Bound by the Mark of Lies (BL)
Chapter 410 - 404: Shattering world (2)

Chapter 410: Chapter 404: Shattering world (2)

"Olivier has sent for you. But you dare to refuse for your measly piece of work?"

The ether threads constricted, sharp and cold, pressing against Gabriel’s ribs until each breath burned. His knees trembled against the marble, vision swimming, but the steady throb of Damian’s mark pulsed like a heartbeat that didn’t belong to this world.

Gabriel’s fingers splayed against the floor, and through the haze of pain he felt the familiar, humming pull of his own ether stirring deep inside his chest. It was sluggish at first, like fire smothered by ash, but then it surged, responding to the rhythm he’d carved into himself long before Olivier ever tried to write his future.

The shard quivered as his ether flared, raw and sharp, cutting through the artificial threads binding him. He gritted his teeth, eyes narrowing, and pushed back, first with his will, then with the power that had always been his.

The invisible grip snapped like brittle glass. Gabriel straightened slowly, a shuddering breath tearing free, then rose to his feet, every movement controlled. Ether swirled around him, the faint light of it running across his knuckles, coiling at his shoulders, and threading the air with veins of pale blue fire.

Peter’s smile falters, just for an instant, before returning to that patronizing calm. "Defiance?" he murmured, tone soft as silk. "Haven’t you learned what that costs?"

Gabriel didn’t answer. His arm swept up in a clean, practiced motion, ether rippling outward like a blade. The wave of force struck Peter full in the chest, slamming him into the far wall hard enough to rattle the lanterns on their hooks.

For a heartbeat, Gabriel expected to see damage, cracks in the wall, a wince, and a stumble. But there was nothing. Peter straightened, brushing invisible dust from his sleeve, his hair immaculate, his smile returning as if nothing had touched him.

And that was when Gabriel understood.

’Olivier doesn’t control this room. He only wrote the script.’

Peter stepped forward again, composed, the faint glow of the lanterns steady as if nothing had happened. "How dramatic," he said smoothly, hands clasping behind his back. "But unnecessary. You see, Gabriel..." His smile widened into that thin, terrible grin Gabriel had seen too many times before. "...the script doesn’t change just because you flail."

Gabriel’s ether still coiled hot around his arms, his chest rising and falling with controlled breaths. But inside, his mind was already racing, cutting through the fear and the pain with cold precision.

’If the script can’t be broken here, then I have to step off the page entirely. Find where Olivier’s control ends. Find where the world isn’t written yet.’

Gabriel’s lips curved into that sharp, humorless smile.

"You’re still only words, Grandfather," he said softly, voice low and dangerous. "And words burn."

Peter’s grin widened, indulgent, as if he still believed himself untouchable. He clasped his hands behind his back, his posture that of a man supervising a lesson. "Bold," he murmured, the velvet edge of his voice cutting as cleanly as ever. "But you forget something: this world is mine."

Gabriel tilted his head, dark eyes narrowing. "Not yours," he answered, his tone even. "Just borrowed."

His ether stirred, not a wild surge but a fine, precise thread sliding through the air. The light around his hands shifted, faint lines of runes sketching themselves into being, thin and exact, each one placed like the edge of a surgeon’s blade.

Peter’s expression twitched, just once, before smoothing over. "Gabriel—"

The word barely left his mouth before Gabriel’s fingers moved, a subtle twist of his wrist, a flick of his ether as if he were tracing invisible lines through the air. The pressure in the room shifted with scalpel precision. The invisible bindings around his chest sliced away in an instant, as neatly as a thread severed by a blade.

Gabriel took a step forward, the hum of his ether sharp and narrow, focused entirely on the man before him.

"You taught me to be efficient," Gabriel murmured, his voice soft, steady. "So let’s not waste time."

Another flick of his fingers, and the net of runes tightened, a single line drawn cleanly from Peter’s shoulder to his center. It cut through the ether that held his shape, unraveling him with surgical accuracy.

Peter gasped, the sound small and startled, as a seam of white light split across his chest. He staggered back, hands flying to the point of impact, but there was no blood, only the stuttering collapse of the script that formed him.

"You..." he hissed, disbelief cracking his voice as his form began to shimmer at the edges.

Gabriel stepped closer, calm and unhurried, watching the unraveling with an almost clinical detachment. His ether danced along his fingertips, cutting away the bindings like silk threads, no more and no less than necessary.

"You are not real," Gabriel said quietly, each word deliberate. "You are not him. And you..." another small motion of his fingers, another thread snipped, another crack racing through Peter’s frame, "are finished."

Peter’s grin finally broke, twisting into something raw and furious as his body fractured into shards of pale light. He reached out as if to grasp Gabriel, but his hand disintegrated mid‑motion, falling into nothing.

Gabriel let the ether threads fade from his fingertips, steadying his breath as the last fragments of Peter’s image dissolved into the air like smoke from a snuffed candle. The study was silent again, still lit, but emptier than before, as if something toxic had been scraped clean from its surface.

’Ah, Olivier,’ Gabriel thought, a dark satisfaction flickering in his chest. ’Always so arrogant. Always leaving something vital to the chance of fate.’

He adjusted his collar, feeling the faint, reassuring burn of Damian’s mark, and turned toward the door. His ether had already gone still, folded back into him with the same precision he had used to end Peter.

Gabriel’s steps echoed through the hall as he left the study, each one deliberate, calm, the stride of a man who knew he was carving his own path through a dying world.