Chapter 47: Flaming Sword
The grey-haired man’s sword was knocked backward.
The force didn’t just push him — it threw him. His boots scraped hard against the frozen road as he slid across the snow, leaving two dark, burned lines behind him where his Echo had melted ice then gone out, where his heels had tried to hold.
He dug his boots into the ground, knees bent, shoulder dropped, and forced himself to stop before he lost his balance completely, before he fell onto his back and died there looking at sky.
The Mirebeast raised one of its claws again. Slowly this time, enjoying it. Bark creaking, stone joints popping like trees falling, red eyes inside mouth glowing brighter, as if it knew it had time. It had waited years on this road. Another second didn’t matter.
Danny felt his chest tighten, heart hammering so loud it hurt ribs, hurt ears.
"Move!"
The grey-haired man jumped aside just in time, body remembering war, not age, not cold. His old legs moved like young man’s for half second, muscle memory older than fear.
BOOM!
The claw smashed into ground where he had been standing a second ago, where his heart had been, where his boots had left burned lines. Stone cracked beneath its weight like river ice in spring, a spiderweb crack running three meters, and a cloud of snow and black dust exploded into air, swallowing everything for a second, hiding road, hiding man and beast both.
The grey-haired man rolled across snow, shoulder first, sword tucked close to chest so it didn’t break more, and quickly got back on his feet in one motion, practiced. His breathing was already heavy, white puffs fast and short, coming too fast for a man his age in this cold.
He looked down at his sword.
A deep crack had appeared along blade, running from edge to spine, jagged. The edge was chipped and bent inward, like it had hit mountain, not flesh, like it had hit anvil. Metal screamed where it bent.
He clicked his tongue, sound sharp, annoyed more than afraid.
"Damn it."
The Mirebeast slowly turned toward him, all six limbs repositioning, claws digging new holes, finding purchase again. Its three red eyes glowed from inside its massive mouth, fixed directly on him now, locked on blue. Danny’s loud heart forgotten. Old man was louder now — Echo was loud, brighter, easier to see than heartbeat.
Click...
Click...
Click...
The sound came from its limbs as they shifted on stone, from its throat as it echolocated, as it tasted air for heat, for blue.
The grey-haired man tightened grip around broken hilt, leather creaking again, hand bleeding where cracked hilt cut him, blood freezing fast on metal. He lowered stance, legs bent deep, shoulders forward, sword held not like duelist but like butcher, like woodsman about to chop.
Then something changed in air around him. Snow stopped falling on him, melting a foot above his head.
A faint orange glow appeared around his arm. It started small, like embers crawling under skin, like veins filling with fire, like blood turning to light, then it grew brighter, crawling up to elbow, to shoulder, wrapping forearm in dull, pulsing light.
Danny stared, unable to look away, breath held, chest hurting.
The man’s eyes began glowing with same pale blue light Danny had seen in forest, when he fought wolves, but brighter now, desperate bright, almost white at edges, like eyes were windows to furnace.
"Echo..." Danny whispered, voice cracking, small.
The grey-haired man’s arm suddenly burst into flames.
WHOOSH!
Fire wrapped around his forearm and raced toward his sword like it was alive, hungry for steel, like fire wanted to be on blade. Blade lit up, surrounded by flickering orange flames that melted falling snow around him in a perfect circle two meters wide, hissing, steam rising thick, covering him in fog. For first time since mountain road, since they were marched up here, air felt warm, truly warm.
Danny’s mouth fell open, eyes reflecting fire, forgetting cold for a second.
"Fire..."
It was real Echo fire. Not small trick from before, not candle trick he used to cut wolf ropes. This was power that could actually fight, could actually burn stone. This was what Echo was supposed to be, what imperial soldiers used to have, what stories said could cut dragons.
The grey-haired man rushed forward without hesitation. His steps left melted patches on snow, black stone showing through white, footprints of fire that stayed for seconds, then filled with water.
His flaming sword struck Mirebeast’s chest, right on blackened bark where ribs showed, where moss was thickest, where heart should be.
BOOM!
Flames exploded across its bark-like body, orange against black, orange against white snow, brighter than day. For a moment entire creature was covered in fire, fire catching moss, catching frozen fur, catching bark oil, lighting up three red eyes inside mouth from outside, making beast look like demon. Snow around them turned to water instantly, running in streams.
The Mirebeast let out low grunt and recoiled, first sound of pain Danny had heard from it, not roar but grunt, like punch landed. It dragged one of its heavy limbs backward, scraping stone, leaving burning trench, shaking head.
Danny’s eyes widened, hope stupid and sudden, foolish and bright as flame.
He did it! He actually did it! He hurt it! Fire hurt it! Old man hurt it!
The grey-haired man stepped back and raised his sword again, flame still burning but lower now, flickering, hungry but tired, ready to press attack, to cut deeper while bark was soft, while beast was surprised.
But flames were already beginning to fade. Wind was not blowing them out. Something else was, something wet inside beast.
The fire on Mirebeast died down quickly, too quickly, faster than it should have, smothered. Snow and dampness of its body, that wet sloshing inside, that marsh inside stone, smothered most of it, drank fire. Bark was wet inside, rotten inside, not dry wood but wet rot, living swamp. All that remained was large blackened patch on its chest, steaming in cold air, hissing, but not deep, not bleeding, not cracked through.
The damage was shallow. Far too shallow. It was just burn mark on something that looked like living stone, like mountain got sunburn and didn’t care.