Ancestral Lineage - Chapter 314

Chapter 314: The Throne of Will – Psychic Realm and Reality Collide

Ethan stood unwavering, the stone beneath his feet cracking in widening spiderwebs. The air around him pulsed with radiant distortion—waves of raw pressure clashing violently against Ashtora’s command.

“Kneel,” she had said.

But Ethan had replied:

“No.”

The chamber shook as the clash of Wills turned into something more. Threads of thought became blades. Intent became weight. And bodies began to move.

Ashtora descended from her throne, slow but steady—each step elegant, terrible, drenched in authority. Her ten-spiked tail swayed behind her like a serpent of war, carving shallow grooves into the throne room’s obsidian floor. Each of her four arms radiated psychic filament—force condensed into physical mass.

Ethan narrowed his eyes, and the golden portal behind him vanished. There was no escape. No retreat. Only conquest.

She struck first.

Her forward-left arm clenched, then blurred—a fist laced with psychic flame tore toward Ethan’s chest like a comet.

Ethan pivoted—his body faster than light—but her right leg shot up in perfect rhythm, catching him under the chin with a powerful arc of force. The sound was like a thunderclap as he was launched upward, smashing through the high ceiling of the chamber and vanishing into the daylight above.

But only for a heartbeat.

A vortex of golden energy spiraled in midair, and Ethan reappeared, inverted, falling like a spear.

His heel landed first—on her outstretched forearm.

BOOM!

The impact slammed Ashtora backward, her heels dragging trenches into the stone. Her other arms rotated fluidly, attempting to trap him in a whirlwind of strikes—but Ethan ducked, twisted, then drove his elbow into her ribs.

A shockwave of psychic backlash exploded outwards.

Both of them grinned.

Then she lashed out with her tail.

Ethan flipped backward, narrowly dodging the ten-spiked appendage as it crashed down like a mace, obliterating the throne with psychic-infused brute force.

She didn’t care.

She wasn’t defending her position.

She was claiming dominance.

Ashtora spun, bringing down all four fists in a hammering sequence, but Ethan raised both palms, catching two, then grappled her—tossing her sideways with amplified momentum, sending her crashing through the marble pillar at the side of the throne room.

Debris rained down.

Then the world bled white.

Ashtora’s shriek echoed—not of pain, but focus. A pulse erupted from her, sending ethereal chains outward in every direction. They shimmered with violet hues and snapped toward Ethan’s limbs, attempting to bind him in place.

He didn’t flinch.

His Psyche-Eye opened wide, glowing so brilliantly it cast moving shadows across the entire battlefield.

“Break.”

One word.

A counter-command.

The chains exploded into psychic shrapnel, scattering like glass in a hurricane. Ashtora blinked once—surprised—but she was already on the move again.

They collided mid-air.

Fist to fist. Will to will. Mind to mind.

Each impact shook the world, warping both the physical and psychic planes. Every strike resonated with dual effects—blows not just to flesh, but to soul.

Ethan’s hair flowed like solar silk, golden streaks dancing with sparks. His alchemic tattoos glowed, shifting as they rerouted energy through his body, amplifying muscle, enhancing speed, threading his consciousness directly into his movements.

Ashtora’s ten spikes flared again, opening a second layer of form—Psychic Overdrive.

A crown of horned symbols appeared around her bald, spiked head, and her four glowing eyes became vertical slits.

She screamed, and the entire chamber collapsed inward for a moment.

Ethan bled from his lip.

She bled from her mouth.

They were even.

But neither planned to stay that way.

“I see why the Plane fears you,” Ashtora murmured between breaths. “You are the mind’s rebellion… the madness beyond restraint.”

Ethan smirked, voice low and controlled.

“And you are its jailer. Let’s finish this.”

Their bodies clashed again—and this time, the mindscape came with them.

The physical throne chamber flickered and twisted. Pillars bled thought. Ceilings turned into fields of memory. Both combatants were now fighting in two planes at once:

– Mind.– Matter.

