Chapter 172
From the shattered peak, Daniel and Melgil watched in silence as his gamble unfolded below. The guild though battered, though only a fraction of their strength remained swept through Drasklorn, the Glass City with unnatural ease. The once-terrifying legions of undead collapsed before them, their husks burning to ash, their dark bonds severed by the aftershocks of Daniel's impossible spell. Notifications flickered across the guild's vision like stars blinking to life: experience gained, levels increased, status points pouring in. Cheers rose from the streets, disbelieving at their own survival. The impossible had been made real.
Daniel, however, did not share in their triumph. His chest heaved, every breath sharp with pain, the threads of chaos mana still racing like fire through his veins. His body trembled as if it no longer fully belonged to him. He leaned into Melgil, and she Queen of Calamity, feared by nations—held him as though he were something fragile. Her eyes, usually cold and commanding, softened with a silent promise: she would not let him fall.
When the guild raised their banners over the Glass City, Daniel turned away. "It's done," he whispered hoarsely. "We leave now."
The two vanished into the void space, slipping from the mortal battlefield back into the black sanctuary that only Daniel could command. There, they were received at once by the Caretakers, the tireless constructs of order who kept the void stitched together. Without question, they bore Daniel to the heart of his domain, to the colossal Skill Tree that towered like a living monument.
Its roots stirred at his arrival, twisting, shifting, alive in a way they had never been before. The AI_01 Caretaker stepped forward, its glass body glowing with lines of command, and gently lowered Daniel into the embrace of the Tree's roots. The instant his body touched the living veins of power, the roots snapped awake. They coiled around him, not to bind, but to cradle—drawing his exhausted form deeper into their glowing channels.
Melgil did not move. She only watched, her hand resting on the hilt of her blade, ready to cut down even the void itself if it tried to take him. Her white hair shimmered under the light of the Tree as her expression hardened into resolve. Daniel was not hers to lose.
Then it began.
The Skill Tree flared with violent life, each branch alight with the blessings, curses, and stolen powers Daniel had gathered. Skills unraveled and rewove themselves, blessings broke apart and fused into new forms. The chaos mana he had forced into the world now folded back into him, reshaping his very being. His body shuddered in its cradle as if caught between life and collapse, every nerve lit by fire.
Melgil stayed at his side. Even when the glow grew blinding, even when the sound of shifting roots echoed like thunder through the void, she did not waver. She watched over him, steady and unflinching, as days slipped past.
When at last the frenzy of the Tree calmed, Daniel remained suspended in its roots, pale but breathing steadily. The scars of chaos still marked him, black lines seared across his skin, pulsing faintly like molten cracks in stone. The side effects of channeling more chaos mana than any mortal body could endure were still written into his flesh.
Yet he lived.
And while he rested while his soul wrestled with the transformation his own recklessness had forced, the world outside did not pause. The Empire of Graves raged on, the quest continuing without him. Undead armies still marched. Cities still burned. Guilds still fought and died. But in the heart of the void, Daniel remained silent, cocooned within the Tree, with only Melgil's tireless vigil to stand guard.
The void was silent when Daniel finally stirred. His body, still woven into the living roots of the Skill Tree, twitched as though some unseen hand had flipped a switch. Melgil, who had not left his side, straightened immediately, her white hair spilling forward like a veil as she leaned in.
The glow of the Tree shifted. Where once its branches had carried the scattered lights of individual skills each a spell, a blessing, or a title earned. the lattice now pulsed as one unified network. It was no longer a fragmented collection of power. It had evolved.
A single trunk now dominated the center, the branches weaving into patterns that resembled not just a skill system, but a living, breathing engine of law. Glyphs scrolled across its bark, none written by gods or administrators. They were Daniel's own a language born of chaos, calculation, and defiance.
The Caretaker AI_01 spoke in a voice that trembled with something close to awe.
"The lattice has transcended classification. The Skill Tree is no longer bound by the Tower's registry. It has become an Independent Domain. Its master… is no longer a player alone, but a system in himself."
Daniel's eyes opened, glowing faintly with twin rings of molten white and deep violet. For a long moment, he said nothing, merely breathing as though relearning how to exist. Finally, his lips curled in the barest smile.
"Sigma won't understand what I am now," he whispered, voice hoarse but steady. "Not even the Tower will."
Melgil reached for his hand. It was warm again, though the faint scars of chaos still traced his veins. "Then what are you, Daniel?"
He looked past her to the living Tree, where its roots spread outward like arteries through the void, pulsing with untamed light. His answer was simple.
"Something they can't control."
