ShadowBound: The Need For Power

Right after Liam spoke, Mourne didn't even have time to process the words—before he could blink, a thunderous force split the air like a cannonshot.

Something wrenched him backward with brutal strength, tearing him away from Liam's throat like a doll flung by a god. His body was airborne, limbs flailing wildly—

CRASH!

He smashed into the rubble with bone-jarring violence. The impact split the earth beneath him, a deafening crack echoing across the ruins as a shockwave rolled out, throwing debris high into the air and swallowing the street in a suffocating fog of dust.

Moments later, Mourne groaned, barely clinging to consciousness as waves of agony pulsed through him. His head throbbed with white-hot pain. Most of his ribs were cracked—maybe all of them. He could feel the fractures knitting together slowly thanks to his regenerative ability, but even that came with its own torment. Dust caked his skin and eyes, dulling his vision in a gray blur.

And then—as the dust began to part—the first thing Mourne saw was a pair of eyes.

Not Liam's.

These irises weren't glowing red. They burned like molten suns. White-hot, furious, ancient.

They stared down at him with quiet, terrifying judgment. Not rage. Not excitement. Just cold, divine fury.

Those eyes belonged to Galen—and in that instant, Mourne's heart froze. His breath hitched in his throat, and his entire body went numb.

'Of all the people this kid could be tied to... why him?' Mourne thought, dread twisting inside him like a knife.

That square jaw like it was carved from marble. The short, tousled white hair. The unnerving calm that masked unthinkable violence. The face of a man who had reportedly leveled battlefields single-handedly, who walked into wars and emerged unscathed, leaving silence and corpses in his wake.

The infamous "Unmoving Blade."

Galen.

And his boot?

It was planted directly on the side of Mourne's skull.

"Tell me," Galen said coolly, his voice calm but razor-sharp, "do you use spatial magic?"

He pressed down slightly.

Mourne screamed.

Not from the pressure. Not even from the pain. But from the sheer, paralyzing fear that coiled through his veins and sank claws into his spine.

"Better shut it and answer before I decide you're not worth keeping alive," Galen said, voice colder than death itself.

Mourne obeyed like a broken animal. The defiance, the pride—all of it gone. He wasn't getting out of this. But if there was a thread of a chance, he wouldn't blow it by provoking the devil above him.

"Y-Yes... I do," Mourne stammered, his voice barely a whisper. "I have spatial magic."

'I knew it,' Galen thought grimly. 'The bastard cast a concealment veil over the entire location. That's why I couldn't read Liam's heat signature earlier... until he managed to weaken this hybrid just enough to punch a hole in the center of the veil with that last stun.'

Galen's burning gaze shifted briefly, flicking from Mourne to Liam, who was still on the ground a few meters away, not moving.

"Hey, kid. You alive?" Galen called over his shoulder without looking away for long.

"Yeah," Liam responded, eyes shut, lying comfortably in a bed of debris. "Just a few broken ribs. Nothing major."

"Good."

Still sprawled on the cracked ground, Mourne saw an opening—a sliver of opportunity. Galen's attention had wavered, if only for a second. And Mourne, though paralyzed with terror, still wasn't ready to die. Not yet.

As Galen looked away, Mourne summoned a sharp projection from the ground—a pointed spike of hardened earth—aimed directly at Galen's head.

'No matter how strong you are,' Mourne thought, his heart pounding, 'you never take your eyes off your enemy. Not even for a heartbeat.'

The spike shot up toward Galen's skull.

Victory glinted in Mourne's eyes—until it stopped. Mid-air. Just inches from its target.

The spike didn't hit.

It froze—suspended as if stopped by an invisible wall. A moment later, the tip of the spike ignited, glowing red, then white—before it crumbled into ashes.

In silence, the rest of the projection followed, disintegrating in the air like dry leaves in a furnace.

Galen turned his gaze back to Mourne.

"What gave you the idea," he said softly, dangerously, "that you had the right to even touch me?"

He pressed his foot down.

Half of Mourne's face seared instantly, burned to blackened bone and boiling flesh.

"AAAAAGHHHHHH!!!" Mourne screamed as his skin melted away under Galen's heel.

