4/12/2017 – 12:48 PM
The Grotesque War...
Location: Rinascita, Celestine.
- South of Rinascita -
At the southern rear of Rinascita—just before the edge of the Mythical Wilds, where fairies whispered in the air and monsters stalked through twisted trees—the warriors of Requiem stood ready.
Cloaks flared in the wind. Armor gleamed under the gray clouds. Blades hummed with purpose.
At the front, Alina, the Sword Saint of Technique, held the Fallen King's sword in her right hand. Her stance was quiet, perfect, and lethal. Not far behind her stood Sylvia, hands crackling with Celestial magic, her expression locked in calm focus.
Alina's sharp gaze flicked toward the tree line.
Subtle movement. A rustle. A twitch of shadow.
They were coming.
Sylvia glanced at the sky for just a moment—then breathed deep.
This is it, she thought. Time to prove I've grown from my past.
Alina narrowed her eyes at the approaching grotesque. Just one for now, but more were sure to follow. She tightened her grip.
It's time, Master. I'll show them what humanity is truly capable of. I haven't forgotten my promise—and I won't let this town fall. Not while I still stand.
- West of Rinascita -
To the west of Rinascita, over a hundred members of Valhalla stood clad in black, their formation V-shaped and made for offense. Sharp. Calculated. Brutal.
At the tip of the spear, Aaron stepped forward.
He held two black blades, one in each hand. A crooked grin played on his lips as the first wave of grotesques—hundreds of them—staggered closer through the dusk.
He tilted his head. Whispered.
"Let the slaughter commence."
- Northwest of Rinascita -
In the northwest, Xander stood tall, his swords at his sides, surrounded by the Eternal Overseer Guild.
Grotesques rushed toward them, dozens strong and gaining speed. Xander rolled his neck, patting the back of his head like he was just waking up from a nap. His expression? Boredom layered over lethal calm.
His guild—cloaked in red—watched with experienced, hardened eyes. They were ready.
Xander exhaled. Then a thought came to his mind.
So... that memory's already been forgotten. Then maybe—just maybe—I'll try again. This time, to ensure my people... and my friends... survive.
He raised one sword toward the horizon and shouted:
"All Overseers—CHARGE!"
His aura exploded into white light. Behind him, a ghostly figure emerged—black and white, silent and grim. A reaper. Its scythe raised over the battlefield, ready to cut down anything that got too close.
- East of Rinascita -
To the east, the Crimson Eclipse Guild stood, hearts pounding but spirits locked in.
Anxious. But trained.
Navina stepped forward, boots crunching into frost-bitten soil. Her voice rang out clear and strong.
"Listen well! Today may be our first battle—but it will not be our last. Tomorrow still waits for us, and I swear—we will see it together. Fear is natural, but remember this: we fight not just to survive, but to be remembered. So raise your blades, steel your hearts—who among you will carve their name into history and stand for Celestine?"
Roars. Cheers. Magic flared to life.
Weapons, staves, and steel were raised to the sky.
Navina's icy Arcflingers summoned into her hands, glowing blue with elemental frost. Her sword hung behind her back—silent but ready.
Beside her, Lucas stepped forward with calm precision. Two daggers of light formed in his grip as mirrors appeared behind him, floating, reflecting the battle's coming bloodshed.
The Heavenly Sorcerer wasn't holding back.
And just behind them—Azrael.
Still.
Expression blank. Hands by his side. But something in his skin, something deep within, warned him:
Something... felt.. very wrong.
- North of Rinascita -
And finally, at the North—Rinascita's true frontlines—stood the Celestial Apex Guild with it's members and mercenaries.
Where the grotesques would strike hardest.
Where everything would be decided.
--------------------
Levi's Perspective:
I cracked my neck, then my knuckles. My jacket fluttered behind me like I was some kind of damn hero, which, let's be real—I kind of am.
The Celestial Apex Guild lined up behind me. Swords drawn. Spells humming. Heartbeats pounding so loud I could practically hear them.
"Alright, listen up!" I called out, slamming the heel of my boot into the ground with a grin. "You all wanna live through this? Then stay behind me while I fight in the front."
Some of them blinked. Others didn't even flinch.
I pointed my thumb over my shoulder at Zain, who stood cool and composed. "He gives the orders. You follow them. No backtalk. No second-guessing. I'll be at the front carving a path so wide you'll forget we were in war."
