The Priest of Pan's rough clawed hands lifted Lukas by the arm, his strength the only thing keeping the dragon from collapsing completely. Lukas' body was spent—his legs dragged lifelessly behind him as if each step threatened to tear the tendons apart. The cave floor was uneven and cold, jagged stone biting into his feet, but he barely felt any of it. The world around him blurred into a dim haze of shadows and echoes, the only sound the heavy breathing of the beastman beside him.

The Priest said nothing as they moved. The beastman's feet left deep impressions in the dirt while Lukas stumbled after him like a corpse still clinging to motion.

The walls of the cavern tightened the deeper they went, until the narrow path became a tunnel of oppressive blackness. It reminded Lukas all too well of his fight with the Hydra, where he had found himself within the tunnels that had been dug out beneath the Ancestral Lands of Linemall.

Lukas realized, through his exhaustion, that he had never even ventured this far into this cave before. And yet, that was precisely where the Priest was leading him now.

"Why…" Lukas tried to speak, his voice cracking like dry earth, but no words followed. His throat felt full of sand and his chest burned with every breath. The dragon wanted to ask why they were going deeper, how this would help him master the Internal Arts, but the Priest did not answer him and Lukas did not have the strength to force the beastman to give him one.

The Priest grunted, the sound more beast than man. Lukas was more or less dead weight now. When Lukas stumbled, the Priest held him up and dragged him forward.

The dragon would not fall here, not when they were at the brink of healing his broken body; not when Lukas had yet to fulfill his role in deciding the fate of this world.

They descended further still, where even the faint light from the upper tunnels could no longer reach. But the Priest carried no torch with him, both of his hands holding tight onto Lukas who blinked into the void, expecting total blindness.

Then, there was light.

At first it was faint, a whisper of illumination at the edge of his perception. Then, slowly, it began to grow. Lukas squinted against it, confused—light here, in a place that should have been buried in endless darkness?

His heart, sluggish and tired, began to beat faster.

The air changed, thickening with something alive, something that hummed against his skin like a distant current.

Lukas felt it before he saw it—the pull, the unmistakable presence that made every nerve in his body ache with recognition. It was that same stillness, that same void he had felt when he fell between worlds—the sensation of nothing and everything all at once.

It was the border between existence and oblivion.

The Priest finally stopped, his breathing heavy but steady. Lukas could feel the tremor in his own legs as the beastman released him, letting him lean against the rough cavern wall.

The light ahead had become a radiant glow, pure and unwavering. It painted the walls in spectral colors, casting long shadows that danced across the stone.

They stood at the edge of a cliff within the cave and below them stretched a sight so unearthly that for a moment Lukas forgot his exhaustion entirely.

A river flowed through the heart of the cavern—wide, deep, and luminous. The water shimmered with impossible brightness, like molten silver threaded with veins of blue flame. The glow pulsed in rhythm, as if the river itself was breathing. Its flow was soundless, yet Lukas could feel it—its energy thrumming in his bones, a silent roar beneath his skin.

He stared, transfixed. The magical energy emanating from it was immense—terrifying in its purity. It felt alive, conscious, aware of his presence. And though the light seared his vision, there was something strangely familiar about it, something that called to the remnants of power buried deep within him.

For a heartbeat, Lukas thought he could hear voices in the current—whispers of the countless souls that drifted between worlds. He could feel the boundary tremble, thin as mist.

This river was not made of water.

It was made of the same energy that birthed Hiraeth itself.

It was made of magic.

"You stand before the only place in Hiraeth where the Land of the Living and the Underworld intersect—and where the Rivers of the Underworld flow as one." The Priest of Pan's words echoed through the cavern, ancient and reverent, swallowed by the hum of unseen power.

His eyes drifted down once more toward the radiant flow beneath them.

It shimmered like a vein of molten light running through the bones of the earth.

Styx…? Lukas thought, dazed.

The thought of her—his wife—rippled through him like the very current below. For the first time in days, he felt a flicker of strength. His chest tightened, his gaze fixed on the luminous stream as though he might glimpse her reflection within it, as though he might find her presence within those waters.

The Priest's voice broke the silence, low and heavy with something close to sorrow. "You may think you know pain, Lukas," he said, his eyes never leaving the river. "But you do not."

Lukas looked up sharply and what he saw instead in the beastman's eyes was concern. Deep, genuine concern. The Priest of Pan stepped closer, the light from the river painting him in silver. With one clawed hand, he pressed his palm against Lukas' chest. The warmth of the beastman's touch was a stark contrast to the chill of the air, a grounding force amid the chaos of sensation that threatened to overwhelm him.

"Listen to me, great dragon," the beastman continued, voice grave. "You have broken your body down till it can be broken no more. What you were before no longer remains. And now is the time to rebuild it." His hand moved from Lukas's chest to his shoulder, firm but careful, like a craftsman testing the foundation of something fragile. "But it must be rebuilt within those waters. Down there—where magical energy is not scarce, but abundant beyond reason. Only there can your muscles learn to house your Mana once more. Only there can your flesh be reforged and remade to wield the Internal Arts. This is the only way you live through this, Lukas Drakos."

The idea of submerging himself in that living current filled him with dread.

That river was no ordinary source of magic; it radiated power that defied comprehension. He could already feel its pull from here—the endless tide that beckoned to both body and soul.

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The thought of stepping into it was terrifying, yet he understood.

The only way out was through.

The Priest's expression hardened. "You must not allow your soul to be swept away," the beastman warned. "The current will try to claim you. It is the nature of the Underworld to take what is given. Keep your head above the waters. Fight it with everything you have left. Do you understand me?"

Lukas could barely manage a nod. His throat was too dry, his body too weak to speak, but he understood.

