Single for Eternity
Chapter 114: Guardian?

Chapter 114: Guardian?

There was stillness.

Pure, heavy stillness — and silence so absolute that even my heartbeat felt like a disturbance.

Then something snapped.

It wasn’t loud — just a small, brittle sound, like a hairline crack running across glass.

But it echoed strangely through the warped corridors, vibrating against the stagnant aether.

I moved instinctively, following the disturbance.

The corridors twisted and stretched unnaturally, as if space itself didn’t know how to behave here.

The flickering torchlights along the walls distorted shapes, warping shadows into bizarre, writhing figures.

Finally, I arrived at another door.

This one was different — larger, thicker — embedded seamlessly into the wall, as if it had always been a part of it.

Ancient murals were carved into its surface: an image of the fur coat man from before, depicted kneeling, bound, and overshadowed by a massive, amorphous entity that could only be Malthorn.

I frowned, stepping closer.

’Was this where the fur coat guy had been imprisoned?’

Considering Malthorn’s tendencies, it was a strong possibility.

Without wasting more time, I reached out and nudged the door.

The metal was cold, almost biting, with a rusted texture that flaked under my fingertips.

With a long, reluctant groan, the door creaked open.

What greeted me inside wasn’t a room in the normal sense.

It was a cavernous space, so large that the edges disappeared into darkness.

Chains hung from the ceiling like iron spiderwebs, clinking faintly in an unseen breeze.

And in the center of it all — bound in a tangled mess of heavy chains — was him.

The fur coat guy.

His head was bowed, long, matted hair obscuring his face.

From the slow, shallow rise and fall of his chest, it was clear he wasn’t truly dead.

But he wasn’t alive either.

Spectral aether leaked from his body, a sickly, pale mist that clung to him like a shroud.

I took a cautious step inside, breathing the old, metallic air.

The moment I crossed the threshold, the door slammed shut behind me — and then, horrifyingly, disappeared altogether, melting into the wall as if it had never existed.

A bad sign.

Before I could even react, the chains around the man began to rattle.

With loud, jarring snaps, they broke one by one, the heavy links clattering to the ground like thunder.

The fur coat man crumpled to the floor with a heavy thud.

He lay there, unmoving, for several minutes.

Waiting.

Testing me, perhaps — trying to lure me closer.

But I wasn’t naive.

Keeping my distance, I called upon the symbiote, shaping a weapon to my hand — a katana, forged from the living, pulsating armor.

I gripped it firmly, lowering my stance, eyes never leaving the prone figure.

Minutes passed.

The tension stretched thin, a wire pulled taut between us.

Finally, with a groaning rasp, the fur coat man stirred.

His movements were slow, almost drunken.

One trembling hand pressed against the ground, then the other, as he forced himself upright with a wet, grinding noise — like bone scraping against bone.

And then — like the death knell of this cursed place — two system notifications appeared in my vision:

[ Sovereign Trial: Vassal of Malthorn – Guardian ]

[ Threat Level: Mystic ]

’A guardian, huh?’

I almost laughed.

Because if this decaying wretch was meant to be a guardian, then the Malthorn had a twisted sense of humor.

Up close, he looked even worse.

Rot had eaten away at parts of his flesh, revealing skeletal structures underneath.

His fur coat was little more than ragged scraps hanging off his gaunt frame.

His hair hung in greasy, clumped strands, and his fingers — long, gnarled things — twitched spasmodically.

But there was power there.

Raw, undead power that prickled painfully against my skin.

Without warning — without even a sound — he moved.

SWING.

He blurred — a streak of decaying fur and bone — and zipped past my side with terrifying speed, throwing a brutal punch aimed squarely at my liver.

It was pure instinct that saved me.

I twisted sharply, feeling the rush of displaced air as his fist grazed my side.

Even so, the force of it was enough to send a shockwave through my body, knocking me off balance.

Shit.

He wasn’t just fast.

He was monstrously strong.

Recovering quickly, I slid back into a defensive stance, katana gleaming with dark aether.

The Vassal of Malthorn straightened, jerky and unnatural, like a marionette whose strings had been frayed.

He tilted his head at me, an eerie, broken smile splitting his half-decayed lips.

Then he rushed again — this time with both arms outstretched, like a predator trying to rip its prey limb from limb.

I exhaled sharply, sharpening my focus.

There was no running from this fight.

No talking.

No bargaining.