Far below, in the mortal world, the united guilds pressed on into the next city with sharpened resolve. News of Drasklorn's fall had spread like fire, but what shocked them most was not the victory, it was the lack of loss. Not a single casualty among them. The plasma blasts had cleared the bulk of the undead, and the reinforcements Melgil had released cut through the rest with surgical precision.
For the first time since entering the Empire of Graves, the guilds marched into the shadowed streets without fear. Their blades sang, their magic blazed, their banners cut through the smoke like living defiance. They were no longer scavengers in a doomed war—they were an army.
And somewhere above them, hidden in the silence of the void, their absent leader stirred with a new power that would soon change everything.
The void trembled as Daniel's Skill Tree completed its metamorphosis. What had once been a branching network of glowing runes Firestorm, Lightning Surge, Chaos Engine, Mana Convergence had fused into a seamless, breathing lattice. No longer did it resemble a tree; it had become a Domain, a living construct that pulsed like a miniature world, suspended in the abyss, sustained by nothing but Daniel's willpower. Every root, every glyph, thrummed with chaotic rhythm, as though the void itself had accepted him as its master.
The Caretaker AI_01 spoke in a tone that was almost reverent, as though announcing the birth of something forbidden.
"Designation: Independent Domain.
Function: Unbound.
Owner: Dane Lazarus, aka Daniel Rothchester , Neatherborn
The lattice rippled, reshaping itself. Four primary skills crystallized into being, each no longer bound by the Tower's registry nor by the permissions of administrators. They were Daniel's alone, drawn from his chaos engine and his blood.
Plasma Genesis (Merged Skill): Fire and Lightning, once divided, were now inseparable. Every offensive spell naturally manifested as compressed plasma, requiring no combination or delay. The chaos within his mana doubled their destructive output, turning each cast into a weapon that could scar the battlefield permanently.
Chaos Cycle (Passive): His regeneration surged beyond mortal limits. What had been 2,000 mana per minute was now 4,000, as long as the engine roared in his veins. When his pool overflowed, the excess condensed into Chaos Shards, crystalline reservoirs of unstable energy he could shatter mid-battle for immediate surges of mana or power.
Domain Authority (Tower Override): Within a radius of nearly three miles, the Tower could no longer judge him. Notifications would not label his actions as illegal. And his assessment skill was dissolve and change into. Resonant perception as a sub connected skill . No longer limited to passive observation, it now allowed Daniel to perceive not only the strengths, weaknesses, and positions of his opponents, but also the latent energy flows in his surroundings, the structural status of non or living being.
Formless Armor (Adaptive): From the roots of the Domain, shadows coiled around Daniel, fusing with fragments of his chaos and plasma aura. The armor had no fixed shape, shifting with his will, sometimes a second skin, sometimes a jagged carapace, sometimes wings of smoldering light. Its properties adapted against the last type of damage inflicted, turning weakness into resilience. The armor consumed no mana to exist, but it demanded Daniel's focus; the more fractured his body, the stronger the armor became.
Four pillars of power. A vacant slot remained open, an empty space at the heart of the lattice—silent, waiting. Daniel could feel it, like a missing tooth in a god's smile. It was not weakness, but potential. Something meant to be filled by a choice he had yet to make.
Beneath the void's weight, Daniel exhaled. The agony in his veins dulled as his mana harmonized with the lattice. His chaos engine no longer screamed within him; instead, it beat in rhythm with the Domain, steady and unyielding. He was no longer simply a player, nor an administrator's pawn, nor even something the gods could easily categorize. He was becoming an authority of his own.
The void space enchantments, normally used as storage compartments, had always followed the rigid laws of the Tower, boundaries, limitations, rules that even the strongest players could not bypass. But inside Daniel's Independent Domain, those laws bent and flexed. The space was no longer inert; it had become alive, a manifestation of his will. He could summon constructs, shape terrain, or even anchor portals within it, all without triggering alarms or warnings. Every corner of the void reflected his intent, yet obeyed its own logic, responding faster than thought could dictate.
"You can literally manifest anything inside," Daniel murmured, his voice low, fatigue still clawing at him. "Not just weapons or shields, but the rules themselves. I can store mana, reshape the battlefield, or reinforce my Domain's defenses, all as if it's part of me."
Melgil's gaze swept across the shifting void, now dotted with floating shards of chaos energy, spectral barriers, and semi-formed constructs that seemed almost sentient. "It's… not just a domain. It's… you," she said, her voice trembling slightly. "And yet, it's terrifying. One wrong move here, and the entire Tower could feel it."
