The corpse still smoked.

Its limbs twitched every now and then – residual nerve signals, or maybe something less explainable. Max didn't care. He stomped its wrist with one boot, hard enough to snap the bone clean, then knelt beside Ying.

She was propped against the mossy stone of a ruined shrine gate, one hand pressed tight to her ribs. In the other she still held her pistol – ready for any threat. Blood soaked through the fabric – thick, dark, and too fast.

Ferron stood nearby, his kusarigama uncoiled and idle, but his gaze sharp as ever. Max glanced at him once, then turned back to Ying.

"Bullets won't help," Max said, crouching beside her. His voice was steady, but the tightness around his eyes gave him away.

Ying leaned against the tree trunk she'd been thrown into, breath coming in short, careful gasps. Blood now seeping between her fingers. Her skin was pale. Clammy.

Max peeled back her jacket gently. Beneath it – bruising, swelling, a spreading patch of dark red.

"Ribs are broken. Maybe more," he muttered. "You've got internal bleeding."

Ferron stepped closer, eyes sharp. "Can we move her?"

"Not far. And not fast," Max said. "This isn't surface trauma. She needs real treatment. A field kit won't cut it."

Ying let out a sharp breath through her nose – half pain, half frustration. "So, call your healer."

"We'd need Dan," Max replied. "Or a hospital. But both are hours away, if we're lucky."

"And if we're not?"

"Then she bleeds out before nightfall."

A pause. Then Max looked her in the eye.

"There's one other way."

Max opened his palm, felt the faint burn of dormant Hellfire. It flickered in response – not bright, just aware.

"There's only one thing I can do," he said. "And it's going to change you."

Ying met his gaze. She didn't flinch. "What kind of change?"

"I empower people. That's my Contract. I trigger something inside – wake it up. It gives you exactly what your soul needs to survive. No control. No guarantees."

She frowned. "And the downside?"

"You'll glow like a beacon to every demon within miles. Like ringing a dinner bell while bleeding in shark water. You'll always be a target."

Ying didn't respond right away. Her fingers twitched slightly. She looked past him, toward the smouldering body of the yokai. "That thing would've eaten me anyway."

Max gave a slight nod. "Probably."

"Will it hurt?"

"Yes."

"Will I die?"

Max hesitated. "I don't think so. But it's… invasive. Your body, your mind, even your soul. It breaks something. Then reforms it. And if you're not ready to fight, it might not come back together."

She closed her eyes for half a breath. "And what did you trade for this gift?"

Max's jaw tightened. He looked away – for just a moment. The wind picked up, stirring ash and old incense dust across the clearing.

"I asked for a way to save someone I couldn't reach. My daughter, Liz. She's in a coma. No one could tell me why. No cure. No plan. So, I thought…" He swallowed. "If I could awaken the power she needed most – maybe she'd find her own way back."

Ferron shifted slightly. He hadn't heard this part.

"You made a contract to awaken others," Ferron said softly. "Not for power. But for someone else's survival."

Max nodded once. "Wasn't brave. Wasn't noble. I was desperate."

Ying studied him for a long beat. Then, faintly: "You still are."

Max didn't argue.

A moment passed. The trees creaked. Far off, a bird gave one long, lonely cry – and was silenced mid-note.

Ying gritted her teeth. "Do it."

Max moved closer, fingers outstretched. "You sure?"

"I don't want to die," she said. "But if staying the same means dying slower – then cut me open."

He rested two fingers over her sternum, just above the wound. A faint ripple pulsed outward, invisible but felt.

"It's going to hurt," Max warned again.

Ying's eyes locked on his. "I said do it."

Hellfire flared in his palm – then vanished. What remained was deeper. Older. A pulse of raw, soul-awakening force that made the shrine stones hum and the shrine gate tremble like it remembered something sacred.

Max pressed his hand into her chest.

And lit the fire.

…………………

Ying went dark.

Not unconscious – disconnected. Like the part of her that felt pain had been cut loose and left behind.

Then came the heat.

Not fire, not nerve endings, but something deeper. A fracture inside the soul. The sense that something buried too long was being forced open – violently.

She didn't scream. Couldn't. Her throat was locked, her breath stalled in her chest. But behind her eyelids, the world split.

Not figuratively. Literally.

She saw it happen.

