Ancestral Lineage - Chapter 317

Chapter 317: Partial Saint Form
The world broke.

The Obsidian Groves, ancient and unmoving for millennia, groaned under the pressure of power not meant to be contained. Giant stone trees cracked down their cores, their leaves of onyx crystal evaporating into stardust. Psychic shockwaves rippled outward, twisting gravity, making time stutter — forward, backward, still — then violently real again.

Ethan hovered a hundred feet above a shattered ravine, blood trickling from his lip, body battered but upright, already healing. His eyes were blazing a deep, multichromatic glow that shimmered like a sunrise filtered through blood.

Before him, Queen Ashtora hovered like a specter of judgment.

She no longer bore flesh.

She had become pure Psychic will — a radiant being of violet-white energy shaped like her former self, with tendrils of psionic flame spiraling off her spiked crown. Her ten psychic tail-spikes now circled her body like a halo of mental daggers, vibrating with enough force to shred continents.

“You have strength, outsider.” Her voice was no longer spoken — it was thought, transmitted across dimensions. “But you stand before the Matriarch of Mind. This is your end.”

Ethan slowly raised his hand. Blood dripped from his fingertips.

“No…” His voice carried across the broken grove like a death knell. “This is the beginning.”

And then — he changed.

First came the Saint Fire, curling around his body like a second skin — ethereal, burning with all colors at once. Then the Creation Sigil bloomed across his chest, spiraling runes etched in gold that pulsed with universal law. The ground beneath him cracked, not from weight — but from authority.

Partial Saint Form: Awakened.

His left eye became pitch black, with a crimson rune floating in the pupil — Blood Magic fully awakened. His right eye gleamed white-gold — Creation Magic made manifest.

Behind him — eight glyphs spun in orbit:

Earth — grounded might, manifesting as shifting plateaus.

Alchemy — transmutation circles forming and vanishing in rapid pulses.

Necromancy — spectral arms rising from the shadows.

Sound — vibrations distorting the air.

Curse — runes crawling down his skin like living brands.

Psychic — his own mind flaring to meet hers in full.

Blood — veins glowing with sovereign power.

Creation — shaping the unseen into form.

“You want my will broken?” Ethan said, voice echoing with layered harmonics. “Then face it fully.”

He launched.

And the world screamed.

Impact.

The air combusted around them. The first clash sent a shockwave across the continent — cities in the Beast Plane reported earthquakes, the skies above the Will Planes flickered like glitching programs.

Ashtora countered with a psychic obliteration wave, attempting to erase Ethan’s mind from existence.

Ethan roared — driving Creation Magic into a forward step that rewrote the air itself, nullifying the blast. He punched — and the Earth glyph turned his fist into a comet of bedrock, colliding with Ashtora’s jaw.

She reeled, then retaliated — her ten psychic spikes extended like blades, bending reality and forcing Ethan to parry midair with Sound Magic, creating barriers of harmonic distortion that deflected each thrust.

BAM. BAM. SHRIEK. CRACK!

Ethan countered with a Blood Cage — tendrils of arterial red bursting from his hands, forming a prison of sentient blood around her. But Ashtora phased, becoming intangible, then reformed behind him and drove a spike through his back.

He coughed blood — but laughed.

“Too slow.”

The moment she touched him, Alchemy Runes activated — converting her own psychic spike into lead, and shattering it with a Necromantic backlash that pulled a fragment of her essence into the realm of death.

Ashtora roared — unleashing her full Saint Will, and the world blinked out for a moment.

The Obsidian Grove turned silent.

Then came the Mental Collapse Pulse — a dome of mind-energy that reduced nearby landmarks to powder. Trees snapped. Mountains cracked. Ghosts screamed into existence as Necromantic backlash surged from Ethan’s hands, holding the pulse back.

He descended like a star — fist covered in all eight glyphs, the fusion of every affinity. Alchemy refined his strike. Sound accelerated it. Earth gave it weight. Curse hexed it. Blood powered it. Psychic directed it. Creation perfected it. Necromancy ensured that something would die.

And Ashtora met it head on — her pure will against his.