I smirked, spinning my sword once before slinging it back in place.
That's when one kid—hell, he couldn't have been older than seventeen—muttered behind me. "Will you... will you really be back? What if it gets too much?"
I paused. Turned slightly. Looked him right in the eyes.
"Oh, kid," I said with a lazy grin. "I'm not just gonna come back. I'm gonna win. The grotesques? They'll be the ones praying I never showed up in the first place."
They chuckled nervously. I didn't.
Because I meant every word.
—
Zain walked up beside me. He didn't need to say anything. I felt the weight in his eyes.
"Don't lose yourself in the chaos, Levi. We need you sharp. You're the strongest among us." He looked ahead at the war-torn horizon. "Make this count. Win it for us."
I rolled my eyes. "You getting sentimental on me, old friend?"
He smiled faintly. "Just trying to keep you alive."
"Relax," I said, giving him a sideways glance and a grin. "This is just the prelude, Zain. The opening act before my reign begins. So sit tight fron the front row and watch me."
He gave me a single nod. The kind you give someone when you know they might not come back, but you're still proud of them anyway.
I gripped the hilt of my sword tighter, letting the weight of the metal settle in my palm like it was the only thing keeping me grounded.
I hated this part.
Not the silence before the fight—nah, I could handle that. I hated what came crawling up from the back of my mind when everything got too still.
I closed my eyes for a second too long.
And there it was.
That one regret and failure of my life.
My village burning, grotesques swarming through like wildfire. My father's screamed as he tried to hold the line with a broken axe. My mother screaming my name from behind the house.
And me?
I ran away.
Fast. Coward-fast because I was scared...
They told us to retreat, but let's not kid ourselves—I wasn't thinking about tactics. I was scared. My legs moved before my pride could catch up. And I left them behind.
Emma saw it.
God... Emma.
She was only around twelve and still managed to stand her ground better than I did. Her face—I'll never forget it. Dirt and tears smeared across her cheeks, her arms wrapped around our parent's body like she could shield them from the end.
But what gutted me most wasn't her screams.
It was her hurt.
The way she stared at me as I turned and ran—like she didn't even recognize me anymore.
I remember that look more than anything.
I bit my lip hard, pushing back whatever was threatening to rise in my throat.
This fight wasn't about titles. Wasn't about glory. This was personal.
I didn't just want to protect Rinascita.
I had to.
I owed it to them. To the ones I left behind. To Emma, whose tears I didn't wipe away. To the boy I used to be—so I could finally tell him, It's okay, you're not running anymore.
"I swear," I whispered, drawing my sword with a sharp, clean slide. "Never again. Never again will I leave someone behind and hide because of fear."
My stance shifted naturally—lower, tighter. This wasn't for the audience watching or my ego. This was for the promise I made to myself.
Then I felt it.
Something thick in the air—like trauma wrapped in silk. It chilled and burned at the same time.
I turned.
And damn near paused, because of course it'd be her.
Celia.
She stepped forward like it was the ending all things. Like the grotesques had signed their deaths off the moment she arrived.
The curses in the air twisted, sharp and foul, awaiting to be used. The ground darkened under her feet. Even the grotesques from the long distance froze.
She didn't say a word.
Didn't have to.
Her eyes told the story—deep, red, and gleaming with something so dark it almost looked beautiful. Not the usual crimson glow. No—this was deeper. Angrier. Something had snapped within her.
I caught the marks on her fingers—slight injuries, just visible beneath the flicker of her magic. She glanced down, murmured something too low for anyone else to catch, and they vanished. Just like that.
The guild behind me went dead quiet.
Zain, steady as always, took a deep breath. His hand hovered near his weapon.
And me?
My smirk returned, sharper now. Less playful.
Because Celia wasn't smiling.
And neither was I.
She didn't speak right away.
Just stood there—still, unreadable, like the world would break if she moved too fast.
I broke the silence first, of course.
"Yo, fashionably late or just dramatically homicidal today?"
Celia tilted her head slightly, eyes glowing with something that probably could set the forest behind us on fire if she looked a bit harder. She didn't smirk. Didn't scoff. Just replied, coldly.
"I was busy preparing to ensure their species never breathes again in my presence."
...Okay, damn.
I whistled low, tapping my sword to my shoulder. "You could've just said you slept in."
Still nothing playful from her unlike her usual self. And somehow, that was more terrifying than any grotesque screech I had heard today.
