Shadow‘s Reach (Halloween Noir) - 26. Battle Royale (Part 2) You Shall not Fucking Pass

Alex pushed himself up. Papa Yared had just left him, disregarded him as no threat, unworthy.

“I’ll deal with you later”. The words echoed in his mind.

He leaned heavily against a carved pillar, breathing hard, his body trembling. The Soul Stone still thrummed, pouring warmth and frantic, agitated whispers into him, but the brief confrontation had left him shaken to his core, feeling terrifyingly inadequate. He had the power—unimaginable power—but it hadn’t mattered against Papa Yared. Not even a dent. Just… bypassed. Ignored.

He slumped against the pillar, the emerald light around his hands guttering. In the fractured reflection of a large, gilt-edged wall mirror—now tilted and cracked by the tremors—he saw himself: solid, sweaty, muscles sculpted by magic, radiant with power he couldn’t control. But all he could feel was the old, familiar hollowness, the uselessness of being the weak, broken boy nobody could save. A battery… just a battery people used…

The air crackled, ozone stinging Alex’s nostrils as the outer ward sputtered, throwing desperate, dying sparks against the oppressive darkness pressing in. Another blow shuddered through the house, deeper this time, rattling teeth and shaking dust from the ceiling. It wouldn’t hold much longer. Panic, cold and sharp, clawed its way up his throat, choking him on the familiar, bitter taste of his own inadequacy. Useless. Always useless. He was going to watch everyone die because he wasn’t strong enough, wasn’t enough.

Tears blurred his vision—tears of fear, of pain from a gash on his arm, but mostly of soul-deep frustration. No. No. A guttural sound ripped from his chest, part sob, part snarl. He wouldn’t just stand here and watch it end.

He collapsed to his knees, the impact jarring through his bones. Grime and splintered wood bit into his skin. With a final, ragged cry that tore through the roaring chaos outside, he slammed both palms flat against the floorboards, channeling every ounce of his terror and fury into the connection.

“You shall not fucking pass!”

Power erupted from him. Uncontrolled, raw, just blinding force—a chaotic torrent ripping free from a dam that had finally burst. It felt like being torn apart, an agony of release that left him gasping, vision whitening out. The floor beneath his hands vibrated violently as the energy flooded outwards, directionless, a wildfire raging without check. Wasteful, whispered a dying part of his mind. Pointless.

From out of nowhere, a thought sliced through his despair, sharp and clear. “Your weakness is your strength.” Was it his own voice? The Stone’s? It didn’t matter. “You empower. Just be… yourself. You set the law.”

And then… something else. Amidst the storm he’d unleashed, a different sensation prickled at the edge of his awareness. Faintly, like ghost-threads brushing against his skin, he felt… probes? Fine tendrils of magic, impossibly delicate compared to the raw force battering them, were reaching out from the very structure of the house around him. They weren’t repulsed by the chaos; they were questing into it, touching the edges of the power pouring from his hands.

He swatted them away, snarling on instinct. They recoiled, but not far—returning again, patient and precise, brushing against the core of his power.

What… what is this? The thought was distant, muffled by the internal roar. It’s… testing the power? No… it wants it. It’s trying to… connect? Reaching for… me? Asking to… plug in?

And suddenly, clarity pierced through the agony and despair like a shard of pure light. He had the power to say No!?

The house wasn’t just a structure; it was a vessel, ancient and aware, starved for the energy needed to maintain its defenses. This raw power he possessed, this force he’d always feared or felt was worthless… the house could use it. It could shape the chaos. It could build defenses from the storm he contained. But not without him.

Another thought crossed his mind, putting words to the message. “Power is given, not taken.”

This isn’t useless. The realization struck him with the force of a physical blow, silencing the old, hateful voice in his head. He was vital. He had… purpose.

His intent shifted. He focused past the pain, past the blinding light, and what was done to him. He concentrated on himself, his core, trying to sort through all his confusion. He mentally invited a few of the tendrils in and let them connect, fed them power. A trickle first, but as he sensed how to control it… the dam wasn’t just broken; he consciously opened the sluice gates wider. Not just aimlessly outwards, but towards those ethereal tendrils. An offering. A damn conscious choice.

‘Take it!’ he screamed in his mind, teeth gritted, body trembling under the strain. ‘Use it! All of it!’

