The First Men Chronicles

Chapter 37: The Bow of Judgment

The ethereal figure beside Draven fully manifested, its colossal presence towering over the abyssal void. The Sitra Achra Warrior—a celestial executioner, neither bound by light nor darkness, but existing in a paradoxical state between divinity and damnation—had arrived.

Draven's breath hitched as he felt its energy flow through him, an overwhelming force extending from his very will. The warrior's form was both solid and formless, flickering between astral brilliance and shadowed void, its segmented runic armor inscribed with ancient inscriptions that pulsed with spectral light.

Its face was concealed, an obscuring helm resembling an eternal eclipse, and from within, two piercing golden-white eyes burned through the darkness.

With an unwavering stance, it lifted its colossal bow, its structure woven from celestial and underworld energies, an instrument of judgment and fate.

SHHHHHTTTT!!

A single arrow materialized, its very existence ripping through the fabric of reality. Draven could feel it—this was not just any attack. This was absolute judgment.

The warrior drew back the bowstring, the sheer tension in the air crackling with immeasurable power.

WHOOMPH!!!

The Sitra Achra Arrow was released.

KRRRRAAAAAAKKKK!!

The void itself shattered, space fracturing as the arrow pierced through existence itself, its trajectory unstoppable. The serpent's colossal body convulsed violently as the divine projectile tore through its very essence, pinning it down with a force so absolute that the entire void quaked in response.

THUUUUUUUUUUUUD!!!

The giant beast crashed, its massive coils writhing, its roar of agony echoing across the abyss.

And then, just as suddenly as it had come, the Sitra Achra Warrior faded—its duty fulfilled, its presence unsustainable for Draven in his current state.

HAAH… HAAH… HAAH…

Draven collapsed to one knee, his body drenched in sweat, his breath ragged and uneven. Every muscle in his form ached, his hands trembling uncontrollably.

His vision blurred. The world spun.

His throat burned with dryness—a desperate thirst clawing at him. He tried to swallow, but it was as if his own body rejected itself.

His eyes darted to his trembling hands, still crackling with residual power from what he had just unleashed.

A new technique… a new power… a new burden.

His mind raced.

This power… was it truly mine?

A low, guttural groan drew his attention.

Draven slowly forced himself to stand, every step heavy, his muscles screaming in protest.

Before him, the Serpent Jörmungandr—wounded, yet still alive—lifted its massive head, its golden reptilian eyes locking onto Draven.

"The more you use those eyes… the more your humanity will be stripped away."

The words hung in the air, each syllable carrying the weight of an undeniable truth.

Draven stared back, his expression unwavering, his resolve unshaken.

"I don't care."

Without hesitation, he stepped forward, pressing his palm against the serpent's massive eye.

A low hum of energy resonated between them, an unspoken contract sealing itself into reality.

Jörmungandr bowed its head.

"Then from this moment forward… call me Jörmungandr. I shall be at your service, Lord Draven."

The world trembled—and in a single rupture of space, the void shattered.

WHOOSH!!!

Draven's consciousness was ripped back to reality, his body jerking violently as he gasped for air.

Reality – The Ten's Base

Huey grinned.

"I told you he could do it, didn't I?"

Draven staggered to his feet, his body still weak, but his spirit unbroken. His mind swirled with everything that had just transpired—his encounter with Jörmungandr, his awakening of the Sitra Achra Warrior, and the price of wielding such power.

Huey's voice cut through the haze.

"So, how was it?"

Draven, breathing heavily, wiped the sweat from his forehead.

"It was tough," he admitted. "But I pulled through."

Huey chuckled, then patted his shoulder, his expression shifting from amusement to something more calculating.

"You're developing fine, Draven. But power like yours… it needs time. Control. Precision."

Draven didn't respond, only nodded silently.

"Rest now," Huey continued. "Circe will take care of you."

At the mention of the name, Draven's eyebrows furrowed slightly.

"Who is Circe?" he asked.

A smooth, confident voice answered from behind a pillar.

"I'm right here."

Draven turned his head slightly as Circe stepped forward—a tall, slender woman, her movements graceful yet deliberate. She was the healer and sensor of The Ten, and something about her aura was unsettlingly calm.

"Let's go," she said.

Draven said nothing.

Without showing any emotion, he slowly followed her, his mind already drifting to what lay ahead.