I took a small step toward her, not out of bravery or anything. Just curiosity.
"Are you sure you'll be fine?"
Celia's gaze lingered on mine for half a beat longer than usual. "You?"
I gave her my classic, award-winning grin. "I'm not dying today. That's the plan. That, and carrying everyone else on my back."
She blinked once. "Good. They can all hide behind your back while I tear the rest of these things apart."
...I nearly choked.
"Pfft—okay, queen. But don't expect me to save you when you bite off more than you can chew again."
Her voice dropped, sharp and final. "I don't need anyone saving me again."
I looked at her carefully. The same girl who used to follow after Kaiser, always smiling and laughing around him had this murderous look in her eyes now.
I grinned—out of instinct mostly. "And if Kaiser was here, you wouldn't want to be saved by him either?"
I regretted it the second it left my mouth.
Her lips parted. Then closed. Then curled, just slightly, into a smile that wasn't really a smile. "Oh, I'll get my love back. Nothing will stop me."
That was… unsettling. Even for her. The red eyes gleamed darker than ever as if someone else had said those words.
She turned, hair slicing through the air like her chains, stepping toward the grotesques flooding the hills. Her voice was low, almost whispered, but every word hit hard.
"You better not get in my way, Levi."
I smirked, stepping forward beside her, hand resting near my blade's hilt.
"The feeling's mutual. Don't slow me down."
Her chains unraveled beside her like they were thirsty—alive, hungry for the slaughter.
I cracked my neck once, letting my speed flow through my body like a current of lightning.
And together, we stared down the endless wave ahead.
This was personal.
The Eternal Swarm.
--------------------------------
High above the world, on the edge of a shadowed mountain, someone sat alone.
He wore black from head to toe—boots, cloak, gloves. Even his hair was dark, unmoving in the cold wind. A smooth, expressionless mask hid his face—two hollow eye holes, and a smile carved too wide to be human.
He sat at the edge, legs dangling over the drop, staring straight at the grotesque horde gathering near Rinascita.
He didn't move.
Didn't speak for a moment.
Then, calmly, a voice rang out—flat, emotionless.
"I hereby forbid any God or Higher being to interfere with my world."
No sound followed. But the sky reacted.
"I stand as the Void. And the moment you dare lift your heads in pride against it, your end begins."
He shifted slightly. The land behind him didn't darken—it vanished. Not shadow, but absence. As if the world had been deleted.
The mountain, the trees, the ground—gone for a second.
Then it all returned.
Untouched.
He exhaled, slow and steady.
"Humanity... savor this moment."
His hands rested on his lap.
"Because for once—and only once—I'm on your side."
Down below, the grotesques screeched. A flood of monsters. But they didn't move closer.
They felt it too—the air thickening, their instincts clawing at them to flee.
The existence of something... That shouldn't exist.
As if the void itself had eyes—and now it was staring back.
His voice came again, colder than before.
"I didn't avoid war because I was afraid."
Pause.
"I avoided it… because she had taught me to be kind."
The wind stilled. Even the air seemed to wait.
"And for a time… I was."
He leaned forward, slowly. The cliff beneath him cracked—not from weight, but from pressure.
"I have many enemies… but my equals are none. Anyone who's ever challenged my authority no longer exists."
Below, the first horn of the grotesque swarm roared across Rinascita.
"Your story ended the moment you met me."
The sky dimmed.
The earth trembled.
And so it began.
Humanity versus Grotesques.
The Void watched over humanity.
--------------------------------
The Grotesque War:
The earth trembled beneath the swarm.
From the southern ridges, where the broken trees formed a jagged silhouette against the overcast sky, they came—the grotesques. Not in lines. Not in order. In clumps. In packs. Twitching, lurching forward on all fours before snapping upright with unnatural pops of their spines, their grotesque screeches echoed across the battlefield like rusted blades dragging over stone.
The frontlines of Requiem were already soaked in sweat and blood. The smell of iron and ash tainted the wind.
"Hold the line!" barked a swordsman, sweat clinging to his jawline. His blade shook, just a little.
The grotesques didn't wait for formation. They lunged.
A C-Rank dagger wielder ducked under the first claw, slashing instinctively at its midsection—but the blade skidded across the grotesque's armor-like spine. Another grotesque twisted mid-air and crashed into a shieldbearer, its elbow bending backwards to impale the man's side. Screams broke through the air, wild and short.