More and more tendrils shot in and wrapped around the stream of power, shimmering lines of light thickening into solid conduits. The chaotic surge smoothed, channeled. He felt the energy being sucked away, controlled, drawn with fierce, hungry intent through the house’s foundations, walls, and ancient symbols. The floor hummed beneath his palms, a deep, resonant thrum of power flowing with purpose.

Outside, the sputtering wards around the house didn’t just stabilize—they ignited. A network of blinding white energy blazed across the walls, windows, and roofline, snapping into place with an audible crack that resonated deep in Alex’s chest. The oppressive darkness recoiled as the light flared, stronger, steadier, and more brilliant than it had ever been before.

Alex remained kneeling, head bowed, trembling violently. The torrent subsided to a trickle, leaving him utterly hollowed out, gasping for breath in the sudden, ringing silence. But beneath the exhaustion, beneath the pain, something new had settled in his core. He slowly lifted his head, gaze finding the steady, unwavering glow of the nearest ward-sigil etched into the wall. He looked down at his hands, still pressed against the floorboards, no longer seeing useless appendages, but the instruments that had answered the house’s call. The instruments that had held the line.

***

Jacques reached the head of the staircase just as Papa Yared ascended the final steps onto the wide, shadowed second-floor landing. The sounds of the external assault—the roar of impacts, the crackle of energy—seemed slightly muffled here, replaced by a tense, charged silence punctuated only by the house’s shuddering responses deep within its structure. Emergency runes pulsed erratically on the walls, painting the ornate carvings and Yared’s impassive face in flickering, eerie blue light from the amulet on his chest.

Yared stopped, head tilting slightly as Jacques moved to block his path, his eyes fixing on Jacques—or perhaps, more specifically, on the crudely duct-taped hand Jacques held slightly raised, ready. No recognition flickered in those dark eyes, only the same unnerving, focused intensity he had shown Alex downstairs.

“The Body, attached to the Mind,” Papa Yared’s voice echoed softly in the shadowed hall, flat and devoid of inflection, ancient and cold. “Incomplete. Fractured.”

Jacques swallowed, gripping the taped hand tighter, feeling the inefficient, leaky hum of potential magic against his stump. “Get out of this house, Yared.”

Yared ignored him, taking another deliberate step forward onto the landing. “The Body seeks cohesion.”

Not ‘I seek,’ Jacques registered again, the chilling implication hitting harder now. This wasn’t just Papa Yared. He focused, pulling desperately on the ambient magic, shoving it through the hand-stump conduit despite the terrible leak, trying to project a wall of force—setting up a desperate defensive line. The air between them shimmered weakly, distorting the shadows. Papa Yared walked right through it like brushing off a weak arm tackle, the blue amulet on his chest flaring slightly brighter, seeming to absorb the flimsy defense.

As Papa Yared got closer, Jacques felt the disturbing pull from Lucien’s hand intensify drastically—a strange, almost physical resonance, a magnetic draw toward the pulsing blue Stone that took conscious effort and physical resistance to fight. His taped arm strained against the invisible tether.

“Lucien’s relic, there were rumors it exists…” Yared murmured, his gaze now locked onto the hand, a flicker of something almost like recognition—or hunger—in his otherwise impassive eyes. “It remembers its purpose.”

Panic, cold and sharp, flared in Jacques’ chest. He lashed out again, channeling harder, trying desperately to force a pass through the leaky conduit, shaping the escaping energy into something offensive—a concussive blast, anything. The duct tape strained audibly. The hand felt unnaturally hot now, vibrating erratically against his stump, but the resulting magical effect wobbled in the air, weak and distorted, splashing harmlessly against an invisible shield of pure physical resilience radiating from Papa Yared and the Body Stone.

Papa Yared continued his implacable advance. He raised a hand—not for magic, but in a simple, almost casual gesture. The heavy oak banister lining the staircase beside Jacques groaned loudly, wood splintering, and then ripped free from its century-old moorings, swinging violently through the air directly toward Jacques’ head like a massive club.

Jacques threw himself backward, raw instinct and a split-second clairvoyant flash his only warning. The heavy wood smashed against the wall where he’d been standing with bone-jarring force, showering him with plaster dust and splinters. He scrambled up, heart pounding, realizing the terrifying extent of the Stone’s power—subtle magic wasn’t needed when you could command the physical world itself with such ease.

He tried another desperate blast—useless. The magic dissipated almost before it formed, smothered by the proximity of the Body Stone. The hand vibrated violently now, the pull toward Yared’s amulet almost strong enough to wrench his arm forward against his will.

