The arrow sliced past his cheek, stealing a strand of his platinum blond hair as it zipped by. He dropped low, narrowly evading a crackling bolt of magic, and sprang forward with explosive speed. With a fearless charge, he dove headlong into the throng of enemies, his movements a seamless dance of precision. He ducked and weaved through the storm of blades, each strike missing him by a hair's breadth. The few blows that did connect to him were too insignificant to merit his attention.

  A blade drove clean through his palm, the hilt slamming against his hand, the only barrier keeping it from splitting his skull. Gritting his teeth, he clamped his injured hand around the weapon's hilt, yanking it downward with brutal force and dragging its wielder along with it. In one fluid motion, his free arm lashed out, an elbow smashing into the enemy's throat. The blow left his assailant choking, their grip loosening just enough for him to wrench the sword free from his body.

  He used his stolen sword to offhandedly slay its owner, then curiously raised his wounded hand to his face and gazed through the ragged hole torn through flesh and bone. Tendons writhed and stretched like living threads, knitting themselves back together. Slowly, the skin followed, creeping over the wound until there was no trace of the violence it had endured.

  He tore his gaze from the mending wound and turned back to the battlefield ahead of him. Scores of enemies still stood, their weapons gleaming in the dimming light. He would not stop—not until every last one was dealt with. Fury burned within him, fueling his every step, but it did not cloud his mind. Instead, he exuded a chilling calm, a predator's serenity, as he moved with deadly precision. Each motion was instinctive, seamless, as he cut down foes with ruthless efficiency, segregating limbs from life.

  At last, only the wizard remained. With no guards left to shield her, she was as good as dead. She stumbled back, any of her spells would take too long to cast at such close range. He closed the distance with measured, deliberate strides, his presence as suffocating as the inevitability of her end. In her eyes, he saw it—the same raw hatred that had driven him to this point. It pulsed in her gaze, mirroring the carnal disdain that burned through his every pore. They had become two sides of the same coin, bound by fury and loathing, and he knew this moment would mark the culmination of their shared rage.

  Strangely, now that he had finally returned the favour—killed all that she loved, just as she had all that he had loved—he felt no sense of closure, no satisfaction. The emptiness gnawed at him, hollowing out the rage that had driven him this far. Experiencing that malice from the other side, seeing it reflected in her trembling gaze, was unsettling. Terrifying, even.

  There was no turning back now. He raised his sword high above his head, the blade poised to pierce her heart. Her life flashed in her eyes—memories flickering like dying embers. They both knew she wouldn't survive. When stripped of everything else, when the world reduced itself to this single, dreadful moment, all that remained between them was vengeance.

  His sword descended, but before it could connect, she unleashed one final, desperate retaliation. Reaching deep into her magical core, she ignited it, turning her spiritual form into a self-destructive cataclysm. Her entire body turned into a bomb, and she exploded into a nightmare of arcane demolition. The suicidal assault caught him entirely by surprise, leaving him no time to react. The blast vaporized his blade, reducing it to ash, and tore through his body with brutal force, puncturing his intestines and launching raw energy skyward.

  The unleashed magic flared up into the heavens before rupturing in a breathtaking display of power—a firework of pure arcane fury. It illuminated the battlefield-turned-wasteland in eerie, brilliant light. A second later, the sound reached the ground, a deafening boom that rattled the ground. The bass reverberated through his chest, stealing his breath, and shattering his eardrums in its wake.

  He glanced down at his mangled torso, watching as a torrent of blood spilled from the gaping wound, pooling around the wizard's smouldering remnants. "Well, darn," he muttered, his voice tinged with both irritation and resignation.

  "Well, this is what happens when you get too cocky," the elderly woman chastised, her tone sharp yet oddly measured. She stood over the sobbing child, who perched precariously on a hard wooden chair, trembling as tears streamed down their cheeks. The jagged end of a bone jutted grotesquely from their knee, stark against the pallor of their skin.

  The woman leaned in, dabbing at the wound with a damp cloth, her movements unflinching despite the child's pained whimpers. Every touch sent waves of searing agony through the little body, their cries echoing off the walls. "Lucky for you, it's not as bad as it looks," she muttered without empathy.

  Then, without warning, she gripped the exposed bone with firm hands and shoved it back into place with a sickening crunch. The child let out an ear-splitting scream, their agony twisting through the air like a tangible force.

  Undeterred, the woman simply wiped her hands on her apron and pulled out a long roll of bandages. "Now maybe this will serve as a valuable lesson for you." the elderly woman said, her tone cutting as she tied the bandage around the child's leg. "Your powers don't make you unstoppable. Get too overconfident and you'll end up like your uncle."

  "Don't say it like that mom, you make it sound like I died."

  The man with platinum blond hair chimed from his resting spot in the corner of the room. He was propped up on a makeshift bed with a thick blanket draped over the gaping hole in his abdomen. It had been only a few weeks since he received the brutal injury in his last battle.

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  The journey home had been gruelling, each step a test of will, but he'd finally returned yesterday, where he could rest in relative comfort. Still, his recovery was far from over. His intestines hadn't healed enough to function properly, and eating was out of the question. The gnawing ache of starvation was almost worse than the maddening itch of his body stitching itself back together.

  The old woman sighed, shaking her head as she began tidying up. "What am I going to do with this family?" she muttered, more to herself than anyone else.