"Don't break—!"
Too late. A few panicked. One of the spearmen dropped his weapon and turned. Another tried to cover him but was tackled. A flash of venom-coated claws tore through his thigh. The grotesque's twitching mouth pulled into a warped grin.
But then—
"Wind. Arc. Three-Step Flow."
Alina's voice cut through the chaos like silver through smoke.
In one fluid motion, she stepped in—graceful and precise—her blade dragging behind her. The first grotesque leapt at her. She didn't dodge. She turned, spinning low with her heel dragging through the mud.
A horizontal arc of wind cracked outward—shaped, not wild. It split the monster in half before it could land.
Before the halves hit the dirt, she was already moving.
"Water Rise. Conduit Surge. Blade Bind!"
Her sword glowed blue. The air around her legs shimmered with moisture pulled from the ground. Water spiraled upward into her blade, then snapped—the sword's edge coated in a vibrating, conductive stream.
Another grotesque—this one with wing-stubs flaring behind its back—dove from above.
She didn't look up. Just pivoted.
The blade move through the air.
A vertical cut. Electric blue.
The grotesque twitched midair. Jolted. Seized. Collapsed.
Steam hissed from the corpse.
Alina exhaled once. "Four down."
But even she missed one.
Two grotesques slipped low beneath her last slash—moving like cockroaches in shadow. Their legs bent backward, lurching into the gaps left open by the last volley. They skittered past Alina—straight toward the backline.
A young mage—barely C-Rank—froze, clutching his staff. "Th-they got through—!"
The grotesques were almost on him.
But then—
The air turned still.
And then—sacred.
"O Light Divine, descend as starlight—"
Sylvia's voice was quiet, like a prayer carried on wind.
"Pierce through shadow. Judgement: Triarcan Lance!"
Three lines of golden light bloomed in the sky above her—precise, silent, and deadly.
With a chime, the spears of light descended.
CRACK—CRACK—CRACK.
The three grotesques convulsed mid-charge, each impaled through their cores by celestial spears. They twitched violently, then screeched—that same metallic, broken scream—and fell still, smoke rising from their wounds.
Sylvia lowered her hand, a faint radiance still humming at her fingertips.
The mages behind her looked stunned. One of them let out a breath he didn't know he'd held. "She… she saved us…"
"Eyes forward," Sylvia said, her voice calm but firm. "They're not done."
She was right.
The grotesques didn't care about casualties. Another set charged, this one with bulging torsos and hunched backs—evolved strains. One jumped unnaturally high, then crashed into a shield line.
The formation broke.
"Fall back—!"
"No!" came a voice—sharp, certain.
Alina.
She reappeared—sliding into the broken formation. Her blade trailed electricity again. "Focus. Breathe. Let me handle the furry."
Then: "Storm Spiral. Breathless. Precision Lock."
Her feet glided across mud—unnaturally steady. A twist, a step, and—
Slice. Through a grotesque's forearm.
Pivot. Upward cut across the neck of another.
Final twist—wind burst.
A shockwave rippled outward, slamming the remaining ones back.
"Keep standing," Alina muttered. "We're not done yet."
Behind her, Sylvia lifted her hand again. Golden rings formed in the air.
"Then let's finish this side. For Requiem."
The two women stood back-to-back—a storm and a star.
Meanwhile,
---- Northern Front – The Bloodborne Proxy ----
They poured out from the mist in twitching bursts, claws glinting under the faint sunlight. Screeches climbed over one another, building into a chorus of metal and madness.
The ground was already littered with half-crushed bodies and twitching limbs. Blood soaked the earth.
And in the center of it—
Aaron stood still.
A black greatsword rested over his shoulder, its edge already coated in grotesque blood. His cloak fluttered gently as a breeze passed, tugging at the crimson-insignia of Valhalla—a symbol long since soaked in blood and pride.
A grotesque lunged at him from behind.
He didn't turn.
He spun the sword in a wide arc—without looking—and split the creature down the center. Its body crumpled, halved and twitching.
Aaron finally exhaled. "...Too slow."
Another grotesque launched from the left—this one airborne, limbs coiled like springs.
Aaron didn't step back. He stepped forward.
The ground cracked beneath his boots as he leapt—faster than the eye could follow.
CRUNCH.
The grotesque's head was gone, shattered by a single upward kick.
