The group moved cautiously, their small pieces of armor casting faint, flickering glows that barely pushed back the gloom. Toren led the way, his lean frame taut with alertness, his eyes sharp. Every step was measured, every glance deliberate, as if the tunnels themselves might betray them.
Behind him, Belial—walked with a casual stride that belied the tension in his posture. His hand hovered near the hilt of the curved longsword strapped across his side, its cruel arc glinting faintly when the visor light caught it. The rest of the squad—three soldiers handpicked by Shun for their skill—followed in a tight formation, their breaths shallow, their weapons at the ready. The southern tunnels were uncharted, a maze of old maintenance corridors that led to the ruined village where survivors were reportedly under attack. The mission was clear: save who they could, hold the line against whatever threatened them. But Shun's warning about the "madwoman's" traps lingered, a shadow that darkened every step.
Toren glanced back, his gaze settling on Belial. The man's silence was unnerving, a stark contrast to the fierce protectiveness he'd shown with Xin. Toren hesitated, then spoke, his voice low to avoid echoing.
"Nero… I do wonder… why didn't you help more on the way to the camp?"
Belial didn't slow, his eyes fixed on the tunnel ahead. The silence stretched, heavy and deliberate, until Toren felt a pang of regret for asking. Finally, Belial spoke, his voice low and flat, cutting like a blade. "I was damn near death. Why would I overexert myself when I'm already half-dead?"
Toren flinched at the coldness in his tone, his cheeks warming with embarrassment. "I guess… you're right. Sorry for asking."
Belial offered no reply, but his hand drifted closer to his sword's hilt, a subtle shift that Toren didn't miss. The gesture was instinctive, almost possessive, and it made Toren wonder what lay beneath the man's guarded exterior. He turned his focus back to the tunnel, chastising himself for breaking the silence. They had bigger problems than Belial's motivations.
Minutes later, they reached the southern tunnel junctions, where the narrow corridors opened into a wide chamber—an abandoned hub of the underground tram system. Rusted walls and twisted piping loomed overhead, their surfaces pitted with age. Echoes bounced erratically, distorting distance and direction, making the space feel alive, predatory. The group paused, senses heightened, as a new sound reached them—clashing steel, punctuated by screams, raw and desperate. Beneath it all was a horrible, slithering hum, like a whisper dragged across the inside of their skulls, burrowing deep and setting their nerves alight.
Toren's heart pounded, his grip tightening on his sword's hilt. "That's them," he whispered, gesturing to a collapsed slab of concrete nearby. "Cover!"
They rushed forward, pressing against the slab, its rough surface cold against their backs. Peering over the edge, they surveyed the chaos unfolding under flickering tram lights. Shun's soldiers—perhaps a dozen—were locked in combat, their blades flashing as they fought to hold their ground. But their enemies were no ordinary foes. Toren's breath caught as he took in the sight.
The attackers were humanoid but wrong, their pale skin stretched taut over bone, their eyes wide and blank, void of life. Their mouths hung open, emitting ragged wheezes, and trails of dark ether leaked from their limbs like steam from cracked vents. They moved with unnatural speed, their attacks erratic, driven by something beyond instinct. Toren's stomach churned as he recognized the signs.
"The madwomans pets...The Miasma bound huh," Belial muttered, his voice low, confirming Toren's fear.
Before anyone could respond, one of the creatures turned, its empty gaze locking onto them. It charged, its movements jerky but terrifyingly fast, a broken glaive clutched in its skeletal hands. Belial reacted first, grabbing Toren's collar and yanking him back. "Behind the wall!"
Toren stumbled, catching himself as Belial stepped out to meet the enemy. The older man moved with a fluid grace, but there was something off about it—sloppy, Toren thought, almost reckless. Belial's curved longsword hissed from its sheath, its cruel arc gleaming even in the dim light, taller than he was and forged for brutality. He intercepted the charging soldier with a heavy parry, steel ringing through the tunnel as their weapons clashed. The blow nearly staggered him, his footing uneven on the gravel, but he spun, his blade slashing downward in a wide, uncontrolled arc.
