Breath of the World

The night was not peaceful.

Even after the silence of the Clac, something lingered in the air — a residual vibration, imperceptible to the ear, but pulsing at the back of Dylan's throat like a taut string he had plucked, refusing to still.

He had the impression he'd slit the very skin of the world, and that it was slowly becoming aware of him — turning toward him a dark, curious eye.

The forest had gone mute.

No birdcall, no rustle in the undergrowth. Only the obstinate murmur of the river persisted, like the heartbeat of a sleeping giant.

Julius hadn't moved from his post. He faced the darkness, his face a mask of stone, eyes fixed on the void with an almost animal intensity.

"They felt it."

His voice was barely a breath, but it made the air tighten around them.

Dylan rose slowly, every muscle, every nerve still screaming from fatigue and the aftershocks of regeneration.

"What did?" he rasped, his own voice nothing more than a scrape.

"The void you made vibrate."

Julius rose with disarming grace, picked up a dry branch, and tossed it into the embers he had just rekindled.

A clear flame leapt up, biting into the bark, driving back the nearest shadows in a flickering dance.

"Awakened beasts can sense tears in the fabric of anima. It's like blood in water to a shark — an invitation. A provocation."

A cold sweat slid down Dylan's neck.

Stretching out his new senses, he caught it — beyond the steady roar of the torrent — a deep, diffuse rumble.

It wasn't yet an immediate threat, but it was there, undeniable: a low, resonant note traveling through the ground, an echo of heavy, hungry energies.

Presences. Several.

Their signatures were a mix of rust and dirty violet, utterly unlike the pure Negativity of the gem fragments — this was living corruption, aware and intent.

Julius calmly drew an anima gem from the pile and tossed it to Dylan.

"Eat."

"What?" Dylan caught it instinctively, the stone's vibration already burning in his palm.

"Not literally, idiot. Absorb it. You won't survive what's coming otherwise. And make it quick — we don't have the night."

Dylan took the gem. It was warm, pulsing — like a heart torn out but still alive.

Every fiber of him screamed at the idea of reopening his spiritual channels so soon, of diving again into that molten trance.

But the urgency in Julius's voice, more than the order itself, made him obey.

He sat cross-legged, pressed the stone to his sternum, and inhaled deeply, searching for the inner filter.

The gem yielded immediately — its energy poured into him like a thick, acrid wine.

This time, he didn't try to purify or refine it; time was short.

He merely guided the torrent, as one would break in a wild horse by loosening the reins just enough.

The raw essence surged through his channels — rough, acidic, burning on its way — yet strangely obedient under the command of his sharpened will.

His limbs stopped shaking.

The fog of exhaustion lifted, replaced by a sharp, almost painful lucidity.

His breathing steadied.

The emptiness inside him filled again with a dark, turbulent power — but his own.

When he opened his eyes, Julius was already on his feet, back to the cave, one hand flat on the ground as if feeling the earth's pulse.

"Three. Maybe four. Scouts, not a war party." He straightened, wiping dirt from his palm.

"Enough to kill you if you drop your guard — not enough to tire me."

"You want me to hide?" Dylan asked, his voice firmer now.

Julius turned his head, that familiar cruel half-smile curling his lips.

"If I wanted you hidden, I'd have knocked you out and thrown you into a bush. No. You'll watch. You'll learn. It's the only way."

Dylan's throat tightened. Fear returned — cold, familiar, an ancient instinct before the predators of the dark.

But behind it, another pulse rose — deeper — the echo of the Breath, a string drawn taut in his soul, ready to be struck again.

The rumbling grew louder, solidifying into heavy footfalls and guttural growls.

Between the black trunks, massive shapes moved — hunched silhouettes glistening with a damp, sick sheen, their eyes a pale, intelligent yellow.

Awakened beasts, perhaps second rank… perhaps worse.

Their auras were visible even without focus — smears of violet and red in his spiritual sight, like open, infected wounds across the night.