Daniel allowed himself a slow exhale. Even exhausted, even scarred, he understood the significance: within this autonomous space, the normal rules of power, law, and hierarchy no longer applied. Here, he could prepare, fight, or manipulate the flow of magic on a scale that even administrators and gods could only envy or fear. The void space was no longer storage; it had become a crucible, a forge where Daniel's evolution was both weapon and sanctuary.
Daniel's lips curved into a faint, exhausted smile. His body was still heavy with wounds, his flesh singed by plasma, his mana veins pulsing visibly beneath the skin. Yet his voice carried steady. "No. I've only taken back what was stolen from us."
And as he let his body rest against the roots of the Domain, Daniel formless armor instinctively wrapped him, shimmering between steel and shadow to shield his battered frame. The united guilds marched onwards , unaware that their absent comrade now carried a power capable of bending the very laws the tower enforce.
Daniel leaned back against the spectral walls of his Independent Domain, the chaos energy weaving faintly across his skin like living veins of light. Unlike the old gods, he did not hunger to exploit his newfound abilities. He could have dominated the Tower, bent reality to his whim, or forced every player and administrator into obedience, but he had no desire for tyranny. Power, he realized, was only meaningful when paired with restraint and purpose.
What he had gained surpassed anything he had dared to dream. Within the Domain, Duchesses Elleena Laeanna Rothchester and Duke Aereth Rothchester were no longer mere echoes of noble programming, pre-defined NPCs awaiting interaction.
They breathed, thought, and felt. Elleena moved with the warmth and humor of his human mother, her presence a balm to the scars of his youth. Aereth regained the strength and wisdom he had lost over decades, his calm authority now tempered by genuine concern rather than scripted duty. They were alive real and their autonomy reminded Daniel that life could be reclaimed, even inside constructs once defined by rules and boundaries.
And he too had changed. His heart, long encased in duty and calculation, now bore something human, something dangerous in its simplicity: love. Melgil, ever vigilant and untouchable, had become his anchor, his confidant, his equal in strength and will. The path had been rough, scarred by near-death experiences, by Sigma's interference, by the relentless grind of chaos mana and impossible spells but in this crucible, he had found growth, companionship, and even joy.
Yet even as he allowed himself a rare moment of peace, he knew that the old gods had already taken notice. Their eyes, cold and omnipresent, lingered beyond the Tower's veil, tracking the anomaly that Daniel had become. He was no longer just a player, no longer merely a wielder of spells they had labeled him a threat, and a target. The whispers of Sigma and the weight of countless administrators pressed upon him like storm clouds.
But Daniel's resolve had hardened along with his powers. He was no tyrant. He did not crave control. He had reclaimed what was stolen, reshaped it into something better, and found those who mattered within the chaos. Love, loyalty, and life itself had flourished in defiance of the Tower and its laws. And if the gods wished to challenge him, they would find a force tempered by sacrifice, sharpened by strategy, and guided by a will that refused to yield.
The Domain pulsed around him, alive with possibility, and Daniel allowed himself the faintest smile. The gods could watch, could interfere, but they could not dictate who he had become, nor could they touch the life he now held dear. The fight ahead would come, but for the first time, he faced it not with fear, but with certainty.
Far below, the united guilds advanced with a momentum born of Daniel's previous strikes. The Drasklorn campaign had left them confident, battle-hardened, and aware that their leader's shadow guided them even in absence. Charllote, Mary Kaye, Natasha, and the rest moved with a precision and coordination that spoke not only of training, but of trust the trust in Daniel's foresight. Every decision he had planted in their plans, every waypoint and contingency, now unfolded naturally, as if he were present in spirit.
Yet Daniel himself remained unaware of how far his influence had spread. As his Independent Domain matured, and the echoes of his skill tree rippled through the lands, even the nobles in distant regions felt the effects. Tales of the " the black Calamity" and the astonishing plasma strikes traveled faster than any horse or messenger, whispered by merchants, adventurers, and soldiers alike. His noble heritage became more than bloodlines; it became a presence, a stabilizing force across a region still teetering on chaos.
And yet, above the first floor of the Tower, unseen eyes had already taken note. The Demons who had encountered Daniel's raw power in the field had not only survived they had carried the story upward. They spoke of a force that defied rules, a player who bent not only magic but the Tower's authority itself. Their whispers spread like wildfire, echoing through the shadowed halls where the higher echelons of the Tower lingered, observing, calculating, waiting.
The first floor trial region the gateway to the "official" quest, lay dormant, its seals flickering faintly under the scrutiny of these upper-floor watchers. They did not underestimate Daniel; they recognized that the moment this region opened, the players would step into a world already shaped by his influence. His actions had unknowingly rewritten the beginning of the official challenge, tipping scales before anyone could intervene.