And in both… they sought victory.

…

The wind above the Obsidian Groves was sharp, psychic currents weaving through the air like invisible rivers. But Onyx floated with purpose, her dark wings unfurled behind her like veils of stardust. Saareiya clung to her side, one hand grasped tightly in hers, silvery-blue eyes wide with anxiety masked as focus.

Onyx could feel it.

The pulses.

The residual screams of the mind.

They weren’t alone up here.

Below them, nestled in the crevice of a crystalline valley, stood a brutal structure—neither temple nor fortress, but something in between. The architecture was jagged and steep, grown from mental stone and forged in memory. A place only the E’Sherils could create—a prison for thoughts they feared.

She’s in there, Onyx thought, her senses brushing against the barrier that protected the place.

Saareiya’s mother.A T’Shalari of notable strength—now a prisoner of war.

“Are you sure she’s alive?” Saareiya asked, breaking the silence, her voice thin with emotion.

“I felt her,” Onyx replied calmly, tightening her grip. “They couldn’t crush her mind completely. Not yet. But we don’t have much time.”

Saareiya looked down. “I don’t want to lose her. Not again.”

Onyx turned her head, meeting her eyes with quiet certainty. “You won’t. I promised.”

A moment later, they began their descent.

They approached low and fast, evading the attention of the outer sentries. Onyx pulled her cloak of illusion tighter around them—not a visual cloak, but one made of bent perception. To the E’Sherils, the two figures passing over the ridge were nothing more than birds caught in a wind stream.

The moment they crossed the threshold, however, the prison pushed back.

Onyx felt it first—a grinding hum deep in her spine, like the purr of some ancient sentient machine. The walls vibrated not from machinery but from residual psychic defense. Every brick held memories of the imprisoned. Every hallway whispered confessions long forgotten.

This place eats defiance…

Saareiya stumbled. “Ugh… my head…”

Onyx caught her. “Brace yourself. This structure has layers. It feeds on your fears. We need to move quickly before it latches onto you.”

She closed her eyes briefly, pressing her free hand against the wall.

A pulse of her own will surged outward—a sonar of curse energy—and in return, the corridors rearranged, revealing a hidden descent beneath the central hall.

“She’s beneath us,” Onyx whispered. “Three floors down. The cage is mental and physical. I’ll handle the locks—you protect me from the sentries.”

Saareiya nodded.

They descended.

It wasn’t until they reached the third floor that the resistance began.

Two E’Sheril guards—six spikes each—materialized from the wall itself. Their bodies were thin and angular, more mind than matter. They didn’t speak, only raised their arms in mirrored motion.

Erase the intruders.

But Onyx raised her hand first—and sang.

A low hum, ancient and eerie, filled the air. The frequency of it wasn’t sound—but a cursed thought. And the moment it passed through the guards, their forms began to shimmer, destabilize.

“Sleep,” Onyx whispered.

The guards dropped to the floor, bodies intact, but minds folded into unconsciousness.

“Don’t kill them,” she said softly. “They’re victims too.”

Finally, they reached the sealed chamber.

And there, inside a cylinder of transparent psychic crystal—hovering midair with chains dug into her skull—was Saareiya’s mother.

She looked barely conscious, her once radiant body dimmed, her tail limp, her breathing shallow. But she was alive.

Saareiya cried out, rushing forward—but the moment her fingers touched the cell, it screamed back with force, blasting her across the room.

“SAAREIYA!” Onyx shouted, catching her just in time.

“It… won’t let me…” she whispered.

“I will,” Onyx said firmly.

She stepped toward the prison, both hands glowing now, each fingertip swirling with glyphs of curses. With care, she placed her palms against the surface and whispered a release phrase in the Old Tongue of the Cursed:

“Unbind what was unjustly taken. Return her mind to herself.”

The chains resisted. They flailed. They screamed.

So Onyx screamed back—with power.