Julius stepped forward, his very presence twisting the surrounding anima currents, creating a perfect calm in the storm.

"Watch closely. Forget fear. Just watch."

And Dylan saw.

The master barely moved. His breathing slowed, deepened — and the air around him condensed, thick as water before a flood breaks.

Then, with a single fluid gesture, almost effortless, he raised his hand, palm open toward the beasts.

No explosion, no roar of unleashed might.

Only a subtle, profound tremor in the fabric of the world — a single, pure note Dylan felt more than he heard.

A wave, pure and impossibly dense, cleaved the space before him.

It had no color, no visible shape — yet Dylan perceived it as a perfect distortion line, an invisible brushstroke across reality's canvas.

The first two creatures charging forward never even had time to scream.

Their bodies simply came apart, cleanly, silently — as if matter itself had forgotten to hold them together.

They collapsed, head one way, torsos another, in a silence far more terrifying than any roar.

Dylan lost his breath.

That wasn't a Clac.

It wasn't that wild, snapping rupture he produced.

It was something else — a total breath, harmonized with the world, contained and released through absolute control.

The difference between throwing a stone into a pond and making a crystal glass sing.

"You see?" murmured Julius, still watching the last two beasts that now hesitated, backing away.

"What you call power is just a spark — a hiccup.

What you must learn isn't to shout louder, but to strike the right note. Resonance.

The world will answer you, Dylan. It's ready to sing for you.

But you must know how to strike the string."

The last two creatures, smaller but dripping acid from their fangs, snarled — torn between rage and dawning fear.

Julius didn't move to attack.

He only turned toward Dylan, eyes gleaming with challenge.

"Your turn. Finish it."

The young man's heart pounded, hammering against his ribs like a caged bird.

His throat was dry, the bitter taste of corrupted essence still on his tongue.

But he nodded, jaw set.

He stepped forward, feeling the earth vibrate under his feet, the cold river at his left, the hot, fetid breath of the two remaining beasts ahead.

He could feel their fear now — a sharp, metallic emotion resonating in his extended perception.

He raised his hand, palm out.

This time, he didn't try to imitate Julius's terrifying serenity.

He reached instead for his own memory of desperation —

the Clac — not its raw power, but the absolute necessity that had birthed it.

The moment when nothing else existed but the act itself.

The air around his palm contracted.

The world trembled, taut like a drawn bowstring.

He wasn't compressing his anima — he was compressing a point of space itself, using his energy as leverage.

The right-hand beast — the more aggressive one — leapt forward with a guttural snarl, claws aimed for his face.

Dylan released.

Clac.

The impact was less clean, less elegant than Julius's.

The wave was shorter, rougher.

Not enough to slice the creature apart — but enough to strike it full on.

The invisible blow hurled it sideways like a battering ram, its flank torn open along its length by an unseen edge.

It rolled in the mud, screaming, a shrill, dying cry.

The other, seized by blind panic, charged erratically — but Julius, with a lazy backhand, made the air vibrate.

A perfect Clac — sharp, clean, final.

The beast collapsed, skull shattered from within.

Silence fell, heavier than before, broken only by the dying moans of the wounded creature.

Dylan was trembling, drained by the double strain of absorption and Breath.

His regenerated arm ached, and he could already feel the gem's energy nearly spent.

But he was standing.

His breath ragged, his heart pounding — and yet, deep inside, he wasn't afraid.

There was a new coldness — an acceptance.

He looked at his hands — not with last night's wonder, but with the grave awareness of an artisan who has just understood the weight and edge of his tool.

Julius approached, his shadow blotting out the stars.

He placed a heavy hand on Dylan's shoulder — both restraint and support.

"Not bad. You hit true.

Now you see why it's called the Breath of the World?

It's not yours. You're just the conduit — the musician."

Dylan said nothing, his eyes fixed on the twitching shape of the dying beast.

But inside him, something still vibrated — stronger than fear, stronger than exhaustion.

A thread stretched taut between his will and the world's beating heart, ready to sing again.

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