Ragnarök, Eternal Tragedy.
Chapter 104: We aren’t the saints

Chapter 104: We aren’t the saints

Smoke curled around them in heavy coils, thick with grit and gunmetal ash. The checkpoint hall was torn down the spine—tables shattered, roof caved, old walls peeling with scorch marks. At the far end, Maverick held his stance, shirt torn, knuckles raw. His blade rested low, not out of mercy, but calculation.

Across from him, the villager stood with one arm bleeding, dirt smeared across his jaw. His eyes burned—not just with fury, but desperation.

"Return her," the man said. His voice cracked with smoke. "Bring our princess back, and this ends now. No more bodies. No more fire."

Maverick blinked slow. Tilted his head just slightly.

"She’s not your princess anymore," he said, calm as gravel. "She’s our reason to eat. The roof over our heads. The only reason some of us aren’t dead in alleys right now."

The man flinched—not at the words, but the ease with which they came.

Maverick stepped forward.

"Trade her back? No. We trade her to stay warm. To stay fed. The Dragunovs pay well for leverage, and your royalty prints currency."

Then—from the left.

Boots hit wood, quick and silent.

Amari flew into view, coat trailing, mask half-charred. No words. Just motion.

His leg snapped forward in a straight arc aimed for the villager’s jaw.

The man saw it a heartbeat early—ducked, shifted, and rolled sideways. The kick split the air above him like a blade.

Amari landed, pivoted, daggers loose.

The villager turned to both of them, chest rising and falling.

"You really don’t see it," he spat. "You’ve got names. Faces. You joke. Banter like friends. But all I see are thieves in masks, armed with excuses."

He stepped back once, slow.

"She was our heartbeat. Our link to something peaceful. And you took that. Then you burned the rest."

The air shifted.

His breathing got sharper. No chant. No glyph.

Just feeling.

And then—

Something broke.

The wood beneath his feet curled upward, roots splintering through stone. The air thickened, warm, then hot. A pulse of pressure knocked loose ash off the beams above.

His eyes glowed violet.

Veins on his arms lit like veins of lava. Wind pushed outward in a ring, lifting leaves, dust, splinters. The windows shattered.

The ground cracked in a slow spiral under him.

Then flame surged—not from his hands, but from his spine. Wild arcs of fire licked outward, then whipped back around him like a cloak. His shout was ragged. Furious.

Core Unco Awakened: Pyroform

The corridor screamed with pressure. Walls bowed. Heat pulsed like a second heartbeat.

He looked at Maverick and Amari through the storm.

"You shouldn’t have touched her."

The flames behind him snapped vertical, like a flag raised before war.

He stepped forward once, the floor burning where he walked.

This time, it would not be two against one.

It would be rage against thieves.

And nature was on his side.

The corridor was firelit, shadows swinging with every gust of heat and broken stone. Maverick stood to the right, breath sharp, Bastion Blade angled low but trembling from every clash. Amari circled left, daggers loose in his grip, shoulders bruised, teeth bloodied.

The warrior in front of them didn’t stumble.

His Core Unco—Pyroform—coiled around him like a second skin. Flames pulsed at his feet, and every time he moved, the heat bent the air. Not wild. Controlled. He was no berserker. He fought with intent.

And he still had the upper hand.

Even against two.

Maverick feinted low, blade sweeping toward the ribs. The man blocked with an elbow lined in flame, pivoted, and snapped a backfist into Amari’s chest before the dagger could find its mark. Amari grunted, slid back, boots cutting scorched lines through broken tile.

The heat licked their skin. Their coordination was tight—but it wasn’t enough.

"Still think numbers make you right?" the man growled.

His eyes locked on Amari now—not just in fury. Something closer. Sharper.

"You took her," he hissed. "Stole her voice. Her name. All for a payday you’re too ashamed to say out loud."

Amari’s jaw clenched. He didn’t speak. Not yet.

The man stepped forward, heat building at his heels. "She read stories to the young ones every dusk. She walked markets without guards. She sat by the graves of strangers so they didn’t pass alone."

Maverick didn’t flinch. "That world ended when the Dragunovs made their offer."

"She trusted you!" the man snapped, gaze shifting hard back to Amari. "You were kind to her on the road. Or was that just part of the game?"

Amari’s silence was loud.

The man’s fists curled.

Fire surged at his back—bursting vertical, crashing outward, warping the walls with pressure.

"I’ll bring her home if it burns the bones off every one of you."

He lunged again. Fast.

And this time, Maverick and Amari both braced—but the heat came harder.

More personal.

Because this wasn’t about victory anymore.

It was about taking something back.

Ash cracked under Amari’s boots as he moved, faster now—sharper, quieter. The earlier rhythm was gone. No hesitation. He was reading the opponent’s flow, weaving around the bursts of fire, slipping inside heat zones, letting his body react instead of think.

He darted forward. One-two. Faked high, slipped under the guard, drove a kick toward the man’s ribs.

It landed—clean, fast, full force.

The man didn’t even grunt. He just shifted his weight, rolled the impact across his torso like it was a gust of wind, and stared at Amari like he was a student who hadn’t understood the question.

Amari clicked his jaw. Switched angles.

Another strike—this time a spinning elbow. It cracked against the opponent’s shoulder and sent a ripple through the flames curling off his skin.

Still nothing.

Just a breath out of his nose, slower than before.

"You’re adapting," the man said flatly.

Amari didn’t answer. He slid back a step, narrowed his stance. His muscles coiled, ready again. He knew better than to stop now.

The opponent exhaled once, a deep, smoldering breath.

"But not enough."

He stepped in and backhanded Amari mid-dash—so fast it blurred.

Amari hit the ground with a grunt, rolled, came up low, bleeding from the lip.

The man stared at him—not with anger now, but with a flicker of disappointment. Flames curled around his calves like ropes looking for something to bind.

"Every strike you land," he said, "is a reminder."

He tightened his fists.

"That you’re still just the boy who held the blade while she cried."

The air pulsed.

The flames behind him brightened—not in size, but in weight. Amari could feel the pressure in his ribs.

Even Maverick was slowing, watching now from the edge, teeth grit, unsure if stepping in again would help—or make things worse.