CRRAAAAAAAAAASSSHHHH!!!

An explosion of impossible scale.

A dome of pure magic rose miles into the air. For a moment, nothing existed.

Then came the silence.

Both stood, across from each other, panting. Blood ran down Ethan’s chest. Ashtora’s form flickered, one of her spikes broken, her eyes no longer pulsing bright.

“…You were meant to die.” she said.

Ethan stood tall, half-lit in Saint radiance.

“I was meant to rise.”

And the battle — was not yet over.

The smoke parted, but only slightly.

Cracked air shimmered with raw psychic static, and strands of fragmented reality hung like torn silk across the sky. Shards of black crystal—once the proud peaks of the Obsidian Groves—now floated like dead stars in a ruined firmament. The battlefield looked hollowed, like a dream torn open at the seams.

And in its center — they stood.

Ethan, radiant and scorched, the eight spinning glyphs dimmed but still active, his breathing steady despite the open gashes across his side. His aura pulsed in waves, destabilizing time around him. With every blink, he seemed to shift — younger, older, ageless — before locking back into form.

Ashtora, her psychic shell cracking, now flickering between energy and flesh. Her ten spikes whirled slower, three cracked at the base, her features no longer cold or divine — but furious. Not from hate… from disbelief.

“You…” Her thought-voice stammered for the first time. “You should have yielded. Not even the Firstborn of the Mind Plane could match me like this.”

Ethan spat blood and smiled faintly, wiping his mouth.

“I’m not the Firstborn. I’m the one who wasn’t supposed to be.” His eyes burned with defiance, blood and light spiraling behind his irises. “That’s why I’ll win.”

The wind howled with memory. Beneath them, the world trembled — the Obsidian Grove now splintered to its core, leaking raw magic into the air, twisting colors, fracturing sound.

They moved again — not at speed, but at intention.

A single motion from Ashtora bent gravity — Ethan responded by snapping his fingers, inverting the pull of space with Creation. He stomped, and Earth surged up, only for her to erase the mountain before it formed with a Mental Null Pulse.

He bled again — a jagged psychic wound on his side that sizzled and whispered with forgotten voices. But he fought on, the Curse Glyph flaring, reflecting the damage back at her psyche. She winced, staggered.

“Enough!” she screamed, unleashing a pure psionic roar that cracked every floating shard above them, creating a crown of psychic flame.

And Ethan — laughed.

He clapped his hands together, and from the space between his palms burst a new spell — a synthesis. Blood + Sound + Psychic. It formed into a scream of ancestral voices, a sonic curse bound by bloodline and focused thought. The sky howled as thousands of spectral faces lunged toward Ashtora — ancestors, regrets, unrealized futures.

She raised her hands and screamed back — pure mindforce against the chorus of souls.

The two spells collided in a supernova of psychic and sonic energy — no color, no light, just pressure. A pressure that flattened the remains of the groves, sent storms spiraling for miles, and blew open a psychic rift high in the sky.

Silence. Then… Stillness.

They stood again. Breathless.

The glyphs behind Ethan slowed. Ashtora’s form pulsed less brightly, her spikes dimming.

“This is… impossible.” she muttered, almost to herself. “You fight like one born of our Plane.”

Ethan blinked slowly.

“No.””I fight like someone who’s seen what happens when tyrants think they’re untouchable.”

For a moment, neither moved.

Stalemate.

Not by surrender. Not by weakness. But by sheer, evenly-matched godhood.

Their wills interlocked — and the universe itself flinched under the weight of their opposition.

Above, the rift in the sky began to widen. Psychic lightning arced across the heavens. The Mind Plane, it seemed, had begun to stir in recognition of its wayward children.

Far below, warriors and beasts, friends and enemies alike — all had stopped.

Stygian, bloodied, paused mid-sprint to glance up.

Maverick raised his head, breath catching as thunder cracked across the broken sky.

Sage beat his wings once, steadying himself in the psychic winds, sensing the tremor that was neither fear nor awe — but invitation.

And Galeno, deep in his own war, whispered, “They’re not done yet…”