Lines. Dozens. Hundreds. Thin black lacerations slicing across a featureless void, carving space into ribbons. Each cut bled light – not red, not gold. Something sharp. Something that pulsed in time with her thoughts.

She tried to move.

The void folded.

Suddenly she was somewhere else. The shrine gate, but wrong – off-angle, warped. The ground was rippling like silk under wind. Her body floated above it, her blood suspended mid-air like glittering stars.

And just beyond the gate—

The memory came like shrapnel.

The silo. The dead switch. The moment before the fire. Twenty million lives and her finger on the button.

They called me a hero.

I called myself a weapon.

And now something inside her answered.

"Then cut yourself free."

She didn't know if the voice was hers. It didn't matter.

Her hand moved instinctively – reaching through the vision, fingers curling around nothing, then splitting it.

A vertical seam opened in the air, no thicker than a knife-edge. A tear in reality. It closed as quickly as it formed.

Ying's body jerked upright with a gasp.

Real air. Real gravity. Pain slammed back into her like a fist but the bleeding had slowed. Her heart beat steady. The world spun, but it was hers again.

Ferron took a startled step back. Max was crouched nearby, one hand still outstretched but the fire was gone. His eyes flicked to hers. Focused. Measuring.

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Ying reached out a trembling hand, then stopped.

Behind her, something sliced through the air with a hiss.

A rift – small, delicate, perfectly vertical – tore open beside her shoulder, sharp enough to hum. The air around it recoiled. Then it snapped shut.

Max exhaled, barely audible. "You're red," he said. "Deep spectrum."

Ying swallowed, her throat raw. "What the hell does that mean?"

Ferron stared at her. "It means you don't just move space."

Max finished the thought. "You command it."

She closed her eyes for a second.

Behind her ribs, something pulsed – a second heartbeat, out of sync with her own.

Waiting.

…………………

The mist had thickened by the time they reached the broken archway marking the outskirts of the ruined temple town. It crawled in from the mountain's ribs like a living thing – coiling around stones, seeping between trees, swallowing the path behind them.

Max walked ahead, flames still faint under his skin. Ying moved slower now, steadier – her breathing shallow but controlled. Whatever power she'd awakened, it was keeping her on her feet. For now.

She kept pace in silence for a time, then finally said, "So."

Max glanced sideways.

"What just happened back there," she continued. "I've read a lot of sealed documents. Projects the Institute buries. Soul hacking. Biowire awakenings. Weaponized psi-triggers. But I've never seen anything like that."

"It's not tech," Max said. "It's my contract."

"Right," she said. "So, Question one: Can you control what powers come out?"

Max exhaled. "No. The soul decides. I just... unlock the door."

Ying nodded, processing. "Two. Can you do it more than once?"

"I don't know," Max said. "Never tried. Seems like most people get one major power—something tailored to their trauma or survival instinct. But they also come out faster, stronger. Some start healing crazy fast. Others evolve." He gave a glance toward her. "You might not be done yet."

She raised an eyebrow. "I can feel something… under the skin. Like a second heartbeat. Waiting."

"Yeah," Max said. "That's familiar."

She didn't pause. "Three. Can you give someone multiple powers?"

Max hesitated. "Not intentionally. Maybe if the soul shifts. Most powers seem layered, not separate. Like branches on the same root."

Ying's next question came sharp. "What about people with existing contracts? Can you overwrite them?"

"No," Max said. "Or… I don't think so. But I've seen something weird." He looked forward into the mist. "Demons go crazy around people I've empowered. Like they can't get enough."

Ferron let out a low breath. "Like we smell different."

Max nodded. "Something like that."

The crunch of gravel underfoot suddenly felt too loud. The birds were gone.

Ying still wasn't done. "Do you feel it happen? When you trigger someone's soul?"

Max didn't answer immediately. Then:

"Yeah. I feel it. Every time. Like tearing a lock off a cage. A rusty one. You don't know what's inside. But whatever's behind it— it's sacred. Or angry. Or both."

Ferron glanced sideways. "That's how you see people?"

Max shook his head. "No. That's how I feel their souls."

He paused, then added, "But yeah... I do see something. Auras. Everyone gives off a different kind of light – if you know how to look."

Ferron raised a brow. Ying slowed slightly behind them, listening.