"That all you've got?" he muttered. His voice was a low, gravel-dragging drawl.
From behind, a Valhalla recruit shouted, "We're getting surrounded! Requesting—!"
SLASH.
Aaron cleaved a grotesque in half mid-sentence. Then turned to the recruit who had screamed.
Too late.
A grotesque—one of the winged strains—descended like a shadow and tore into him, splitting armor and bone in one rending strike.
The boy gurgled, dying.
Aaron watched it happen.
Unblinking.
"Tch… Weak," he muttered. "Should've died earlier."
Then he walked forward, dragging his sword like it was weightless, into the heart of the grotesque swarm.
And laughed.
---- Northwest Front – Frozen Precision ----
The air was colder here.
Ice spread in geometric veins across the battlefield, cutting trenches into the dirt and snapping through the roots of trees.
Grotesques snarled, clawing at the ice with frustration as it formed up around them, boxing them in. Walls of jagged frost—not random, but perfect angles. A trap disguised as terrain.
At the center of it all stood a tall figure in pale armor, arms crossed casually. A faint yawn escaped him as he surveyed the chaos.
Xander. Sword Saint of Mastery.
"...You guys are too noisy," he muttered. "If you keep flailing like that, they're gonna break formation before they even die. That's boring."
A fire mage beside him shouted, "They're pushing through the right—if we lose that block, they'll get behind us—!"
"Yeah, yeah." Xander scratched his head.
Then casually raised his hand.
"Frostbind Grid."
The ground to their right erupted. Sheets of razor-sharp ice lanced upward in a flawless formation—triangular prisms that shifted and locked the grotesques into a freezing puzzle. Their twisted limbs slammed against the new walls, screeching as ice burned into their chitin.
"Now," Xander said, turning slightly to his guild. "Fire through the seams. Don't mess it up."
Three mages moved quickly, launching coordinated flame spells through the small cracks in the prism. The grotesques howled, boiling from inside their cages.
Still, they kept coming.
Two broke free on the far flank, charging at a pair of twin swordsmen.
Xander sighed.
"Fine, I'll work a bit."
He blurred forward—not fast like a flash, but precise, his steps barely audible over the cracking ice. He ducked a claw, weaved beneath a backhand, and stuck his sword through a grotesque's chest with mechanical efficiency. Then turned and shattered the other one's kneecap with a low kick.
The sword spun once in his hand, reversed—
SHLICK.
Straight through the jaw and out the skull.
He pulled it free, flicking off the blood.
"Relax. I'm here now."
More grotesques began circling from the top ridge.
A younger guild member screamed as he was tackled—guts spilling in the snow. Another tried to save him but was caught mid-swing and torn to pieces.
Cries echoed down the slope.
"Xander! They're breaching the upper ridge!"
He looked up lazily. Then exhaled.
"…So annoying."
He raised both hands.
"Absolute Ring: Frost Sovereign."
A dome of frost erupted outward from his body—blue-white and brilliant, snapping into the air like a wave. It expanded up the ridge and froze everything in a wide radius—including the grotesques, who twitched as their limbs locked in place, one by one.
His guild stared.
Frozen grotesques cracked where they stood. The ice snapped inward—collapsing like broken glass into the monsters' bodies.
Then silence.
Xander lowered his arms, rubbing the back of his neck.
"Can someone write this down? That was, like, five formations worth of effort. I want credit for that later when my sister asks for my contributions."
Back up north, Aaron crushed a grotesque beneath his heel, blood spraying his legs. He didn't notice. Another two recruits lay dead behind him.
He didn't notice that either.
He dragged his sword from another corpse and grinned.
"...Not bad. Still not enough to make me feel alive."
And somewhere far off in the center of it all—the Swarm Tyrant hadn't moved yet.
It was only just beginning.
---- Northeast Front – Crimson Eclipse Encampment ----
Smoke curled through the air as shadows twitched against the blood-tinted sky. The ground trembled with the vibrations of chitin claws and stomping feet. Grotesques—sleek, insectoid nightmares—poured in from the ridges, some gliding low with ragged wings, others bounding erratically between corpses.
"Form the arc line! Keep the distance tight!" Navina's voice sliced through the chaos—sharp, clear, and full of life.
Her blonde hair shimmered like firelight as she dashed across the frontline, eyes scanning, calculating. Her sword gleamed with water-etched light, and in her left hand, an elegant construct of frost and steel materialized—a hand-melded arcflinger pulsing with cold magic.