“Resistance is illogical,” Papa Yared stated, his voice still flat, emotionless. “The fragments must unite.” He lunged forward, moving with speed and strength that seemed impossible for his frame, reaching not just for Jacques, but specifically for the duct-taped hand.

Jacques was cornered. Magic sputtered uselessly, physical defense impossible against Yared’s Stone-enhanced strength. His mind raced, tactical options vanishing like smoke. Couldn’t complete the pass. Couldn’t evade the blitz. Protection collapsing. Out of options. There was only one target that mattered now, one desperate, insane chance left. Sometimes, the quarterback just has to make the tackle himself.

He ducked under Yared’s reaching grasp, ignoring the flare of pain as his shoulder slammed against the wall. Out of breath, out of options. Time for a Hail Mary. Pushing off the wall, he lunged toward Papa Yared, his duct-taped hand reaching desperately, fingers outstretched… for the pulsing blue amulet hanging exposed around the Yared’s neck.

***

Time seemed to warp around Jacques. Papa Yared’s impassive face, the pulsing blue light of the Body Stone amulet, the shadowed landing – it all stretched, thinning like smoke. Jacques’ outstretched arm, the duct-taped hand, felt impossibly heavy and yet disconnected, an extension of will rather than flesh.

Then—contact.

The cold, dead fingers of Lucien’s hand, held by layers of tape, brushed against the smooth, cool surface of the Body Stone amulet.

Resonance.

It wasn't a sound, but a feeling—a deep, violent thrum that slammed through Jacques, shaking him to his core. It vibrated up his arm, through his bones, rattling his teeth. The blue light of the amulet flared with blinding intensity, washing out the world in an incandescent wave. Simultaneously, the hand pulsed with an answering heat, fierce and alive, a sudden furnace taped against his skin.

Blue met… something else. Not red, not gold. Just… presence. Mind met Body through Soul’s ambient presence, channeled through the relic of a hand.

The world dissolved. The landing vanished. Papa Yared, the fight, the groaning house – all gone. Jacques felt himself falling, tumbling through an endless, silent void. Not unpleasant, just… adrift.

Then, sensation returned, sharp and utterly alien.

Low. The world was low.

Scents flooded his awareness—damp earth, decaying leaves, the faint, enticing musk of unseen prey, the sharp tang of distant vehicle exhaust. Sounds were magnified: the rustle of wind through dry grass, the distant drone of campus machinery, the rhythmic thud… thud… thud… of approaching footsteps on pavement.

His body felt small. Coiled. Brimming with instinctual alertness tinged with fear. Whiskers twitched, tasting the air.

Cat.

He was inside a cat again.

He turned his head and saw it: a building with large Greek letters crowning its portico. The old fraternity house. His old campus.

And then, he saw him.

Younger Jacques.

Walking with the easy, confident stride of a quarterback who ruled the world.

Both hands swinging freely. Healthy. Whole. Oblivious. Heading straight toward the bushes where the cat—where Jacques—crouched, hidden.

Dread sliced through him like a blade drawn down the spine.

He knew this moment. He had lived this moment.

Any second now, the cat would move onto the path, mewl sweetly, act like the cutest damn thing alive…

Any second now—

The cat stayed put. Trembling. Its fear screamed: danger. Stay still. Don’t move. Let the large one pass.

Jacques felt the wild rhythm of its heart, the tension in every muscle, the primal urge to vanish into earth and leaves.

It didn’t want to be seen.

This wasn’t right. This wasn’t how it happened.

The memory was blurry, yes—but the cat had come out. Hadn’t it?

Unless…

Marie’s words echoed, sharp and clear:

Does your spirit accept it…? Or do you still mourn the hand lost to chance…? You must let go… sacrifice your own old hand… You have to want to lose it!

He hadn’t chosen it.

He hadn’t made the sacrifice.

It had just… happened. Bad luck. An accident.

That was why the hand wouldn’t bond. Why he felt incomplete.

He hadn’t earned this reality.

He watched his younger self strolling closer, utterly unaware, radiating the easy confidence of a life still whole—a future Jacques now knew would never come to pass.

But in this moment, it was still possible.

Still likely.

He didn’t have to stop the cat. If he just let it be…

He could have it all. The hand. The arm. The stardom.