Mourne writhed beneath Galen's boot, his screams ricocheting through the crumbled remains of the street—shrill, cracked, defeated. The pain was unbearable, but worse than that was the shame. The degradation. He was a hybrid general, a creature meant to command fear, not grovel in the dirt under another man's heel. But here he was—reduced, broken, completely overpowered by someone who hadn't even broken a sweat.

Smoke curled from the blackened remains of his skull, the seared flesh still hissing under Galen's divine myst. His body was regenerating, but not fast. Not nearly fast enough. This damage wasn't merely physical—it carved into his soul. Galen's myst burned on a level beyond the material, and his very will to fight back was eroding under it.

And that terrified him more than death.

"I gave you a chance," Galen said flatly, pressing his heel deeper, voice devoid of empathy, "to be useful. That was mercy."

He crouched low now, not lifting the pressure from Mourne's face, bringing his own calm, terrible gaze inches away.

"But you squandered it."

Mourne's mouth opened, maybe to plead, maybe to lie—but no sound came. Fear strangled his voice, left his jaw quivering uselessly.

"Tell me," Galen whispered, his voice soft as silk but sharp as broken glass, "how many more like you are leashed to Sylvathar?"

Mourne blinked furiously, the only movement his scorched body could manage. "I-I don't know… I swear… He doesn't tell me everything. I'm just an enforcer…"

Galen's eyes narrowed. "Enforcer, huh? Then enforce this."

With a lazy flick of two fingers, a crackling red line of myst whipped through the air and carved straight into Mourne's shoulder. It ripped down diagonally, tearing flesh from bone in a molten arc of pain.

Mourne shrieked, the cry so raw it nearly knocked him unconscious.

"Galen!" Liam called from where he still lay on the rubble-strewn street, his eyes now open, voice ragged but audible. "Don't kill him yet. He's worth more alive. Trust me."

Galen didn't turn immediately, but the oppressive heat radiating off him eased. Just enough for Mourne to gasp for air again.

"You want to keep him alive for interrogation?" Galen asked, rising to his feet and dusting ash from his coat. "Because I don't carry corpses that whimper."

Liam gave a dry, raspy laugh and coughed. He finally forced himself to sit up. "No, you must carry him. As punishment for not keeping your word."

Galen arched an eyebrow. "Not keeping my word? What the hell are you talking about?"

"Oh, you know," Liam said, tone mockingly casual. "'Getting through me would be a pain for anyone. That's your insurance,' remember that? Guess that was a bad investment, huh, dear teacher?"

A twitch rippled through Galen's left eye, subtle but visible. Liam's sarcasm wasn't helping.

"You've got no room to talk, kid. You told me you had this under control when we spoke over the comm bracelet. That's on you. Next time, ask for backup."

"Why would I ask for help after you promised no one would reach me?" Liam replied deadpan. "See? Your logic's broken. Guess your cleverness doesn't cover foresight."

Liam's smirk faded as he glanced at Mourne's charred, mutilated body still twitching beneath Galen's boot.

"He's definitely stronger than the hybrids we deal with in the central district. A low-tier 7-Star at minimum," Galen muttered, examining the damage he'd done. "Stronger than the watchtower hybrid I dealt with, for sure."

"His core probably ascends when he transforms," He added.

"Figures," Liam replied. "He called himself a hybrid general. Know what that means?"

"Yeah. One of Sylvathar's elite monsters," Galen said, narrowing his eyes again. "Honestly? If this is the best Sylvathar has, I'm disappointed. The guy looks pathetic."

He tilted his head. "To be fair, you did hold your own for what—maybe a full minute? Minute and a half? Yeah, he's pretty weak if you ask me."

"Yeah, that's because he talks too damn much," Liam said bored. "Could've ended me early if he'd shut up and done his job."

"Well," He said, eyes growing heavier with boredom, "when you've got a voice like his and a face to match, you forget what you're supposed to be doing. It's the curse of beauty."

Galen snorted once. "Did he say anything useful?"

"Yeah. He said that when you're trying to destroy a realm and build a new one, power alone isn't enough—you need allies."

Galen's expression turned grim. "So what, there are more hybrids buried in the authorities than we assumed?"

"I don't know," Liam said, shrugging with mock innocence. "You tell me."