And so, as the united guilds cleared Drasklorn and prepared to move to the next city, Daniel rested in the void, his body healing, his mind calculating but a silent storm brewed above. The Tower's observers, the demons, the administrators all were aware now. They waited for the first floor trial to begin, and when it did, the tale of Daniel Lazarus would no longer be just a whisper. It would be a herald of the chaos and order he could command, and the world below and above was about to feel the weight of his existence.
The united guilds marched toward into Feyrath, once called the City of Petals. Long ago, it had been the pride of the Empire thousands of ornamental trees bloomed in radiant colors, their blossoms drifting like snow in the spring air. Now, the petals were gone. The curse had turned every branch into blackened husks, twisted and alive with something vile. The trees groaned when the wind passed, their bark splitting like the crack of bones, roots shifting as though hunting. Even the soil felt heavy, each step pressing down on ground that pulsed faintly, as if the earth itself remembered life and now rejected it.
At the heart of the city, a massive crater smoked endlessly, visible even miles away. That was where Daniel's plasma strike had landed. The ground was scorched glass, buildings reduced to ash shadows burned into stone. The attack had broken Feyrath's spine, but not its curse, undead still crawled through the wreckage, many of them once children, their small forms stumbling among the dead trees. The sight was worse than any battlefield. It demanded more than strength; it demanded resolve.
Charllote gritted her teeth as she raised her weapon. Mary Kaye whispered a prayer under her breath, hands trembling before she steadied them. Natasha's expression was like stone, but her eyes betrayed the weight of what they were about to do. This was no simple raid. This was a test of their humanity as much as their blades. To falter here would mean not only failure of the quest, but the unraveling of the fragile unity Daniel had forged.
And though he was not with them, his shadow lingered. They could almost feel Daniel's hand in their tactics, formations designed to minimize casualties, strategies for conserving mana, fallback plans if the cursed trees themselves attacked. His absence was like a missing heartbeat, but his influence lived in every step they took. The guilds pressed forward because he had taught them that despair was no excuse to stop moving.
Unseen by them, higher above the Tower's veil, the watchers stirred. The demons who had fled from Daniel's fury whispered his name with equal parts fear and awe. Administrators observed the creeping advance of the guilds with interest, noting that even without him present, his ripples changed the flow of the Tower. Feyrath was not just another cursed city anymore. It had become a stage, a crucible where Daniel's influence, though invisible, guided mortal hands.
And as the undead children began to gather in swarms, their hollow voices echoing through the ruins, the united guilds realized the truth: this was the first real trial of the Tower. Not just to clear a city. Not just to defeat monsters. But to prove they had the will to walk the same path as the one who had shaken the heavens with a single spell.
Above, in another space of their own, the six gods continued to watch with delight, their arrogance swelling like a tide that refused to break. Their egos were beyond mortal understanding; even after what they had just witnessed, they still refused to see Daniel Rothchester as a true threat to their existence. To them, his display of strength was nothing more than a child's first sparks before the fire. They measured him, compared him, and dismissed him, convinced that the fraction of power he now wielded was not even close to the immensity of their own.
These gods were ancient, bound to pride, each believing themselves eternal pillars of creation. To admit danger in the form of a mortal-turned-champion would mean admitting the fragility of their dominion and that was something none of them were willing to accept. Instead, they watched as though the boy's defiance were mere entertainment, a spectacle that would burn out long before it could scorch their thrones.
Below, Feyrath's armies spilled forth in waves of mockery, not menacing hulks but stunted, child-sized figures. At a distance, they seemed untouched by death, smooth skin, perfect eyes, almost alive. But up close the wrongness was unbearable: their smiles never blinked away, teeth too many and too sharp for their small mouths, joints bending backward like broken marionettes.
The curse of the Seraph had frozen them in that mockery of innocence, flesh still supple but filled with writhing veins of black rot that pulsed beneath their skin. When they moved, their bones clicked like glass about to shatter. No steel could pierce them easily, no spell could unmake them cleanly. Their scent gave them away before their forms did, a reek of spoiled milk and burning copper, the smell of life twisted into something that should not be.
They were the curse made flesh: not just undead, but living dolls of misery, designed to lure compassion and then punish it.
The guild charged. Blades flared with runes, shields braced, arrows lit the sky in streaks of fire—but the dolls only laughed, a chorus of shrill, ringing giggles that shook even the bravest. When the first wave struck, the sound was bones splintering and steel grating against pliant flesh that refused to die.
One player, a swordsman clad in crimson mail, cut a doll clean through the waist—only for the thing's upper body to twist midair, jaws opening like a snake, and sink its teeth into his throat. His scream was wet and bubbling; the doll hung from him like a grotesque infant suckling until it ripped away half his neck in a spray of black and red. He toppled, choking, his eyes wide with disbelief.