"Most people," Max continued, "are pale white or silver. That usually means body affinity – physical gifts. Strength, speed, endurance. Most Contractors fall into that range."

He glanced at Ferron, then at Ying. "But then there are the red-spectrum types. Deep crimson. Sometimes rust. Psychic affinities. People who affect the world without touching it. Grimm had it. Liz too."

His eyes lingered on Ying. "And you."

Ying didn't speak. Her gaze sharpened, like she was filing it away.

Ferron looked intrigued. "And the rarest?"

"Gold," Max said. "Warm. Burning. Like the inside of a sunrise. I've only seen it one other person."

"Dan," Ying said quietly.

Max nodded. "Soul-based powers. Healing. Restoration. Not just the body but memory, will, even identity. It's like... his presence glues things back together."

Ferron was silent for a beat. Then he stopped walking.

Max turned. "What?"

Ferron adjusted the grip on his kusarigama. "Do me next."

Ying arched a brow. "You're serious?"

"I've lived my whole life binding things," Ferron said. "It might be useful to learn what I've been keeping locked away."

Max stepped toward him. "You sure?"

"Deadly sure."

The words had barely left his mouth when the forest shifted.

Not visibly. Not violently.

But the silence changed.

The kind of silence that pressed against the skin. No birds. No wind. No insects. Just... absence.

Max stiffened. So did Ferron. Even Ying flinched, hand tightening around her belt where the pistol waited.

Something was watching them.

Max turned slowly toward the dark between the trees.

"We need to move," he said.

No one argued.

…………………

The silence was wrong.

Not just still – hollow. Like the trees had swallowed their breath. Like the forest was waiting for something to die.

Ferron's grip tightened on the kusarigama slung over his back. But the weapon felt heavier than it should have. Not dull. Just… tired.

Max had stopped a few paces ahead. Ying stood motionless, eyes sweeping the mist.

And Ferron? He wasn't afraid. But something was pulling at him – an itch behind the eyes, deep in the marrow. A feeling he hadn't known since his first exorcism.

You were born to bind, Ferron, the voice whispered. But even cages rust. Even chains break.

He stepped forward, placing himself between Max and the trees.

"Do me next," he said.

Max looked over his shoulder, surprised. "Now?"

"I can feel it," Ferron replied. "Something coming. I want to be ready."

Max studied him for a breath, then nodded. "You're sure?"

Ferron closed his eyes.

I've spent my whole life using weapons other men made. It's time I forged my own.

He exhaled. "Do it."

Max's hand came up, two fingers extended. The same pulse of soul-awakening energy that had torn through Ying now reached for him.

It wasn't heat. It wasn't fire.

It was the sound of a hammer striking an anvil inside his chest.

The world inverted.

Ferron fell – not physically, but inward. Into the forge behind his ribs.

It wasn't a dream. He stood in a black space filled with echo and smoke. Shapes floated above him – blades, chains, arrowheads – some rusted, others still glowing from a fire long gone.

They were all familiar.

Every weapon he had ever used.

Some ceremonial. Some brutal. Some remembered from dreams he'd never admitted having.

And in the centre: an empty anvil, cracked down the middle.

Ferron stepped toward it. The space around him rippled. He reached out with both hands and gripped the hammer that wasn't there – until it was.

It shimmered into being. Simple. Practical. Etched with a single word he didn't recognize but felt deep in his soul.

He raised it. Struck once.

The anvil didn't break. It screamed. Light cracked up through it like lightning through stone. And from that scream came fire – not orange, not red, but a molten copper-white, hot with memory and vow.

He reached into the fire, unafraid.

His fingers closed around a blade that hadn't existed until now.

Long. Curved. Weightless. The metal pulsed with writing that burned and reformed, like prayer seals in motion. It didn't hum – it breathed.

Ferron's eyes snapped open.

He was back in the forest. Max was crouched nearby. Ying had her hand on her belt, half-drawn pistol held steady.

But they weren't looking at him.

They were staring at the weapon hovering in the air above his open palm.

It hadn't been summoned. It had been born.

A katana-shaped blade made entirely of soul-metal – amber and white, flickering with ghostlight. The edge smoked. The sigils shifted with every heartbeat.

Ferron reached up, took it in hand. The weapon didn't resist. It fit.