The moment a grotesque lunged—fangs bared, claws outstretched—she fired.
Thup—CRACK!
A bolt of freezing air blasted its upper torso, crystallizing its limbs. Before the ice fully formed, she was already twirling—her body low, dodging a diving insectoid as another arcflinger formed in her left hand, this one burning red.
Thup—FWOOM!
A fire-infused projectile collided with the frozen grotesque's chest—shattering it into glimmering shards mid-screech.
In two seconds, two grotesques fell. In ten seconds, five more.
"Don't break formation! You handle the ones I leave crippled—do not get greedy!" she called, dashing past her squad, elegance woven into speed. Her cape fluttered behind her like trailing starlight.
One member shouted, "Captain! Behind you—!"
A grotesque blurred into motion, diving from above.
Navina's body reacted before her mind did. Sword whipped upward, slicing through chitin like wet parchment. A recoil flashed in her left hand, and bang—an arcflinger of storm-light burst into life, wind and lightning coalescing.
The second shot? Right between the grotesque's clustered eyes.
That made eight. She didn't slow.
Lucas stood a dozen meters behind, light flowing around him like liquid mirrors. His fingers moved precisely, drawing shimmering panels of magic that twisted at impossible angles. Light compressed at the edges—reflected, refracted, bent into deadly lines.
Zzzzap!
A spear of pure sunlight snapped across the battlefield and struck a grotesque mid-flight, bursting its thorax open like a melon.
He turned to his system-imbued interface and muttered, "Mirrors set. Adjust output, 12%. Focus beam through hex-prism."
The light shifted—dense and tight like a railgun of starlight. He aimed it forward, just as two grotesques leapt toward a pair of retreating mages.
"Hold on—!"
He extended both palms and said,
"Aurora Ward: Divine Prism."
A radiant forcefield shimmered into place, forming just in time to absorb the impact. The grotesques bounced off with a shriek, stunned for half a breath too long.
Lucas didn't hesitate.
A light dart shaped like a dagger spun from his wrist and buried itself into the softer underside of one's jaw.
The second?
He raised a palm and focused light through three angled mirrors.
"Refract. Split. Fire."
Zzzt-zzzt-zzzt!
Three pinpoint beams of light hit all three of the grotesque's knee joints. It collapsed in a twitching heap.
The two rescued mages gasped. One stammered, "You—You saved us!"
Lucas didn't turn. "Then don't die yet. Fall back and follow Navina's orders. She's the heartbeat of this front."
Back near the line, Navina spun like a dancer—sword flashing, gun smoking. Her reflexes were almost unnatural.
A grotesque skittered toward her, its wings buzzing.
Bang—switch—bang—switch—stab—bang!
One arcflinger turned to steam as a second one formed, each shaped differently—ice, wind, fire, then lightning. Each one fired once before being discarded like a flower petal mid-battle.
Seventeen grotesques fell.
Each kill was a note in a melody only she could hear. And as her sword carved through the air again—elegantly intercepting a poisoned fang—she whispered, "You twitch too slow, sweetheart."
Her guild moved like a synchronized tide behind her, their morale unwavering.
Lucas finished syncing his mirrors once more, muttering to himself, "They only look terrifying in numbers… but their movement loops are predictable. Sharp lunge, left feint, high drop, then snap."
He drew a triangle of floating mirrors around himself and stared at the charging trio coming for him.
"Reflect... redirect… blind."
A flash of light burst outward in a perfect 63-degree arc, aimed to hit their weak, shadowed eye sockets.
As the grotesques staggered mid-charge, he clenched a fist.
"Now burn."
A wall of white flame surged from below, cooking the three mid-step.
He didn't look back.
From above, the northeast sky lit up in overlapping colors—frost, fire, light, and wind dancing as arcflingers fired, mirrored rays sliced, and sword saints fought like myths.
But even as grotesques fell in heaps and their screeches tore the air, more crawled from the ridgelines.
And further beyond… something deeper stirred.
[Levi – Northern Front of Rinascita | First Person POV]
I was moving too fast for the ground to matter.
The soil cracked every time I dashed through it, and the grotesques? They didn't even get the chance to scream. One second they were crawling out of their hive pit like they owned the place, the next—snikt—I was already halfway through the next dozen.
