline.
Those rare individuals capable of holding more still rarely chose to. Even if they could carry four motes before their minds weakened, they preferred not to. Maintaining extra motes slowed the regeneration of their Thoughts, and specialization promised greater power with fewer weaknesses. A refined kit of motes gave clear strengths, predictable efficiency, and a path that could be perfected over decades.
Kael had rejected that entirely.
Specialization felt like a cage. It left too many weaknesses exposed. He had chosen instead to gather a rounded collection of motes that could carry him through any scenario. A full set of tools, not a sharpened spear. In exchange for raw power, he had chosen adaptability.
Every Luminaire knew the traditional triad: an offensive mote, a defensive mote, and a sensory mote. Anything beyond that demanded purpose, discipline, and foresight.
Kael understood all of this.
But understanding did nothing to change the fact that he was lying on the floor, vision darkening and lungs filling with blood.
'At least I have the Obsidian Shard mote left.'
He knew awakening with two motes was rare, but not how impossibly rare. He had only read about a handful of ancient prodigies who managed it, and one of the nine Paragons. That was the extent of recorded history.
'Ah… why am I even thinking about this?'
His vision flickered again, the ceiling dimming as though a shadow passed over his eyes. He could feel the darkness creeping at the edges, soft at first, then heavier, pouring into his skull like ink.
'I am losing consciousness…'
His thoughts grew sluggish, each one forming with the effort of lifting stone.
In reality, Kael should have lost consciousness long ago. The only thing keeping him present was sheer stubbornness, the same quiet defiance that had carried him through every impossible situation before this one.
With monumental effort he forced a sliver of Will from the tips of his fingers.
A single thread of red leaked out, trembling violently as if resisting him. Then another. And another.
The Will pooled together, growing denser, thickening until it finally held its shape.
A refinement orb formed in his palm.
Kael could barely see it. He could barely breathe. But he refused to let fate decide his end.
Using the last flicker of strength in his body, he forced his hand to turn over.
Gravity did the rest.
The orb rolled from his weakened fingers and touched the rubble on the floor. The reaction was instant.
It devoured the debris like a starving beast.
The shard of broken stone vanished in a flash of red.
A torn scrap of paper dissolved in the swirling liquid light.
Then a chunk of shattered marble was swallowed whole, sending a violent pulse through the orb.
Kael could not turn his head, but he felt the instability.
'A failed refinement.'
The orb trembled, expanded once, then folded inward with a sharp implosion. The violent mass of Will rushed back into his fingertips, forcing its way into his body.
Kael's mouth bulged.
A violent spasm tore through him.
He coughed, once, twice, and then a wave of blood erupted from his throat, splattering across the floor as the failed refinement lashed at his soul.
His body could not move.
But reflexes still fired.
Pure instinct forced his chest to convulse.
"GAHH!"
A broken gasp tore free as the blockage in his throat shifted. A pocket of air surged down into his starved lungs. His vision flickered from black to gray as oxygen seeped slowly into his bloodstream.
His entire body shook.
The failed refinement continued ravaging him from within, clawing at his soul like molten claws. But that first gasp of air kept him tethered to life.
Barely.
He rolled onto his stomach and rose, coughing like a dying animal choking on its own fluids. His breath came in ragged shudders, each inhale scraping painfully at his throat, but despite the agony twisting through his body, a faint smile tugged at the corner of his lips.
'I have advanced.'
With his soul and inner realm so severely damaged he almost didn't notice it. But the surge was unmistakable. Obsidian Shard mote had advanced to rank three.
'So that is why the eye reacted.'
After gaining even the smallest deeper understanding of refinement, he had pushed himself into rank three, the same way he had once crossed into rank two. He had not intended it. He had barely survived it. But advancement did not care for intention.
And the moment he advanced, everything inside him shifted.
'The eye must have sensed it.'
His body sagged. He let himself collapse fully onto the floor, too drained to stay upright.
'That is the only logical reason.'
As he lay there, chest rising and falling in uneven jerks, the pieces fell together in his mind.
When Kael advanced, his Thoughts surged. His reserves expanded. His mental strength increased. His River of Will grew in volume and force. The current that defined him pushed harder, flowed stronger, widening its banks and deepening in intensity.
And the eye felt all of it.
Before tonight Kael's Thoughts had been easy for the eye to suppress. His Will had been something it could infiltrate and twist. But advancement forced everything higher.
The eye would have felt that shift like a beast sensing its cage tighten around it.
And once it understood that its host was growing faster than it could suppress, its instincts would have screamed. It did the only thing it could. It tried to kill him.
Kael used the broken desk to push himself up, the final drops of blood falling from his chin.
'The damage my soul took is severe.'
He could already tell that his mind was working on a lower gear than usual because of it.
He limped over the remains of the kitchen table and stepped into the bathroom.
He turned the faucet on and let hot water run over his hands.
'My Thoughts have increased by a hundred thousand.'
He lifted his gaze to the mirror.
'That makes it possible for me to hold four hundred thousand Thoughts.'
It should have been good news, but the reflection staring back at him showed nothing but a blank expression. He had lost too much.
Not only was his most versatile and most used mote gone, it had even been one of his soulbound motes.
And his soul had taken so much damage that his natural Thought production barely moved at all while holding four motes now.
His apartment was a ruin. Splintered wood covered the floor like scattered bones, and he himself was drenched in blood.
'At least it makes my future plans clear.'
He splashed water onto his face, watching the red swirl down the drain before fading into nothing.
With the golden rod gone, the number of missions he could accept had shrunk considerably.
He no longer possessed a mote capable of serving as offense, nor anything that could strike at range.
Which meant he would no longer choose any mission that required direct power.
'That leaves refinement as the only option left.'
A faint snicker escaped him, dry and humorless.
He exhaled slowly, wiped his face clean, and straightened his posture.
"No matter."
The loss of his soulbound mote tugged at him for only a moment. Then the feeling faded, swallowed by something steadier.
So what if it had been soulbound? It neither defined him nor measured his worth.
Motes, in his eyes, were tools. Nothing more.
If the world wished to strip them all away, then so be it.
He would simply begin again.
And he would climb just as far.