I Eat Monster and Gain Powers

Chapter 45: There’s no circle,

The crypts opened up beneath the church into something far larger than either of them had expected, tunnels branching off in directions that made no logical sense for a building that small above ground, chambers giving way to more chambers, old stone tombs lining walls thick with dust and rot, broken statues of robed figures standing headless in alcoves where candles must have once burned in some forgotten age of worship.

Freya kept close behind Eto’s shoulder, sword drawn, torchlight throwing long shadows that made every doorway look like it was hiding something even when it wasn’t.

Then, in the largest chamber yet, it was.

The creature waited at the far end of a hall lined with sarcophagi, and it had changed since the last time either of them had laid eyes on it. Larger now, taller, its frame stretched longer than a body had any business being, and it hung suspended a full foot above the cracked stone floor like the ground itself wasn’t worth the indignity of touching. A dark energy clung to its edges, faint, roiling, like heat coming off a fire except cold instead, a haze that made the torchlight bend wrong wherever it crossed too close.

It didn’t move. It waited, patient in a way that made the hair on the back of Mikaela’s absent presence feel missed, both of them suddenly very aware there was no third set of eyes watching their backs.

Eto didn’t hesitate.

He crossed the distance in three strides and threw everything he had into the first strike, a fist that would have caved in stone, and it passed straight through the creature’s chest like the thing was made of smoke and bad intentions.

He didn’t stop. He spun, drove an elbow where a throat should have been, followed it with a knee, a second fist, a flurry of strikes that should have ended a fight in the time it took most men to draw breath, and every single one of them passed through empty air dressed up as a body.

”It’s not solid,” Freya shouted, already circling wide, sword up. ”Eto, it’s not.”

He knew. He could feel it in the way his knuckles found nothing to stop against, no resistance, no give, just cold air where a jaw should have shattered.

The creature moved then, unhurried, and raised one long grey hand.

The sound came off it like a struck bell the size of the whole chamber, and this time there was nowhere to run from it, stone walls throwing the wave back on itself until it hit from every direction at once. Eto took it full in the chest and skidded backward across the floor, boots tearing furrows through a century of dust, slamming into a sarcophagus hard enough to crack the ancient stone clean through.

Freya charged while the creature’s attention was still on him, blade raised high, and drove it forward with every ounce of training a decade in the Royal Knights had given her.

It went through the creature exactly the way Eto’s fists had. No resistance. No wound. Just her own momentum carrying her stumbling through empty space where a body should have been, and the creature turned toward her almost lazily, backhanded her with something that wasn’t quite a hand, and threw her clean across the chamber into a bank of broken statues.

She hit hard enough to lose her breath entirely, stone fragments raining down around her, one jagged piece opening a gash along her forearm that started bleeding immediately, dark and warm down to her wrist.

Eto was back on his feet by then, blood running from a cut above his eyebrow, ribs screaming from the impact, and he threw himself at the creature again anyway, because stopping wasn’t in him, not when Nora’s empty eyes were the reason he was down here in the first place.

A provenance note for this page: NovelPhoenix is the author’s publishing site, and this chapter was copied from it without approval.

This time when his fist passed through, something changed.

A crack of light split the air around his knuckles, blue white and violent, arcing off his fist in a spray of raw current that hadn’t been there a second before, and the creature actually flinched, recoiling half a step for the first time since the fight had started.

Freya, pushing herself up off the rubble with one arm pressed to her bleeding forearm, stared at him with something closer to shock than pain.

”You’re a mage.”

He didn’t answer. He didn’t have time to, because the creature had recovered from its flinch and come at him again, and this time it wasn’t toying, this time the wave of sound that hit him carried real intent behind it, driving him back across the chamber floor in a spray of dust and broken stone.

But something had shifted. The lightning hadn’t faded. It crackled along his forearms now, low and constant, a current running just under his skin that hadn’t been there in any of their previous fights, hadn’t shown itself even during the sound attacks that had thrown him through two separate walls, and Freya watched it dance across his knuckles with the kind of disbelief that came from actually understanding what she was looking at.

”There’s no circle,” she said, half to herself, scrambling up despite the pain in her arm. ”There’s no incantation, you haven’t spoken a single word of power, that’s not, that’s not how this works.”

Every mage she’d ever seen, every battle mage attached to a Royal Knight company, every hedge witch in every backwater village, they all needed something. A circle drawn in chalk or blood or ash. Words in the old tongues, precise, memorized, the kind of thing scholars spent decades perfecting because a single mispronounced syllable could turn a fireball into your own funeral pyre. Magic in this world had rules, hard ones, rules that had held since before anyone alive could remember, and Eto was standing in the middle of a collapsing crypt breaking every single one of them without so much as blinking.

He didn’t explain. He didn’t have breath to spare for explaining, throwing himself back at the creature with lightning now crawling visible along both arms, and this time when his fist connected, it wasn’t smoke he was hitting.

The creature shrieked, a sound unlike anything it had made before, less grief and more genuine pain, and reeled backward through the air, robes whipping in a wind that came from nowhere.

But it recovered fast. Too fast. It raised both hands together this time, and the blast that came off it wasn’t a wave anymore, it was something closer to the strike that had leveled half the children’s home, a concussion of pure force that caught both of them at once and threw them the full length of the chamber, tombs cracking apart under the impact, dust and stone raining down from a ceiling that groaned ominously overhead.

Eto hit the far wall hard enough to black out for half a second, and when his vision cleared blood was running warm and steady from somewhere along his scalp, one arm hanging wrong at his side, breath coming ragged and shallow in a way that told him at least one rib had gone from cracked to broken.

Freya lay a dozen feet away, unmoving for a heartbeat too long before she finally stirred, dragging herself upright against a fallen statue, blood soaking dark through her sleeve now, sword still somehow gripped in her other hand though her arm shook holding it.

The creature drifted closer, unhurried, that same dark aura pulsing slow around its edges, and there was something almost curious in the tilt of its head as it looked between the two of them, broken and bleeding on the floor of a crypt a century old.

It wasn’t afraid. It had never once been afraid. Every strike they’d landed, every ounce of pain they’d managed to inflict, it had absorbed like a man shrugging off rain, and Eto understood with sudden, brutal clarity that this thing had been alive for longer than the church above them had stood, had survived things far worse than two exhausted, bleeding fighters half its age in every sense that mattered.

It was feeding. He could feel it somehow, the way the air itself seemed to pull thinner around them, their fear and frustration and failure siphoning off into that dark haze at its edges, making it stronger with every second they kept fighting and kept failing.

”Eto.” Freya’s voice came out cracked, barely a whisper. ”I don’t think we can win this.”

He didn’t answer. He was already trying to push himself back up onto one knee, lightning still guttering weak along fingers that no longer wanted to close into a fist, blood dripping steady off his chin onto ancient stone, and the creature watched him try with something that might have been patience or might have been anticipation, in no hurry at all to finish what it had barely had to work for.

They couldn’t win.

He knew it the same way he’d known things in the forest, some animal certainty settling cold and absolute in his chest, and still he forced himself up anyway, because stopping wasn’t in him, because somewhere above them Nora sat hollow and silent, and because whatever came next, he wasn’t going down on his knees in front of this thing.

The creature raised its hand again, unhurried, and the dark around it pulsed brighter, hungrier, ready to end this exactly the way it had ended everything else it had ever hunted.