The only way out of this was through him.

My grip tightened around my blade.

"Come on then," I muttered, lowering my stance further. "Let’s see how hard you can fall."

The Vassal howled — a high, keening sound.

He lunged, trying to grab me with those grotesque, rotted hands, but I ducked low, instincts flaring.

In the same breath, I drove my katana straight into his stomach.

The blade sank in cleanly — too cleanly.

I expected blood, a scream, maybe even a stumble.

Instead, I felt his muscles tighten unnaturally around the katana, clamping down like iron.

He just... stared at me.

A confused, almost childlike look flickered across his half-decayed face.

Then, with a monstrous grunt, he moved.

A massive hand swung in a wide arc — faster than something of his build should have been able to move.

The blow connected squarely with the arm holding my weapon.

Pain exploded through my bones, and the next moment—

BOOM.

I was launched like a cannonball, smashing through the wall, the force carving deep, splintering cracks through the ancient stone.

Dust and debris rained down around me, clouding my vision.

’Shit... that strength!’

But it wasn’t over yet.

Before I could even catch my breath, he was on me again.

The sluggish, almost zombie-like movements from before were gone.

Now, he was a blur of violence.

A barrage of punches rained down.

Each strike was a hammerblow.

Even with the symbiote’s armor absorbing the brunt of the attacks, I could feel the aftermath — the bruising impact transferring into my flesh and bones.

His hands, each twice the size of mine, moved with devastating precision, slamming into my ribs, my shoulders, my arms.

It was relentless.

No choice! I have to counter!

"[Fleshcraft Tendrils!]" I hissed under my breath, the words sharp and urgent.

The symbiote reacted instantly.

A mass of living armor twisted and extended from my arm, snaking toward him with terrifying speed.

It latched onto his wrist.

And then — it invaded.

I felt the shift immediately as a tendril of the symbiote pierced through his undead flesh, burrowing into the undead aether flowing inside him.

For a moment, everything froze.

Then—

CRUNCH.

A sickening noise tore through the chamber as his entire arm spasmed, shriveled like a dried leaf — and then exploded into jagged bits of bone and rotted muscle.

Chunks of flesh and ethereal mist splattered across the walls.

The Vassal staggered back, finally showing real signs of distress.

And that’s when I noticed something vital.

The undead aether around his destroyed arm...

It didn’t reform.

Instead, it writhed erratically, the smooth, controlled currents breaking down into chaotic, disjointed patterns.

Frayed. Fragmented.

My mind raced, pieces falling into place.

’This guy... he’s not alive in the traditional sense. He’s purely functioning through undead aether. Like a machine made of death and spectral energy.’

And just like damaged wires, his system was failing where the aether was disrupted.

A wicked, almost feral grin broke across my face.

He’s not healing.

Not regenerating like undead typically do.

The reason was simple.

Chaos.

The symbiote’s tendrils, infused with the remnants of chaos from my awakening, had polluted his aether structure.

Undead aether relied on order, a delicate web of cursed patterns — and chaos was the ultimate corruption against that order.

My attack hadn’t just damaged him physically.

It had broken the very thing keeping him ’alive.’

Still panting, I dropped from the air, landing in a crouch.

Pain rippled through my ribs, but I forced myself upright, springing backward to put some distance between us.

The Vassal remained rooted in place, staring at his missing arm.

Confusion — raw, pitiful confusion — clouded his half-lidded, undead eyes.

He tried moving his stump, as if willing the missing limb to regrow.

But nothing happened.

It must have been the first time since his corruption that something truly hurt him — something irreversible.

And I knew the answer.

Chaos.

The latent chaos embedded within me, within my symbiote, was the key.

It disrupted the undead aether’s structure beyond repair.

I inhaled deeply, centering myself.

My blood pounded with adrenaline, but my mind was crystal clear.

The symbiote sensed it too.

It hissed and flared, living armor shifting along my limbs.

Crimson lines pulsed across its surface — deep, throbbing, almost alive in their intensity.

Round 2...

I could feel the battle-lust rising.

The symbiote flexed around me, ready to tear into him.

I tightened my grip on my katana, raising it once more.

The fur coat man’s remaining eye — hollow and miserable — locked onto mine.

A low, guttural growl rumbled from deep within his mangled throat.

I smiled sharply, letting the thrill of the moment wash over me.

"Round 2, bitch," I muttered under my breath, crouching low as the battle reignited.

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