Max nodded slowly. "You just forged that."

Ferron stared at it.

"No," he said.

"I remembered it."

He stepped forward, tested the weight. Perfect. Balanced. Light as breath.

The sigils flared once, then faded into the hilt. They weren't gone. Just sleeping – waiting to be invoked.

"For those I could not save."

His first Vowblade.

Something cracked in the mist ahead.

A footfall. Not a branch. Not wind.

Max turned toward the sound.

Ying's new aura flared – thin slices of spatial pressure peeling at the edge of the trees.

Ferron didn't hesitate.

He raised the blade.

"Let them come."

…………………

The trees shifted again.

This time, Max didn't pretend it was the wind.

A dozen shadows spilled from the treeline like spilled ink – low to the ground, limbs too thin, too fast. They didn't howl. Didn't scream. Just moved.

Mask-children.

Small, broken things with fox masks fused into their faces. Some crawled, others leapt from branch to branch like spiders made of tendon and spite. They didn't charge. Not yet.

They circled.

Ying didn't flinch. She took one breath and flicked her hand – a vertical seam ripped the air beside her, ready to open wide if needed. Her aura shimmered with jagged tension, the voidslice whispering at her fingertips.

Ferron stood silent, his new blade crackling with soul aura. The kanji burned down the edge, each pulse syncing with his breath.

Max stepped forward and lit the Soulfire in his palms.

And that's when the children froze.

Every one of them. Mid-step. Mid-scratch. Mid-crawl.

Then, as one, they bowed their heads.

Not in fear. In submission.

A figure emerged from the fog.

He walked like he owned the trees. Immaculate black suit. Polished shoes. A briefcase in one hand. Crisp tie, straight posture, the kind of presence that didn't need to announce itself – it simply existed and made the world smaller.

He stepped over a root. Didn't look at the children. Didn't look at the team.

His eyes scanned the air like he was tasting it.

"Fascinating," he said. His voice was smooth. Corporate. Charismatic. "Three soul signatures. All freshly awakened. That's... rare."

Max felt the pressure the moment the man spoke. Not a weight on his chest – a hand on his soul. This one wasn't a puppet. Not a vessel.

He was full.

Corrupter class. At least. Possibly more.

The mask-children fidgeted, reverent. Some quivered like dogs awaiting a signal.

Ying stepped beside Max, her voice low. "That's not a scout."

"No," Max said. "He looks like an auditor."

The man finally looked at them.

His eyes were pinprick black – no whites, no irises. Just obsidian points behind a charming smile.

"You've done something illegal," he said. "Unauthorized soul enhancement. Three violations of contract law. At least one divine interference flag. You're going to attract attention."

Max's hands burned brighter. "Good."

The man smiled wider. "You misunderstand. I am the attention."

He dropped the briefcase.

It landed with a clang that echoed wrong – like it hit stone instead of dirt.

Ferron stepped forward. "Name yourself."

The man tilted his head.

"You can call me Akiyama-san. Compliance Division."

"And as of now – your anomalies are under review."

Without warning, three of the mask-children leapt.

One toward Ferron. One toward Ying. One straight for Max's face.

Max didn't flinch. The Hellfire met the child mid-air – burned clean through.

Ferron twisted, his soul forged vowblade slicing in an arc that vaporized the second.

Ying moved last – except she didn't move.

The third attacker was suddenly gone, sliced in half by a seam that hadn't been there a second earlier. Blood and mask hit the ground behind her. She hadn't blinked.

Mr. Akiyama clapped once. "Efficient. Promising."

Then his tone shifted – not raised, but weighted.

"Now. Submit, or be catalogued as hostile."

Max's reply was fire.

He lunged forward, and the world pulled sideways.

Max stopped mid-charge, frozen in place – not by force, but by distortion.

His limbs recalculated. His spine twisted like it had misremembered how to be vertical.

Akiyama didn't move. But everything around him warped slightly, like reality was being focus-tested.

"He's not using force," Ying muttered. "He's... reorganizing us."

Max's foot landed a half-step before his brain realized it had moved. His arm twitched like a command had been deleted and rewritten.

Ferron's voice was tight. "He's rewriting local causality."

Max gritted his teeth, Soulfire surging to counter.

"Fine," he growled. "Then we burn the script."

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