Chapter : 1007
But the soldier, the survivor, the part of him that was forged from pure, unyielding, and utterly stubborn will, refused to surrender. He heard her scream. Through the fog of his own agony, he saw her collapse. And in that moment, his own pain, his own impending death, became a secondary concern.
A new, and far more urgent, mission parameter took precedence. She is down. She is vulnerable. Protect the asset.
With a surge of pure, desperate, and adrenaline-fueled will, he fought his way back to the surface. He ignored the fire in his neck, the screaming protest of his torn muscles. He was a machine, and his machine had a new directive.
He staggered to his feet, his body a trembling, protesting ruin. The world pitched and swayed, a chaotic, nauseating dance. He took a single, lurching step, and then another. He was no longer a warrior. He was a medic, a corpsman on a desperate, last-ditch mission to save a fallen comrade.
He scooped up the semi-conscious, trembling form of Rosa, her body surprisingly, terrifyingly light in his arms. He then, with a final, desperate act of will, retrieved the fallen cluster of Heavenly Jade Lotuses, their life-giving energy a faint, warm pulse against his cold, numb fingers.
And he began to walk. The journey back to the small, pathetic sanctuary of their cave, which had been a grueling, uphill battle before, was now an agonizing, soul-crushing pilgrimage. Every step was a fresh wave of fire in his neck, a new, dizzying wave of blackness that threatened to pull him under. He was no longer just a man; he was a vessel, carrying the last, fragile hope of their mission, and the broken, beautiful, and utterly impossible woman who had just saved his life by sacrificing her own.
He did not know how long he walked. Time had lost all meaning. There was only the pain, the cold, and the single, burning, and absolute focus of his mission: get her to safety.
He finally, blessedly, stumbled into the familiar, dark mouth of the cave. He did not have the strength to build a fire. He did not have the strength to secure the entrance. He simply collapsed, gently, carefully, laying her down on the cold, hard stone floor.
He lay there for a long, profound moment, on the very brink of the abyss, the sweet, dark promise of oblivion a tempting, seductive whisper in his mind. But he could not rest. Not yet. His mission was not complete.
With the last, final, and absolute dregs of his will, he pushed himself up. He was no longer a soldier. He was a doctor. A healer. And he had a patient.
In the dim, grey, and unforgiving light of the cave, Lloyd began his impossible work. He was no longer a man; he was an instrument, a vessel for a power he was only just beginning to comprehend. His own pain, the roaring, all-consuming fire in his neck and shoulder, was a distant, irrelevant thing, a storm on a faraway shore. His entire universe had contracted to the small, fragile, and chaotic reality of the woman who lay before him.
He laid a hand on her forehead, not to check for fever, but to establish a connection, a diagnostic link. He activated his [All-Seeing Eye].
The world of flesh and blood dissolved, replaced by a horrifying, beautiful, and utterly chaotic schematic of her soul. Her spiritual pathways, which should have been a neat, orderly web of flowing, azure light, were a shattered, tangled mess. They were like a circuit board that had been subjected to a catastrophic power surge, the delicate connections burned out, the pathways broken, the energy flowing in chaotic, self-destructive loops. Her very life force was leaking away, dissipating into the cold, dead air of the mountain.
The diagnosis was instantaneous and absolute: catastrophic spiritual trauma. It was a wound that no healer in this world, no matter how powerful, could have hoped to mend. To them, she would have been a lost cause, a beautiful, broken vessel whose light was destined to flicker and die.
But Lloyd was not a healer of this world.
He was an engineer.
He saw not an incurable wound, but a broken machine. A beautiful, complex, and magnificent machine that needed to be painstakingly, meticulously, and gently repaired.
He began the painstaking work. He could not use a grand, overwhelming flood of his own healing energy; that would be like trying to repair a delicate watch with a sledgehammer. He had to be a surgeon. A micro-surgeon of the soul.
Chapter : 1008
He took a single, perfect, and luminous petal from the Heavenly Jade Lotus. He did not have her crush it. He held it between his own thumb and forefinger and, with a gentle, focused act of will, he drew its pure, vibrant, and life-affirming energy into himself.
He did not absorb it. He filtered it. He used his own spiritual core as a transducer, a complex bio-spiritual filter, stripping away the raw, chaotic power of the Lotus, leaving only its purest, most gentle, and most fundamental life-giving essence.
He then took that purified essence and, with the gentle, precise touch of a master craftsman, he began to feed it, not into her body, but into the shattered, broken pathways of her soul. He was not just healing her; he was rebuilding her, one delicate, broken connection at a time. He was a weaver, using a thread of pure, divine light to mend a tapestry of a soul that had been torn to shreds.
He ignored his own grievous, bleeding wound. He ignored the cold, the pain, the encroaching darkness of his own mortality. He knelt in the dim light of their forgotten cave, a broken, bleeding man, pouring the last of his own life, his own will, into the painstaking, impossible, and utterly sacred work of mending a broken queen. His own survival was a secondary concern. His only thought, his only purpose, his only, absolute, and unwavering focus, was her. He had to save her. He had to bring her back from the brink. He had to repay the debt that he now, with a terrible, beautiful, and soul-crushing certainty, owed her.
Rosa awakened to a silence that was colder and deeper than any she had ever known. It was not the oppressive, dead quiet of the mountain, but the sterile, hollow silence of a tomb. The small fire, which had been their only source of warmth and life, was dead, its embers a small, grey pile of ash. The cave was empty, a pocket of absolute, profound stillness.
Empty, except for him.
He lay on the cold stone floor where she had last seen him, a still, pale form in the dim, pre-dawn light. His face was a mask of waxy, unnatural calm, his chest unnervingly still. The makeshift bandage at his neck and shoulder was a dark, saturated ruin of dried blood. The adrenaline of the battle, the impossible surge of her own world-breaking power, the sheer, soul-crushing exhaustion—it had all finally, completely, and absolutely claimed him. He was unconscious, a candle flame that had finally, after a long, heroic flicker, been snuffed out.
The sight, in the cold, harsh light of the new day, was a physical blow. The last, fragile vestiges of the awe and wonder she had felt at her own impossible feat were burned away, replaced by a new, and far more powerful, emotion. A fierce, cold, and absolute urgency.
The warrior, the queen, the part of her that had been forged in a crucible of grief and loss, took command. The pain in her own body, the searing agony of her shattered spiritual pathways, the deep, throbbing ache in her wounded leg—it was all a distant, irrelevant thing. A minor inconvenience. A tactical problem to be suppressed and overcome.
Her only thought, her only mission, her only, absolute, and unwavering purpose, was him.
With a strength she did not know she possessed, a strength born not from her spirit or her Void, but from a deeper, more primal wellspring of pure, unadulterated will, she forced herself to her feet. The world pitched and swayed, a nauseating, dizzying dance of grey and black. She leaned against the cold stone wall, her breath coming in ragged, painful gasps, and waited for the wave of blackness to pass.
She was broken. She was a ruin. But she was not defeated.
She moved with a slow, deliberate, and agonizingly painful efficiency. She gathered their meager supplies—the waterskin, the last of the travel bread, and the precious, life-giving cluster of Heavenly Jade Lotuses, which she wrapped carefully in a clean cloth and secured in a pouch at her belt.
Then, she turned to him. He was a dead weight, a tall, powerfully built man who seemed to be anchored to the very stone of the mountain. She knelt beside him, and with a grunt of pure, desperate effort, she managed to get his arm over her shoulders. She was not just a woman; she was a queen. And she would not leave her last, and only, knight to die in this forgotten, gods-forsaken place.