He stepped forward, placing himself squarely between the others and the oncoming nightmare. His mind raced, strategies forming and falling apart as quickly as he imagined them. Each step brought new calculations, each discarded a moment later. Few ended in victory.
A shape emerged from the distant corridor. A colossal hammer loomed out of the gloom, its head forged from obsidian fused with bone and veined iron. It scraped across the flagstones, gouging through the remaining ritual runes as if crossing them out in contempt.
Then, the figure that wielded it followed.
Massive, standing at least twenty feet tall and armoured in cracked, chitinous plates. Spiked horns curled back from its head. Its eyes were like molten glass, glowing with cruel intelligence. And it smiled.
Aaron recognised him.
Volgathar.
He had faced the creature once before, long ago, or perhaps decades from now, depending on one’s point of view. Near the end of the Bellum Existentiae, when the barrier realms began to collapse, Volgathar had been a predator among demons. An Ascended General, steeped in mastery of the higher-order concept of Force. He hadn’t just wielded kinetic energy; he toyed with it, twisting momentum and inertia to his will as though the laws of physics were nothing more than a sadistic puppeteer’s string.
Aaron remembered the pain, the helplessness. One of many times he had thought he was about to die. Volgathar had drawn that fight out, savouring every heartbeat of Aaron’s suffering.
He had lost to him once. Badly. But he had survived. When Ascended reinforcements led by Archangels had overwhelmed the general, it had been Volgathar’s arrogance and cruelty that’d doomed him.
And now, Aaron, no longer merely the Saint of Time, would exploit that weakness once again. He would survive. He would win. He would save.
Volgathar raised his head and sniffed the air.
“You reek of fear. Delicious,” the demon roared.
Aaron could feel its aura spreading into the room, a presence pressing into the world like a thumb into soft clay. The hum of pressure grew with every step, a gravitational tension that thickened the air. It was more than mere intent, something approaching the upper limit of that level’s comprehension. Behind his mask, Aaron smiled grimly. He had only just begun to grasp the concept of Sword Intent, while the creature before him was already close to surpassing it. Yet even so, Aaron now knew that Volgathar was far weaker than he had been in their last encounter.
Still, this was a fight Aaron had never won. And now, with most of his strength spent, he would need to rely more on cunning than raw power.
So he ran. Not directly at the monster, but to the side, towards open ground and, more importantly, away from the Saintesses.
Volgathar then swung in a horizontal arc.
A grey, near-invisible mist raced from the hammer’s path, released like a stone from a sling. It tore towards him, and before Aaron could react, he was ripped from his feet as if caught in a tornado and hurled across the room.
He landed hard, barely managing to keep hold of his swords as he tumbled across the stone. A reverse hammer blow followed fast. Aaron twisted aside, but exploding shrapnel from the floor caught him in the side. The roll turned into a tumble, his ribs cracked. Pain stole his breath before he could scream.
Another hammer strike followed as he scrambled upright.
He had to change the course of the battle. He had to attack, regain the initiative, trigger and stack Crescendo Temporis. But such thoughts were easier said than done, not that he had the breath to voice them as another concussive wave shattered the floor behind him.
Aaron lunged forward, trying to parry early. He deflected one blow, then moved in to close the distance between them. A glancing strike from the demon’s enormous boot and his single shallow cut across its ankle were all he managed. The impact left his arms numb. He wouldn’t be able to block much longer.
He rolled under a follow-up stomp, spun away from a swipe, then another smash, before sweeping low, his knees brushing the floor in a fencer’s lunge that drove the point of his blade into Volgathar’s knee.
It was as if he had poked it with a needle. The demon laughed and stomped down.
The ground rippled like liquid. Aaron was flung into the air. As the world spun around him, he caught a glimpse of Volgathar’s expression, gleeful, sadistic joy as it toyed with him. Before his feet had even touched the ground, the hammer struck. Only his mask and the demon’s cruelty had saved him; the blow hadn’t been fully empowered. Had it been, there would have been little of him left remaining.
He forced himself upright, muscle memory and the momentum of countless battles moving his body before his thoughts could settle. His head rang. His eyes watered. He spun again, relying on the Sanctorum’s senses, his footing, and the blurred silhouette of the demon to orient himself.