God-Speed wasn't just fast. It was goddamn unfair.
Burning magic traced behind me like thunder after lightning. I didn't look back—no need. The bodies split where I cut. Some exploded, some crumbled. All fell.
"Levi! Left ridge! Formation Delta—Spear Split!" Zain's voice echoed through the north wind, sharp and commanding like always.
I didn't reply. I just vanished into the mist of ash and shadow.
Let the genius call the plays. I'll do the butchering.
My sword hummed in my hand—itching for more. I ghosted through a crowd of grotesques trying to flank our rear, my presence flickering in and out like a broken nightmare. I reappeared behind them, crouched low.
They turned.
Too late.
One breath. Eight slashes.
The air cracked with sound as I rose, slicing upward like an executioner.
Black blood rained.
Two of our mages were about to get mauled. I blinked past them, rammed my elbow into the grotesque's jaw mid-charge, and cleaved it in half before its brain even registered movement. The second one I just kicked into the abyss.
"Watch your backs, rookies," I muttered, flicking blood off my blade. "I ain't your babysitter, but I'm too pretty to bury you."
They looked flabbergasted, calmly.
I moved again—faster, faster.
Every grotesque I struck down only seemed to call ten more. The hive was spewing them out like a faucet from hell. They kept crawling, biting, screeching. And I kept flowing through them as the hunter.
But then—I stopped.
Eight grotesques closed in. Bigger. Armored. Smarter. Their formation was tight, almost military.
Cute.
I cracked my neck and whispered, "Alright. Let's play, ugly."
One step forward—
In a heartbeat, eight heads fell.
The bodies twitched, confused.
I stood in the center of them—my blade still humming, eyes already forward.
Because that's when I saw her.
Celia.
The quiet girl. The one who used to flinch at loud noises and smile at flowers.
She was no flower now.
She was the goddamn nightmare.
Her white hair was soaked in blood and sweat, her red eyes glowing with something... murderous. Not rage. No, Celia wasn't mad. She was focused. Like a queen dishing out judgment to worms.
Chains slithered behind her—alive, cursed, hungry. They moved like they had minds of their own, whipping around her like shadows. One grotesque lunged—
Snap.
The chain coiled around its throat mid-air, and yanked.
Its head didn't come off.
Its entire spine did.
She didn't stop. Not even a pause.
Her vines—black, thorned, corrupted—spread out from her feet. Every swing of her hand tore through five, six, ten grotesques. The thorns weren't just ripping—they were withering. I could feel the life drain from every beast that touched her.
One grotesque tried flanking her.
Big mistake.
She kicked, and a vine shot out from her thigh—spiked and spinning. It tore through the thing's eye, bursting out its back like a cursed bloom.
Her eyes were glowing with something darker now—sadness? Pain? Regret?
No.
Obsession.
She was drowning in it. Drowning and using it to fuel every cursed chain and every thorned vine. Her magic reeked of negative emotion—fear, doubt, anger, heartbreak.
She was weaponizing her own misery.
I just stood there watching as she danced through the grotesques like some villainess out of a nightmare. No wasted movement. No hesitation. Every mistake they made, she memorized—and punished with brutal elegance seconds later. She adapted mid-battle, like she rewrote her own code with every second that passed.
One of the grotesques managed to scrape her shoulder.
I saw her wince.
She didn't fall back.
She grabbed the grotesque by its wrist—and it screamed as its arm rotted off in seconds from her withering touch. She stared into its eyes like she was staring at herself. Then—
Snap.
The chain crushed its skull like a rotting fruit.
…
Zain's voice cracked through the fight again. "Squads Echo and Theta, push past the third trench! Celia's creating a breach!"
No shit she was.
She had already dropped over a hundred grotesques—alone.
And she was still going.
I exhaled, wiping some sweat from my brow.
The sky was bleeding.
The land was shaking.
And somehow, in the middle of it, the girl who once clung to Kaiser's arm like the world was too big... had become something else entirely.
I tightened my grip on my sword, unable to pull my eyes away from her as she advanced, merciless and cold.
What the hell happened to that innocent girl?
How did she go from crying over him…
…to slaughtering monsters like she was born for it?
I didn't know the answer.
But damn…
She lives up to her title.
Queen of Curses.
- A few minutes pass...
The kill count wasn't just rising—it was stacking like a sin list.
One hundred. One-fifty. One-seventy—We weren't fighting anymore. We were just one sidedly slaughtering their species.