Lukas swallowed hard, feeling the last remnants of courage flicker inside him. The beastman moved closer, gripping Lukas's arm tightly. The Priest's strength seemed unshakable, the hold of someone who had no intention of letting go. Lukas returned the grip with what little strength he had left within him.

"I will not let go," the Priest murmured, leaning closer. "And neither will you let go of me. Ten minutes. That is all you need, Lukas. Ten minutes and you will be reborn anew."

Lukas met his eyes. His expression was grim, his heart heavy, but there was resolve in him now. "Do it."

The longer he waited, the more likely fear would take root in his mind and threaten to overwhelm him.

The beastman gave a short nod. "Very well."

Without hesitation, the Priest of Pan pulled Lukas forward and, with one powerful motion, flung him over the edge. The world spun, light flashing across his vision as he fell and then, with a deafening splash, the dragon hit the water.

The effect was instant.

The moment the river touched him, Lukas felt as though the world had exploded within his veins. The current didn't flow around him; it invaded him, threads of luminous energy piercing his skin, flooding through muscle and bone.

His body convulsed violently, every nerve alight with agony.

It was pain beyond measure, not the pain of flesh but of essence. His muscles began to seize and tear, then knit back together, reformed by the force of the river.

These past few days, Lukas had learnt to allow the magical energy within him to flow through his muscles, his flesh and blood, rather than where his Pool of Mana should have been. That was what he did now, allowing the magical energy of the water he was now submerged in to flow in and out of every fibrous tissue, sinew, ligament and tendon in his earthly vessel.

Lukas gasped, his body thrashing against the current.

The light of the river burned against his eyes, and for a terrible moment, he thought he could feel his soul loosening, slipping free and drawing closer into the depths where countless others whispered in silence.

But then—he felt it.

The Priest's grip, unyielding and firm, a reminder that he was not yet lost to the current.

The dragon clenched his jaw, forcing his head above the surface, his vision filled with swirling light. The river roared soundlessly beneath him, carrying both life and death within its flow. And Lukas, caught between both realms, screamed—not in despair, but in sheer and utter defiance.

This was not the first time Lukas Drakos had conquered death and it would not be the last.

His roar tore through the cavern, raw and primal, echoing against the stone until it became indistinguishable from the river's hum.

Lukas fought to keep his head above the surface, his teeth bared as water and light surged all around him.

It felt like swimming through both fire and ice, searing heat and biting cold colliding in a war that raged across his skin. His body was no longer his own; every nerve screamed as the river poured itself into him, threading through his veins, igniting his blood with magic too pure for mortal flesh.

The Priest of Pan stood above, bracing himself against the pull of the current with his legs planted wide. His grip on Lukas' arm was iron, unmoving despite the river's relentless tug.

Lukas clung to that arm with desperate strength, his fingers digging into the beastman's wrist, feeling tendons and muscle tense against him.

And yet, even as pain consumed him, Lukas endured.

Because somewhere in the chaos, there was purpose.

Every scream, every stab of agony meant his body was being reforged—his muscles strengthened, reshaped to contain the storm of Mana that had once threatened to destroy him.

Ten minutes.

That was all Lukas needed.

Ten minutes and he would rise from these waters broken no longer.

His head snapped back, gasping for breath as another wave crashed over him. Lukas blinked through the water and light, just barely able to make out the shape of the Priest above him. The beastman's face was taut with focus and fierce with determination, refusing to let go.

But then, something changed.

A shadow shifted in the glow, faint at first, like a trick of the light.

Lukas squinted, blinking water from his eyes, and what he saw made his blood run cold.

Behind the Priest, two figures stood at the edge of the cavern ledge, silent and unmoving.

Their forms were familiar in a way that made his stomach turn.

It was the twins.

The presence of the two Magopo Brothers alone chilled the air around them, their expressions devoid of emotion, eyes sharp and calculating. No longer were they driven by fury and rage. Their intent was written in every ounce of their posture, in the effortless stillness of assassins who had waited for precisely this moment.

Lukas had always found it strange that they had been left alone within that cell, the only contact with the world beyond being guards who brought them food and water when the sun rose and fell.

He had not thought much of it then but perhaps he should have known all along.

He should have known that things would not be so simple.

"No…" Lukas breathed, the word barely audible over the roar of the current. His heart clenched, terror slicing through the haze of pain. He could feel it—danger pressing in, imminent and merciless. "No!"

The Priest of Pan turned slightly, confusion flickering across the beastman's face just as Lukas's eyes widened in horror.

The dragon's whisper broke into a scream, raw and desperate. "NO!"

But the warning came too late.

A flash of steel. A blur of motion faster than thought. The blade came down in one clean, silent swing—so perfect it was almost graceful. It cut through flesh and fur, through muscle and bone, through the very arm that still bound Lukas to the living world.

Lukas' world tilted. He saw, through the blinding light, the Priest of Pan recoil, clutching at the gushing wound where his arm had been. The beastman's face twisted in pain—not of the body, but of failure—as he turned toward the twins standing at the ledge.

All this time—their imprisonment, the strange absence of guards, the quiet tolerance of Lukas' training—it had all been a lie.

The twins had known.

They had always known what the Priest intended to pass onto their prisoner. All of it had simply been permitted because in the end, they would make sure that Lukas never mastered the Internal Arts.

The Priest's eyes met his one last time, full of anguish and regret, before the current seized Lukas completely.

For a heartbeat, he saw the twins' faces above—cold, expressionless silhouettes framed by the glowing mist—and then they were gone, swallowed by darkness and light.

As the river pulled him under, Lukas' last thought was not of pain, rage or even vengeance.

It was of the Priest—his strength and his faith—and of the promise he had made.

The promise that he would not let go.

The promise that the twins made sure that he could not keep.

And so Lukas was swallowed whole by the river that connected life, death, and everything in between.

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