  From his spot in the corner, the man with platinum blond hair turned to his nephew, who was still sniffling, clutching at his bandaged leg. "Don't sweat it, kiddo," he said, offering a crooked smile. "Your leg'll heal up in no time. Now, if you'd lost the bone, that would've been a problem. But as long as you've got all the pieces, patching it up's no big deal."

  He leaned back, shifting slightly under the thick blanket that covered his still-raw injury. "Besides," he added with a teasing lilt, "you might just be the next family prodigy. I'd even bet money you've got the second-best healing powers in the family after me—well, third-best if you include Greatest Gramp, but let's be real, he's in a league of his own. Ain't that right, Gramps?"

  Everyone in the room turned toward the elderly man seated by the fireplace, his frail frame dwarfed by the large chair fitted with oversized metallic wheels. He was impossibly old, his skin folding into layers of wrinkles that seemed to defy belief. His pure white hair, thin and wispy, clung stubbornly to his scalp—a testament to the relentless passage of time.

  The man's eyes remained closed, though he was clearly awake, his chest rising and falling in shallow, laboured breaths. Age had stolen even the simplest of strengths from him, and the effort required to form words was far beyond his ability. All he could offer in response was a low, rasping grunt.

  The boy's chest swelled with pride at the compliment. He bit down on his lip, determined not to cry—he couldn't let himself betray the image of a future prodigy. Even so, the sharp throb in his leg refused to be ignored, and he needed something, anything, to take his mind off the pain.

  His gaze flicked to the ancient man by the fireplace, then back to his uncle. "Why do we call him 'Greatest Grandpa,' anyway?" he asked, his voice small but laced with genuine curiosity.

  Both his uncle and grandmother burst into laughter at the boy's question. It was his grandmother who answered, a warm smile tugging at her lips.

  "You see, Greatest Grandpa isn't just your great-great-grandpa," she began, emphasizing each "great" with a playful tone. "He's your great-great-great-great—well, so great that we've lost count of how many 'greats' we should say, Grandpa. Eventually, we figured it'd be easier to just call him 'Greatest Grandpa.'"

  The boy's eyes widened as he turned to the ancient man by the fire, now studying him with a newfound sense of wonder. "So… is he your Greatest Grandpa too, Grandma?"

  His grandmother chuckled softly, her smile deepening. "That's right," she said. "And he was my grandma's Greatest Grandpa, and her grandma's Greatest Grandpa, and so on and so on. When I was your age, he looked exactly the same as he does now."

  She bent down and scooped the boy into her arms with a gentle grunt, a few cracks from her spine and knees punctuating the effort. "Now, off to bed with you," she said, her voice kind but firm. "You won't heal properly without a good night's rest."

  The grandmother left the room with the young boy, leaving only the man with platinum blond hair and his greatest grandfather. The younger man slowly pushed himself upright, a strained grunt escaping his lips as the pressure around his stomach flared. He shuffled forward, his movements stiff and careful, and finally approached the old man.

  "Well, looks like it's just you and me for the next couple of months," he said, forcing a pained chuckle. "Guess we'll be spending a lot of time together, huh?"

  The old man managed the slightest of smiles, his fingers twitching ever so slightly as they began to form abstract symbols against his armrest. The family had developed their own pseudo-sign language over generations to communicate with their living ancestor. No one knew exactly who had created it—just that it had always been a part of their family and thought to every child. Some speculated that Greatest Grandpa himself had devised the language, anticipating the slow decline of his ability to speak, but the truth had long been obscured.

  Greatest Grandpa had always been coy about revealing such details, a master of secrecy when it came to the family's history. The younger man, watching the careful movements of the old man's hands, couldn't help but chuckle inwardly. He had always suspected that Greatest Grandpa enjoyed these little mysteries, that perhaps he was a bit of a prankster, delighting in the odd little ways he kept the family on their toes.

  The young man recognized the subtle gestures of Greatest Grandpa—an unspoken welcome home, a sign of happiness to have company again. And the young man, too, was grateful for the company. He had just returned from a wild pilgrimage, one filled with adventure and action. He had forged and lost bonds with friends, battled in glorious clashes, and tangled in dubious plots, all culminating in a tragic, climactic showdown where he had finally exacted vengeance for his loved ones.

  Now, he longed to share it all. With no loved one to bask in the glory of his triumphs and the weight of his sorrows, he felt an overwhelming need to regale his family with every detail of his journey—from the highest of highs to the lowest of lows. Recounting the stories was almost like reliving the moments with those he could never see again. And what better audience than Greatest Grandpa? A nearly silent listener, surely with nothing better to do than to endure his stories.

  The young man poured out his story, recounting everything from the very beginning all the way through—each twist and turn of his adventure, each victory and loss. There was a profound catharsis in speaking the words aloud. It gave him the space to reflect on everything he had done, and a deep sense of accomplishment and satisfaction washed over him with each retold moment.

  He thought about his lover. Just weeks ago, he had been in a pit darker and deeper than he could've imagined, consumed by a grief so raw he thought he would never feel whole again. Yet, as he spoke, memories of them together began to surface—moments of joy, laughter, and love. They had lived a full, beautiful life.

  He had always known, deep down, that he would outlive her, such was the curse that ran through their family. But as the memories flooded him, he realized there was no reason to wallow in the sadness of loss. They had built something extraordinary together, and that was something worth cherishing, not mourning.

  Of course, telling himself this was far easier than truly feeling it.