Another heir would bear the prophecy. Another cousin would lose a hand some day and wear the Mind.

Alex would never be found. Would never be helped.

Would die in pain, unknown and unloved.

The sacrifice wasn’t just losing the hand.

It was choosing this life. This path.

This version of himself—the Mind, the protector. The one bound to Alex.

Collapse the wave function. Make possibility real.

The thought was cold. Clinical. But laced with desperate resolve.

Observe the outcome. Make it real.

Grief for his old life, its possibilities, washed over him as he pushed his will against the cat’s terror, wrestling with its instinct to flee. It fought him—a frantic buzz beneath his skin—but he held firm. Not fear. Not flight.

Something softer. Approachability. Cuteness.

Go out, he urged. He softened the pressure, reshaping the cat’s panic into curiosity.

Slowly. Look friendly.

The cat yielded.

It crept forward, out of the hedge, blinking in the afternoon light. Head tilted. A soft, uncertain mewl.

Younger Jacques stopped instantly.

“Hey there, kitty,” he murmured. His voice softened—open, unguarded, kind.

He crouched, extended a hand. “Lost, little guy?”

The cat trembled but didn’t run.

Jacques felt the tension coil in the bones of the moment. He felt younger Jacques’ hand lightly pet the head of the cat.

Now.

Cuteness collapsed.

Claws slashed. Fangs bit. Pain bloomed.

Younger Jacques yelped, recoiling, staring at the blood blooming on his hand.

The cat bolted, a streak of black vanishing into shadow.

Everything around Jacques went dark, until it exploded into blinding light and pain.

***

Sacrifice made. The thought resonated through Jacques—cold, absolute, but clean. He had done it. He had chosen.

The world fractured and realigned. Light flared—searing, white-hot—and he slammed back into his own body on the shadowed landing with a gasp, the impact jarring him to the bone. Papa Yared stood frozen, momentarily stunned—his eyes wide with the noise of screaming voices only he could hear, but Jacques wasn't disconnected anymore. He saw Lucien’s duct-taped hand grab the amulet, felt it like a phantom pain.

Papa Yared let out a strangled cry of surprise and pain, stumbling back as the leather cord snapped. The amulet pulsed madly in Jacques’ grip—heavy as the earth itself, thrumming like a second heart. It hummed like a live wire connecting him directly to the immense, grounding reservoir of Body power within the stone. He felt it, a raw, physical potential far beyond anything Yared commanded merely by wearing it.

This is it. The realization hit him, sharp and undeniable. The sacrifice had cleared the path, aligned his will. But the physical act of integration, of commanding flesh and bone to knit, needed raw, fundamental Body energy. The energy pouring directly from the Stone itself.

He willed the truth into being, saw it before his own eyes, knew it happened: bone fusing, nerve threading, flesh claiming flesh. His hand. His reality. This wasn't gentle. It was violent creation.

A blinding surge of blue-white energy erupted from the point of contact. The duct tape incinerated instantly, vaporizing in a flash of heat and ozone. Beneath it, flesh met flesh not with a slow knitting, but with a forceful, almost explosive bonding. Jacques felt it—an intense, searing heat followed by a profound sense of wholeness flooding his arm, his entire being. Nerves fired, muscles integrated, bone locked into place. The leak vanished, replaced by a solid, powerful conduit, humming with the combined resonance of Mind, Body, and Soul.

The sheer force of the transformation, the uncontrolled backlash of Body energy being forcefully channeled, slammed outwards. Papa Yared, still reeling from the amulet being torn away, was hit by the shockwave. He was flung backwards as if struck by an invisible fist, crashing hard against the far wall of the landing before crumpling to the floor in a heap, momentarily stunned or incapacitated.

Jacques stood steady in the lingering haze of energy, his left arm—his arm, whole and complete—held slightly outstretched. He flexed the fingers of Lucien's hand. His hand. They responded instantly, perfectly.

He looked down at the crumpled form of Papa Yared, then lifted his gaze, his eyes hardening with resolve. The confrontation wasn't over. The battle outside still raged.

He drew a deep, shuddering breath, feeling the change settle within him. The hand was part of him now, a perfect conduit. And through it, through his own awakened Mind, he could feel the ambient power thrumming through Maison Noir—the raw, volatile Soul energy Alex had unleashed, saturating the very air.

Jacques Black was finally ready to fight.

Mind directed Body, wielding the power of Soul.

Noir’s back, bitches.