Her wings expanded, her body lifted, and her eyes opened wide—twin black flames circling her pupils. A surge of unfiltered dark force blasted through the crystal prison, shattering the locks and flinging the chains into nothingness.

The structure shook. The walls hissed.

But the prison fell.

And Saareiya’s mother—Serel’Niah—collapsed into her daughter’s arms, barely conscious but smiling weakly.

“M… my little star…” she whispered.

Tears fell freely from Saareiya’s eyes.

Onyx allowed herself a breath.

But then—

A tremor.

A presence.

Someone—or something—was coming.

“Hold her tight,” Onyx said, turning around. “We’re not alone anymore.”

…

The world was quiet again.

The tremors from Ethan’s disappearance had long faded, leaving behind only faint ripples across the psychic sky. Galeno stood alone, boots planted firmly on a floating slab of dark stone, arms crossed loosely over his chest.

He didn’t need to turn around.

He felt him.

That friction in the air—not from hostility, but recognition.

“Still hiding behind that scent of crushed gravel and boredom,” came the voice—smooth, edged, and smug.

Galeno finally smiled, but it was a lazy, uninterested one. “Jeroth… Still overcompensating with your entrance.”

Behind him stepped forth a tall E’Sheril male, bare-chested with coiling scars across his ribcage and a long, spiked tail twitching with restrained energy. Eight sharp protrusions lined that tail, each glowing faintly with psychic static. His four glowing blue eyes locked onto Galeno’s back with a mix of fondness and menace.

“You’ve grown,” Jeroth said, circling around to face him properly.

“I don’t age like you do, Jeroth,” Galeno replied dryly. “I don’t have to grow.”

Jeroth chuckled. “Still the stone-hearted bastard, I see.”

Galeno shrugged. “Still the mind-flayed peacock.”

A pause.

They stood opposite each other now—Galeno utterly relaxed, Jeroth brimming with crackling psychic heat beneath his skin.

“You weren’t supposed to be here,” Jeroth said finally, voice dipping lower. “Not you. Not him. And certainly not… her.”

“I go where I want. So does he. As for her,” Galeno smirked, “you’d need to be more specific.”

Jeroth’s brow twitched. “Don’t test me, Galeno, or whatever he calls you. You know what this invasion means. You know the Queen will retaliate.”

“I do,” Galeno said. “And I also know what it means when your Queen loses a battle of wills to a man who didn’t even raise a hand.”

“You speak of Kael’Dri,” Jeroth hissed. “That… monster.”

Galeno raised an eyebrow. “Big words for someone who trembled the last time you felt his presence.”

Jeroth’s tail lashed once behind him, splitting a stone ridge in half with a screech. “He is unbound. He is chaos incarnate. You should not follow a being like that.”

“I don’t follow. I stand beside,” Galeno said calmly. “That’s the difference between me and you. I don’t need a leash, or a crown, or a chain of spikes to know who I am.”

Jeroth’s eyes narrowed. “And who are you, Galeno?”

Galeno stepped forward once—just once—and the air shuddered.

Not from raw force.

But from pressure.

Stone beneath his feet darkened as if soaking up something ancient.

“I am the mountain that doesn’t move. The wall that doesn’t break. And the voice your Queen hears in her dreams when she remembers what real fear feels like.”

The smirk dropped from Jeroth’s face.

A long silence stretched between them.

Then, almost fondly, Jeroth muttered, “We used to train together.”

“Yeah,” Galeno said. “And you always cried when I hit you.”

Jeroth chuckled. “I hated you then.”

“You hate me now.”

Jeroth nodded. “But I respect you.”

Galeno cracked his neck. “That’s why I’ll give you one chance. Leave. You don’t need to die here.”

Jeroth’s grin returned—wider, sharper.

“I won’t die here, old friend. But I think I’ll remind you why I have eight spikes.”

Galeno’s smile curved again—this time not bored, but hungry.

“And I’ll remind you why I don’t need any.”