CHAPTER 251: LANGUAGE OF STONES

The brief respite ended quickly. The trees, which had given him a semblance of cover, turned into lethal traps. Julius adapted his aim, no longer targeting Dylan directly, but anticipating his movements, felling the trees toward which he ran. The very landscape became a weapon.

A massive oak exploded to his right, shattered to splinters by a projectile the size of a melon. Dylan barely had time to hurl himself aside, an instinctive, desperate dodge that sent him rolling into a thicket of thorns. The brambles tore into his skin, adding sharp agony to the symphony of his wounds.

He staggered back to his feet, but the path behind him was now blocked by the crushed trunk. To his left, a steep ravine dropped down to a stream. Julius advanced methodically, reducing the space for escape step by step. He no longer unleashed volleys, but single, precise shots that cracked like gunfire, each stone forcing Dylan to spend outrageous amounts of energy to avoid them.

"You think running will save you?" Julius’s voice thundered over the crack and snap of broken branches. "Flight is a decision, not a reflex. You flee toward something, not away from danger. Show me where you’re fleeing to!"

A stone whistled through the air—not toward Dylan, but at the boulder he had aimed to dive behind. The rock burst apart, robbing him of his intended cover. Dylan froze, heart hammering in his chest. He was cornered now: the ravine at his back, Julius in front, and not a single tree left sturdy enough to stop what was coming.

His mind, sharpened by pain and fear, calculated at lightning speed. The stones. Their rhythm. The space. There was no way out. Running was impossible. Standing still was a death sentence.

Julius’s lesson was carved into his flesh: knowing was not the same as doing. He had to act.

Another stone came, straight as an arrow, aimed at his center mass. Dylan saw it. He knew. And this time, instead of flailing in a clumsy dodge, something inside him locked into place. His fear hardened into a strange, icy clarity.

He did not duck. He did not leap sideways.

He spun on his heel.

The stone grazed his chest, tearing his tunic, searing his skin. And in the same motion, his right foot—heavy with exhaustion but carried by the momentum of his pivot—struck against a half-buried rock in the soil. Without thinking, carried by the spin, his good arm shot out, his fingers clawed at the mossy, weighty stone.

Before Julius could hurl his next projectile, Dylan, with a roar that was equal parts rage and pain, hurled the stone back.

It was no giant’s throw. It wasn’t fast, nor was it precise. It was clumsy, awkward—the desperate gesture of a man teetering on the brink. The rock spun crookedly through the air, missing its mark by far, and crashed pitifully against a tree trunk ten meters from Julius.

But the colossus stopped.

The deadly whistling of the next stone never came.

Silence fell, heavy, broken only by Dylan’s ragged breathing.

Julius looked at him, one brow raised, his arm still drawn back, a fresh stone cradled in his palm like an egg of granite. A deep rumble rose from his chest, something that might almost be mistaken for approval.

"Finally," he growled. "You’re starting to understand. You don’t block an avalanche. You don’t dodge an earthquake. Sometimes... you have to throw a stone back."

He clenched his fist, and the rock he held crumbled into dust between his fingers.

"But a poorly thrown stone is useless. Again."

——

The thunder of silence broke when Julius dropped the stone in his hand; it dissolved into powder as if his sheer strength crushed logic itself. His gaze locked onto Dylan’s, heavy with challenge.

"Again." His voice was dry, merciless, yet something else lurked within it—the expectation of a pupil finally willing to learn. "This time don’t just throw it back. Aim. Weigh. Think."

Dylan’s throat rasped, his chest burned, his jaw broken and aching. The tear in his tunic revealed battered flesh, caked blood. He rose, each movement a choice. The calm he had found after his first attempt was no triumph; it was a cold necessity.

Julius picked up another stone, "charged" it with a breath, and let it fly. It tore through the air like a comet, precise, unyielding. Dylan saw it, felt his instincts scream, but this time he didn’t just react. He calculated direction, speed, point of impact—then aligned his body, his feet planted like a marksman taking aim.

When the stone struck the ground at his feet, he lunged forward, sliding across a carpet of broken needles. His hand clawed into the dirt, finding a compact rock, smaller, denser. He weighed it, calibrated it with the eye of the wounded, not the master. He raised it—and this time, he didn’t throw it like a scream; he threw it like a spoken word.

The rock arced cleanly.

It didn’t split the air like Julius’s projectiles; it lacked the same velocity. But it had purpose. It clipped a chalky trunk, ricocheted—and by some improbable angle and momentum, struck the staff Julius rested across his shoulder. A dull, soft knock. Not a miracle, just contact. Julius narrowed his eyes, surprised, then let out a sharp laugh.

"Better," he murmured, almost approving. "You heard the stone. You felt its voice. Now repeat it, and stay precise."

Then came a harsher barrage: medium stones, heavier ones, quick reversals. Dylan had to dart, roll, scramble over slick roots to buy fractions of a second. Each time an obstacle robbed him of an angle, he forced himself to stay calm—to look, not only to see, but to understand the curve, the timing, the rhythm.

He still failed. One stone split his thigh; another tore his flank. But he tried again. Each throw he returned grew sharper, less panicked, less random. His weary arm learned to judge weight, trajectory, rotation. His sharpened eye began to sync flesh with instinct.

Julius watched without flinching. And when Dylan finally returned a stone that grazed the giant’s cheek and made him turn a fraction, a slow smile crept across his weathered face.

"You’ve grasped the first rule," he said. "Don’t just endure. Turn the assault into a question. But now—the second. Anticipate the hand that throws. If you only ever answer what’s already in the air, you’ll be crushed by what comes next."

Dylan nodded silently. He could feel his reserves dwindling, his essence consumed as his stigma knitted his body together piece by piece. But the lesson—perverse and real—was forging something new in him: not only survival, but the economy of survival. To ration energy, to ration regeneration, to choose where to gamble his soul.

"Again." Julius extended his hand, palm open, taunting. "And this time, make me feel you can choose an exchange. Don’t just return. Take initiative. Make me run."

The clearing held its breath: the shadows of the trees quivered, dust hung suspended, and in the center of this theater of stones, Dylan took his place once more. His fingers scraped the ground, searching for the rock that could speak better than words what he had just learned. His body screamed fatigue, his wounds wept, but beneath it all churned a certainty: he was no longer just the target. He was becoming the option.

And when the next stone whistled, he raised his arm—not by reflex, but by choice—and hurled the heavy rock with a spin that carved out a deliberate trajectory. It flew, straight, imperfect, but chosen.

Julius turned away as if he hadn’t seen the result. But Dylan caught the faintest twitch at the edge of his profile: approval. The executioner had just taught him the first economy of a soldier—how to live long enough to make war in this new world.