Celia moved beside me like a haunting melody, her chains ripping, vines flailing, blood spattering across her pale face like war paint. The grotesques lunged, screamed, fused into larger forms—but she didn't flinch. Neither did I.
I twisted into a blink, appearing behind a ten-foot grotesque with tusks. Its jaw split open, roaring fire into the sky.
I shoved my sword upward through its neck.
"Nice one," Celia said, breath calm, tone like she was sipping tea while tearing out spines.
"You're not bad yourself," I replied, ducking under a barrage of claws, slicing a triple-kill through kneecaps. "Didn't think the girl who once cried over small injuries would go all out war against a species."
"I've been adapting."
"Understatement of the century."
Her vines stabbed three grotesques mid-leap and pulled them in like fishing hooks before the chains crushed their skulls in a single synchronized snap.
I backflipped through a mob, spun mid-air, and tossed my sword—
Shunk.
It split through five grotesques like a hot needle through wax. Celia caught it mid-spin and threw it back without blinking. I snatched it from the air.
"Ohhh we're doing sword toss now?"
"Do try to keep up, assistant."
I blinked.
"…Assistant?"
"Yes. You're quite good. Sharp timing, strong instincts—very sidekick material."
"You did not just call me a sidekick."
"To Kaiser," she said with a straight face, vines still slithering. "With that style? You'd make a good second-string to his hands."
"Oh we're insulting style now? Chains and creepy-ass eyes—yeah, very fashionable."
"I wasn't aiming for fashion or being flashy." She licked blood from her cheek slowly. "I was aiming for their extinction."
A grotesque behemoth rose—twenty feet tall, layered in bone armor. It roared, shaking the trees.
We didn't even blink.
Celia whispered something I couldn't hear and her thorns exploded from the ground, impaling it from all directions. I rushed in, zipped up its back and carved a cross-slash through the base of its neck. Its head dropped like a fruit, rolling past our feet.
That was kill two-hundred.
And we weren't even breathing hard.
A strange quiet hit the air for a moment. The frontlines behind us were miles away now. We were so deep into grotesque territory, the sky was practically black.
I glanced at her as we slowed just enough to breathe.
"…Hey."
She turned, her red eyes glowing.
"…Weren't you devastated that he was gone?"
She didn't respond right away.
But then—her voice lowered.
Not soft.
Not broken.
Icy.
"Gone?" she repeated, almost like a laugh.
Her eyes darkened into a deeper shade—almost black-red, glowing like blood behind stained glass.
"Nobody can take my love away."
I blinked. My grip on the sword tightened.
Her voice dripped like venom. "Death isn't enough to take him away from me."
"Celia—"
"I'll fight—even if it means turning on my own kind. I'll break every weakness, tear through these insects, and kill anyone in my way." Her eyes didn't waver. "Because they took him from me. He's mine... And I will bring him back."
Silence stretched. The corpses around us didn't move. The wind didn't dare blow.
My heartbeat kicked up.
She's serious.
I saw the way her hands trembled—not from fear, but from something deeper. She wasn't crying. She wasn't even breaking.
She was locked in.
Locked in a delusion so deep it might not even be delusion anymore.
"I… I saw his body, Celia. I saw him dead."
Her voice dropped to a whisper.
"Then your eyes lied to you."
I felt it in my bones.
That weight. That certainty.
She wasn't bargaining. She wasn't grieving.
She had decided. Reality didn't matter anymore. If the world said Kaiser was dead—
She would burn the world.
She was calling him love now? Without feeling flustered or anything, as if I was with a completely different person now...
I swallowed, heart heavy.
"Are you… seeing things? Celia, are you sure you're not—"
Then it happened.
BOOOOM.
The sky ripped open behind us.
Colors exploded. Red. Black. Gold. And beneath it—Valhalla's Sigil, tearing across the clouds like a cracked flame.
We both snapped our heads back toward the front.
I knew those colors.
I knew what they meant.
Celia's breath caught. I stared at the sky, frozen.
No. No no no—
The red mixed into it… that only meant one thing.
Valhalla.
Blood of Valhalla.
"That means…" I whispered, stepping forward, breath catching.
I clenched my jaw.
"All seventy-three of the Valhalla members… including Aaron…"
"…were wiped out."
...
[This war was never theirs to win. The Void already wrote the ending.]