# Chapter 141: The Unbound's Rage
The world narrowed to the point of Isolde's blade, a sliver of captured starlight poised to extinguish Soren's life. Nyra's mind, a whirlwind of tactical calculations, found only dead ends. A lunge would mean Soren's death. A feint would be seen through. A plea would be met with a smirk. She was a master strategist trapped in a room with no moves, a general whose army was one wounded man, one terrified healer, and a mute giant on the verge of breaking. The air, thick with the scent of antiseptic and ozone from Isolde's Gift, felt thin, suffocating.
Sister Judit stood frozen, her hands clasped in prayer, her lips moving silently. Her faith was a shield, but it could not stop a sword. Her gaze darted between the cold certainty of the Inquisitor and the desperate, defiant set of Nyra's jaw. She was a witness to the end, a supplicant to a god who seemed deaf to their pleas.
But it was ruku bez who became the fulcrum. He saw everything through a lens of primal, protective fury. He saw the cage he had been born into, the chains that had bound him, the whispers that had called him monster. He saw Soren, the only person who had looked at him and seen a man, a friend. Now that man was helpless, a lamb at the altar, and the priestess of a cruel god held the knife. The low, guttural sound that had been building in his chest, a vibration of pure anguish, finally broke. It was not a sound of the throat, but of the soul, a silent scream that resonated with the very bedrock of the mountain.
His dark eyes, pools of deep, quiet sorrow, flared with a terrifying grey luminescence. It was the color of a sky choked with volcanic ash, of dead embers, of the Bloom-Wastes at dawn. The light was not holy like Isolde's; it was ancient, corrosive, and utterly alien. The air around him warped, shimmering as if from a heat haze, but the temperature plummeted. A fine, grey dust, like pulverized stone, began to lift from the floor, swirling around his legs in a silent vortex.
Isolde's confidence wavered for the first time. Her training had covered every known Gift, every documented application of the Cinders. This was not in any manual. This was not the controlled power of a Templar or the refined energy of a Paladin. This was wild, untamed, and felt profoundly wrong. "Stop him," she commanded, her voice sharp, but her two Inquisitors, who had been flanking the door, hesitated. They could feel it too—a pressure in their skulls, a primal fear that crawled up their spines.
Nyra saw it. She saw the breaking point. "Ruku, no!" she cried, her voice cutting through the tension. "You'll destroy yourself!"
But he was beyond hearing. The image of Soren, pale and vulnerable, the pinprick of blood on his chest a crimson brand on ruku bez's soul, was all that remained. The silent scream finally found its voice. It was not a roar of sound, but a roar of force. A wave of pure, concussive energy erupted from him, invisible and absolute. It was not fire, not lightning, but the raw, untamed essence of the Bloom itself—the power to unmake, to turn structure to dust and life to memory.
The blast hit the Inquisitors at the door first. They didn't even have time to scream. Their armor, forged to resist blades and mundane force, crumpled like paper, the white plates turning to grey powder that mingled with the swirling dust. Their bodies followed, dissolving into nothing before they hit the ground. The heavy stone door, reinforced with steel bands, disintegrated, the explosion tearing a ragged hole through the infirmary wall and out into the corridor beyond.
Nyra threw herself over Soren's cot, shielding him with her body. Sister Judit was thrown against the far wall, her head cracking against stone with a sickening thud. The wave of power washed over them, a cold, grave-like chill that seeped into the bone. The infirmary shattered. Glass vials exploded, wooden splinter beds were torn from their moorings, and the very rock of the mountain groaned in protest. The air filled with the deafening roar of collapsing masonry and the high-pitched shriek of stressed metal.
Isolde was the closest. She reacted with inhuman speed, her Gift flaring into a brilliant shield of light. The grey wave of Bloom energy crashed against it. For a moment, she held, her feet skidding back on the stone floor, her face a mask of strain. But her power was a candle to ruku bez's sun. The shield shattered into a million motes of light, and the raw force of the blast struck her full-on. She was thrown backward, not through the hole in the wall, but straight through the solid rock behind her, her body disappearing into the mountain with a thunderous impact that sent spiderweb cracks racing across the ceiling.
The initial blast subsided, leaving a terrifying silence broken only by the patter of falling debris and the groan of the wounded mountain. Nyra slowly lifted her head, her ears ringing. Soren was still beneath her, miraculously untouched by the shrapnel, his eyes now wide with a flicker of awareness. He had felt it. He had felt the world break.
She looked to where ruku bez stood. He was at the epicenter of the devastation, a lone figure in a newly-formed crater. The grey light still poured from him, no longer a contained glow but an aura of pure destruction. The stone floor around his feet had turned to a fine, glassy ash. His body trembled, not with fear, but with the strain of channeling a power far beyond his capacity to control. He was a conduit, a dam that had burst, and the flood was still pouring through him. A low, keening wail escaped his lips, a sound of immense pain. The Cinder-Tattoos that covered his massive arms and back were not just glowing; they were burning, the ink seeming to boil on his skin, spreading like a plague.
Outside, the battle on the bridge had stopped. Both the Unchained and the remaining Inquisitors stared in horror at the gaping wound that had appeared in the heart of Aerie's Perch. The shockwave had rippled across the chasm, shaking the suspension bridge violently. Several Inquisitors lost their footing and plunged into the abyss below. The Unchained, led by a stunned Boro, could only watch as their home, their sanctuary, was torn apart from within.
From the rubble of the infirmary wall, a figure emerged, dragging itself from the rock. Isolde was a wreck. Her pristine white armor was scorched, cracked, and peeling away in sections. A line of blood trickled from her scalp, matting her blonde hair. She leaned against the wall, one arm hanging limp at her side, her breath coming in ragged gasps. But her eyes, when they found ruku bez, were not filled with fear or defeat. They were filled with a terrifying, avaricious awe.
She had come for Soren Vale, a broken champion with a dangerous potential. She had found something else entirely. Something the Synod had only dreamed of, whispered about in their most forbidden texts. An Unbound. A living conduit of the Bloom's raw power. Not a weapon to be wielded, but a force of nature to be captured and harnessed.
Her gaze flickered to Soren, who was now struggling to sit up, his face a mask of dawning horror as he saw the devastation and the state of his friend. Soren was a prize, yes. A symbol. But ruku bez… ruku bez was a paradigm shift. He was the key to the Divine Bulwark project, the ultimate warrior, the ultimate shield. He was a god in the making, broken and bleeding on the floor of his own temple.
Isolde pushed herself off the wall, her body screaming in protest. She ignored her pain, ignored the chaos, ignored the Unchained fighters who were now cautiously advancing through the dust. Her focus was absolute. She saw the giant, trembling, consumed by the power he could not stop. He was vulnerable. Exposed. And he was infinitely more valuable than the man on the cot.
A slow, predatory smile spread across her bloodied face. The mission parameters had changed. The objective had been upgraded. She raised her remaining good hand, pointing a trembling finger at the stricken form of ruku bez. Her voice, though hoarse, was filled with a renewed, chilling conviction that cut through the dust and the groans of the dying mountain.
"The Divine Bulwark will have its champion," she snarled.