Toren watched, his trained eye catching the flaws. Belial's stance was too open, his swing too wild, lacking the precision of a seasoned fighter. The blade bit deep into the enemy's shoulder, cleaving halfway through, and the creature crumpled, dissolving into black smoke. Effective, yes, but messy. Toren frowned, surprised. He'd expected more finesse from someone with Belial's reputation.
Belial growled, flicking his blade clean with a careless motion. "We've got incoming!" he shouted, his voice rough as another miasma-bound soldier surged from the shadows, this one aiming for Toren.
Toren reacted instantly, his swordsmanship kicking in. He stepped forward, drawing his straight sword—a simple, ceremonial design with a hilt wrapped in worn cloth. The blade flashed silver as he unsheathed it in one smooth motion, his movements precise, controlled. The corrupted soldier swung a rusted axe with unnatural speed, its arc wild and deadly. Toren ducked under it, his boots skimming the dust-covered ground, and pivoted, his blade slicing cleanly across the creature's side. Sparks flew as metal met bone, the cut deep but not fatal.
The enemy reeled, black ether bubbling from the wound, its blank eyes fixed on Toren with eerie focus. He exhaled slowly, steadying himself. "Round two, then."
The soldier lunged again, faster this time, its axe swinging in a brutal overhead arc. Toren advanced, catching the blow with the flat of his blade, deflecting it to the side with a sharp twist of his wrist. He stepped in, thrusting his sword into the creature's gut with a clean, efficient strike. The soldier snarled, clawing at the blade, but Toren wrenched it free, spinning with the motion and delivering an upward slash that cleaved through its neck. The head toppled backward, eyes twitching with miasma-fueled hatred before the body disintegrated into smoke.
With a eerie look in his eyes, Toren glanced at Belial, who was already facing another enemy. Belial's fighting was effective, no question—the creatures fell under his blade—but it was chaotic, Toren thought. His slashes were too broad, his footwork sloppy, as if he relied on raw power rather than skill. Another miasma-bound lunged at him, and Belial met it with a clumsy sidestep, his sword swinging in a heavy arc that caught the creature's arm but left him open. The enemy's claw grazed his shoulder, tearing fabric, but Belial roared, driving his blade through its chest with brute force. The creature dissolved, and Belial staggered slightly, cursing under his breath.
Toren shook his head, his respect for Belial tempered by confusion. The man was a survivor, no doubt, but his technique was a mess—sufficient to kill, but barely. How had he lasted this long in a world so unforgiving?
The other soldiers fought on, their blades clashing with the remaining miasma-bound, but the tide was turning. The creatures were relentless, their numbers dwindling but their ferocity undimmed. Toren called out to the squad, rallying them to tighten their formation, his voice steady despite the chaos. Belial stayed at his side, his breathing heavy, his blade stained with black residue.
"They're not themselves anymore," Toren said, wiping sweat from his brow. "That's not just corruption. That's possession."
"No," Belial said, his eyes narrowing as he flicked more residue from his sword. "It's not possession. It's harvesting. They're being used like shells to hold ether they take."
Toren's blood ran cold, the word sinking in. Harvesting. The "Sovereign's" miasma, leeching Ether, turning people into vessels for her power. Before he could respond, a new sound echoed from the tunnel's far end—footsteps, heavy and deliberate, accompanied by a faint, sickly violet glow.
Belial's gaze snapped forward. A taller figure emerged from the dark, its body unarmored, its skin etched with glowing violet lines that pulsed like veins. It moved with a predatory grace, its presence chilling the air.
Toren raised his sword, his eyes giving a ghastly glow. He glanced at Belial, who tightened his grip, his sloppy stance belying the fire in his eyes.
"Ready?" Belial asked, his voice low, a challenge as much as a question.
Toren nodded, exhaling slowly. "Let's clean up this mess."