His aggression rose with his desperation. A desire to win, one cultivated and honed over his second life, swelled within him. Where such a blow might have once taught another caution or fear, Aaron only snarled.
Then came the exchange. One step. One breath. A dozen blows. Aaron dodged a hammer swing, slashed upwards, tore through its flesh paid for the opening in blood. A claw raked across his back, the wound a raw, stinging line as torn flesh met cold air.
He twisted, catching the next strike with his forearm and using the redirected force to roll behind the demon’s knee. Bone cracked. His off-hand blade shattered. But he managed seven precise thrusts with his main-hand sword, even as he drew a knife to rearm his fractured off-hand.
He swung, aiming a deep horizontal cut at the demon’s hamstring.
Before his attack reached it, a sudden shockwave erupted. The air burst from his lungs as he was flung backwards, tossed head over heels.
Still, he didn’t stop.
Every step he took drew the demon further from the rubble. Every feint, every thrust, added momentum, widened the gap between Volgathar and the Saintesses.
He heard them dimly. Debryn’s feral growl. Alex’s breathless panic. Cassandra’s sharp instructions. Their voices blurred beneath the roaring blood in his ears, the surge of Crescendo Temporis thrumming through every battered muscle.
His foot landed heavily on uneven stone. The ball of his boot slipped. Another hammer strike crashed down. He rolled just enough to survive. Even so, the impact shattered his shoulder and hurled him into a broken pillar.
He hit the floor in a heap, his body thudding against fractured masonry. His right arm hung limp. His sword skittered away across the stone.
The room spun. The world rang. But still, Aaron rose again.
Volgathar laughed, a low, guttural sound like rock grinding against steel.
“You saints break so well,” the demon growled, licking Aaron’s blood from his claws. “Come now. Give me another taste.”
Aaron clenched his jaw then he obliged.
His breathing came shallow and ragged as he reached into his Ring of Holding and summoned a custom-made katana. He didn’t draw it. Not yet. He held it still sheathed, his posture half-kneeling, settling into Iai-goshi.
Every muscle in his body screamed. But Aaron’s mind was elsewhere, his focus narrowing, memory replaying the strike he had made against the golems outside the last ritual chamber. He reviewed the angle, the breath control, the moment of release, the way his muscles and ligaments transferred force from every inch of his body.
Aaron’s halo shone, and then the world fell away.
Just what is Sainthood?
Enjoying this book? Seek out the original to ensure the author gets credit.
Ascended warriors are powerful. Heroes are noble. But Saints must be something else.
Sainthood is not a reward or a coronation. It is not the apex of strength nor a trophy for self-sacrifice. If sainthood were merely about power, then the Ascended, those who have fused Higher-Order Concepts into their being and surpassed mortal limitations, would overflow the halls of Evermarch in their millions.
If it were only sacrifice, then sainthood would belong to the countless dead who gave their lives without reward and stood in the fire so others could flee.
But sainthood is neither of those things alone. It is a synthesis.
To be called by the Vox Vitae, the Voice of Life, a soul must meet four immutable criteria.
First, they must be mortal. As a Saint is called upon by the very voice of life, they must be able to bleed, to fail, to fear, to grow, to live, and ultimately, to die.
They must have acted in defence of life itself, not out of duty or vengeance, but from belief. A choice born not of calculation, but of a conviction that life, even when broken, is still worth saving.
They must wield mastery. Not raw strength or cunning alone but a discipline so refined it trends towards truth.
And they must have a will that does not break. To suffer and still choose to protect. To fall and still choose to rise. To kill, and still live and love.
A Saint is the mortal answer to a question the multiverse keeps asking: Is life worth saving?
A Saint does not speak the answer. A Saint becomes it.
In his first life, when a school bus collided with a lorry carrying highly flammable materials, Aaron acted while others froze. Despite a keen understanding of the danger, his fear sharpened by knowledge, he forced himself to move. His efforts saved most of those on board before the fire could catch and the subsequent explosion tore through the surrounding traffic. He paid dearly for that choice with the injuries he sustained, lingering with him until the day he was called to sainthood.
