All Chapters of MEND ME IF YOU CAN.: Chapter 101 - Chapter 105

The light spilling from Soren’s chest dimmed and flickered, pulsing like a heartbeat caught between worlds, uncertain if it belonged to the living or some fragile echo of eternity. Each pulse trembled through his ribs, illuminating the rain-slick skin along his shoulders, his jaw, his trembling hands, with a golden shimmer that seemed almost sacred. It faded and flared unevenly, as if life itself were hesitant to claim him, as if the world were holding its breath.Soren gasped, the air jagged in his lungs, his fingers pressing against the wound that was no longer flesh but fractured radiance. It pulsed beneath his palm, hot and cold all at once, singing against his skin with the soundless agony of dying stars. Across from him, Travian — god of the Seventh Order, the immortal whose name had once commanded legions of angels and men alike — dropped to his knees. His divine glow, once a perfect halo, wavered and dimmed like a dying sun sinking beneath a crimson horizon. It was not weaknes

The heavens convulsed.It wasn’t merely thunder or light — it was the very fabric of existence folding in on itself, like a living thing writhing in pain. What had once been sky was now a wound — a vast, ragged rift bleeding light and shadow in equal measure. The air trembled, bending under the weight of creation’s agony.From that wound, the Primarch stepped through.Its arrival was not heralded by sound, nor light, nor fire, but awareness. It was like the world suddenly remembered its own maker — every atom, every stone, every star recognizing the presence that had carved them from nothing. Its presence could not be seen; it was felt.A pressure that sank into marrow. A whisper that slid beneath thought.The weight of eternity pressing against fragile flesh.Where it moved, the constellations quivered as if bowing in reverence.Where it breathed, mountains bent. Oceans stilled. And in that silence between one heartbeat and the next, the voice of the Primarch entered all minds — not

The sun rose like a dying ember — pale, uncertain, its light fractured by the smoke of a world still clawing its way back from ruin. The air trembled with the aftershocks of creation; the heavens still bore the scars of their struggle. Where dawn should have been gold and gentle, it came instead in broken colors — a bleeding horizon of ash and silver, of beauty born from devastation.The fields beyond the shattered Sanctum glimmered with a fragile sheen. Ash mixed with frost, creating a landscape that seemed half-real, half-dream. The soil itself shimmered faintly — divine residue woven into the earth like threads of dying stars. Rivers of silver light wound their way through blackened stone, whispering softly in tongues no mortal could name. Every ripple carried echoes of prayers that once shook heaven — the last remnants of gods now gone silent.At the edge of that trembling horizon stood Soren. Barefoot, cloak torn and heavy with the scent of smoke, he looked less like a man and mo