In his second life, armed with the memory of that moment, he acted again, through similar crises, but this time with foresight. Using the wealth and influence he had amassed through careful planning, he saved even more lives. Yet the burden was heavier. The clarity of hindsight did not make the weight easier to bear. Instead, he wrestled with a deeper fear: not of death, but of futility. The knowledge of the multiverses collapse, a growing disillusionment with the character and competence of many Saints, and even his trust in the Vox Vitae itself had corroded his faith. It was a cynicism that had brought him to the edge of nihilism.
But still, he acted. Because even when his faith in the powers above faltered, his conviction in the value of life did not.
Now, with bones fractured and a mind reeling and rattled, Aaron fought not only for life in the abstract but for the life denied to him. For a peace stolen by monsters and parasites. For a justice only he could truly understand.
He poured his rage, sorrow, fear, love, and hope, all of it into his Sword Soul, feeding it like roots drawn to nourishing lifeblood, or leaves yearning the promise of a new dawn. What had once been a seed that had newly germinated, now bloomed.
Inch by inch, his katana slid free. As steel whispered from its sheath, his Sword Soul unfurled, resonating with his spirit, his lives and sacrifices, his goals and scars, and the unyielding ideals of sainthood.
The blade glowed white. His halo blazed with incandescent light.
And with a single, perfect diagonal cut, Aaron unsheathed his sword and split the world before him in twain.
Alex screamed in panic the first time she saw Aaron tossed through the air like a ragdoll in a wind tunnel. Magic was real, angels existed, demons were evil, and somehow, she had become part of all of it. She had accepted the call to sainthood, but she had no idea what that truly meant. And now, just when she had finally met someone, someone from Earth who might understand what she was going through, who had risked everything to save her, he was fighting for his life against something out of a nightmare. Is this what her life would be now? One endless, escalating apocalypse?
Dust clung to her, turning her leathers grey. Her nails were chipped, her fingers red and sore from dragging at the rubble. The elf, Cassandra, though Alex had only caught the name in passing, had already healed her once, mending a deep scratch she hadn’t even felt in the panic. The fox woman, whose tail was impossible to ignore, called out to the one buried under rock and rubble. Alex didn’t know whether to expect a living person or a body.
“Is she still alive?”
“I believe so.” answered the elf.
“Can… can he win?” she asked. The others paused, if just for a heartbeat.
“I believe he’ll find a way,” Cassandra replied at last, with far less certainty.
Alex turned away. Aaron was visible again, stumbling, barely upright. A hammer blow sent him tumbling, his blade skittering across the stone. Her stomach clenched.
“Magda!” the fox woman yelled, ears twitching. “I hear you, you’re almost out, just hold on!”
“If you need time to prepare,” Cassandra said, brushing a streak of dust from her brow, “I suggest you start now. Skin contact is all that’s required for realm traversal, correct?”
Alex nodded slowly, and she knew she wasn’t here just to be saved.
She had chosen to be here, to help save others. Now it was her time to do more than just watch. “Yes. Alright.”
She took a breath, sat back from the rubble, and summoned the Hypercube.
The metallic artefact shimmered into view, folding itself into the air like a puzzle built from twisted spacetime and impossible angles. Eleven dimensions, but only six were ever visible. A Source and a Matrix. Her Matrix.
The first time she had seen it, it had hurt to look at. Now, it felt familiar, like an interface from a long-lost IDE or Integrated development environment. She reached out and touched one face. The cube pulsed and bloomed, and glowing UI panels formed in the air. Strings of code unfurled beside geometric constructs. Logic blocks linked by mana-flavoured syntax hovered in mid-air.
Attunement had unlocked something not just magical but programmable.
The Hypercube didn’t just obey her will; it required logic. Precision. Structure. She couldn’t cast spells in the traditional sense. She had to build them. Like functions. Like code.
She had already written a few basic programs during her attunement:
- DesyncPhaseShift(int, element: string): A jury-rigged pseudo-damage mitigation function, still buggy.
- TraverseRealm(destination: neural coordinates): A realm-warp script. Inefficient but functional.
- ShortRangeTeleport(vector: direction, distance: float): Used for short-range blinks.
- SanctorumTether(target: Sanctorum member, value): An experimental function that maps the target of any of the above to a designated party member.
Each function had a cost. Some drained the artifact's mana. Others seemed connected to values and strings Alex could only assume were tied to her sainthood. Several triggered cooldowns enforced by the UI overlay she now lived with. The more efficient the code, the cheaper the cast. Messy code burned more energy, and right now, all her code was messy. Stack overflows and logical contradictions caused magical feedback. One infinite loop during attunement had nearly torn her arm apart.
Now, she needed something simple, something fast.
She scrolled through stored scripts, modifying the realm traversal subroutine on the fly. “Remotely targeted jump, local tethering... alright, destination...” Alex muttered to herself as she reprogrammed the Hypercube, checking and rechecking the code while keeping one eye on the battle. At present, she had no reliable method of determining which strings within the Sanctorum functions referred to whom. The coordinate values were gibberish to her, raw, incomprehensible sequences, so she began scripting parsers to translate them into something she could understand.
“Got you…” she said to herself, quickly reassigning one of the constantly shifting strings to Aaron.
Beside her, the fox woman grunted, rolling aside, if not outright lifting, a particularly large boulder. Beneath it, a pale hand reached out from the rubble.
“Saintess Magda, we’re here,” the elf said, stepping in and taking the outstretched hand.
“...And you,” Alex murmured, watching as the Hypercube's values spiked, likely in response to some magical output from Cassandra. She designated that function to the elf, linking her anchor to the realm traversal protocol.
Alex closed her eyes and ran a mental checksum. There could be no errors. Not now.
One of the Hypercube’s dimensions resonated faintly as her code compiled. Script loaded: two functions. SanctorumTether linked to Aaron, initiating a ShortRangeTeleport to their position, and a TraverseRealm tied to Cassandra’s neural anchor ready to activate on contact.
All the while, Aaron continued to fight and bleed and fall and rise again.
Alex looked up at the Saint of Swords. He was barely conscious. His halo burned impossibly bright, its radiance reflecting off the first unsheathed inches of katana in his grip. The entire world seemed to pause as the demon lumbered towards him, its massive hammer raised high in preparation for a deadly blow. His light intensified, both halo and blade shining so brightly it made her eyes sting. The slicing, stabbing pain of it forced her to look away.
And then she heard the sound of a blade being drawn, steel freed, space and time severed in one perfect motion. Alex didn’t just hear it. She felt it. Beyond the light and the sound, something resonated deep within her, touching the aspect of sainthood she now represented. It struck a chord with everything she had ever studied. The nature of space. Of dimensions. Of reality itself.
And then she opened her eyes. “Holy shit,” she whispered.
Aaron’s awareness returned just as Volgathar collapsed.
The demon, lulled into a false sense of superiority by the apparent mismatch, had raised its hammer high, leaving itself open and unprepared for what came next. It hadn’t considered that Aaron could touch even the edge of a Higher-Order Concept. But at that moment, he more than did so. His rising cut had traversed the twenty yards between them in an instant, slicing one leg at the ankle, the other just above the knee.
Volgathar toppled. The hammer, still in its rising arc, clattered behind him with a dull thud as the demon’s body crashed face-first into the ritual floor.
Aaron watched with grim satisfaction as the shock settled into the creature’s features. First disbelief, then pain, then with something close to grief. Its sadistic grin crumpled. A roar erupted from its throat as tears, impossibly, welled in its eyes. A twisted child learning the meaning of harm for the first time.
The katana in Aaron’s grip evaporated, unable to contain the magnitude of the strike it had just channelled. That cut had not been steel. It had been Will distilled into a perfect edge.
But triumph quickly gave way to cold panic.
Aaron couldn’t move.
He had poured everything into that last attack, his comprehension, his emotions, all of his strength. And now his body paid the price. He knew that this paralysis was temporary, an over-drafting of some nature of his life energies, but that didn’t change the fact that he couldn’t move, which was a problem because Volgathar, as ruined as it now was, could still crawl.
5/5 chapters this week.