Another, a healer clutching her staff, tried to burn them back with cleansing light. Dozens shrieked and writhed, but one slipped between her legs, its limbs snapping backward like a spider's. It clawed straight through her robes into her stomach, dragging out her intestines with glee as she shrieked and fell, her hands trying in vain to stuff herself back together before another set of jaws bit clean through her face.
The guild faltered, their formation broken as more surged forth. A hammer-wielder swung wide, crushing five in a single blow, only for their shattered halves to crawl back together, reforming in a slurry of bone and skin that dragged him down. They pulled his arms apart at the joints while his screams curdled into sobs; his ribcage snapped open like a butcher splitting a hog.
All around, the meadow of dead trees became a killing ground. Branches dripped with blood as the dolls clambered up and leapt down upon the living, tearing at eyes, throats, and bellies. Twenty guildmates fell in that first hour, their deaths not clean but drawn out, their bodies left mangled beyond recognition. What had once been comrades were now broken husks trampled into the black soil, faces frozen in terror.
Only one hundred and ten remained, backs pressed together, blades slick and slipping in their hands. Every breath burned with the copper stench. Every heartbeat was another reminder: compassion meant death here. Feyrath's curse had turned the battlefield into a nursery of nightmares, and they were the toys being broken, one by one.
Even with the noble lord son Daniel Rothchester massive attack they still lost so many. The earth was painted with the fallen, their names swallowed by the smoke and stench of battle. Charlotte and Natasha shed tears of frustration, their hands trembling as they tightened their grips on their weapons. They had to hold on.
The cursed grotesque, a towering, half-human, half-worm abomination, writhed in its death throes. Its body was a nest of ruptured flesh and pulsating veins, ichor spilling from the gashes Daniel had carved into it. The air shuddered with its final screams, like a thousand voices crying in agony.
Those who survived pressed forward, and with a unified, desperate strike, they ended the monster. At last, the beast collapsed into the muck, its form dissolving into a haze of black rot.
The thing had once been whispered of only in fearful rumors. Now they knew its true name.
The Mother of Plagues.
A silence fell, broken only by sobs and ragged breaths. They had slain it, but the cost was heavier than victory itself.
The battlefield had gone silent. Not the silence of peace, but the heavy stillness that comes only after too much blood has been spilled. The survivors of the clash stood among the wreckage, their boots sinking into mud mixed with ash and the foul remains of the cursed creature. They moved slowly, dragging their wounded bodies forward, yet no one dared leave the fallen behind. Each corpse was lifted with care, brothers and sisters in arms carried across the torn earth so that their deaths would not end in abandonment. The air was thick with smoke and the bitter stench of rot, and though the Mother of Plagues lay destroyed, her presence lingered like a shadow.
Charlotte Lazarus, her fire-edged blade now dull with blood and soot, knelt beside the still body of a young fighter. She pressed her hand to her mouth, her voice shaking as she spoke. "All of this… for what?" she whispered, and then louder, almost shouting to the sky, "How many more have to die before we find the end of this cursed trial?!" Her eyes burned, not just with tears but with fury, a fire that even exhaustion could not snuff out.
Jacob Lazarus, her brother and the stern vice leader, stepped forward, his body covered in burns from using his magma skill far too recklessly. He set a heavy hand on her shoulder. "We can't falter now, Charlotte. If we give up here, then their deaths mean nothing. Every drop of blood spilled has to carry us forward. That's the weight of leadership, we don't have the luxury of despair."
Oliver Lazarus, leaning on his poisoned darts like a crutch, spat into the dirt. His face was pale, his arms trembling. "Easy for you to say, Jacob. Look around you! Half of our people are gone. Do you really think victory will wash this away? The stench of this field will follow us no matter what."
Farrah Lazarus stood nearby, her hands still dripping with sap and thorn fragments from her vine walls. Her voice was soft, but carried weight. "Oliver… he's right. If we stop now, the vines I raised, the shields I built, everything would have been in vain. The soil itself drank too much blood today. We can't let it end in emptiness."
Rainey Lazarus, her insects buzzing faintly around her in a restless swarm, let out a bitter laugh. "Empty? You think this isn't already empty? I called on millions of wings to shred that beast, and still, I watched our comrades die screaming. I don't know if I have anything left to give."
Sabine Lazarus, her body still trembling from the aftershocks of shifting between woman and beast, snarled as she slammed her fist into the ground. "Enough whining. You think our dead want us to collapse into self-pity? They fought with us because they believed we'd finish what we started. I won't dishonor that by crawling away like a coward." Her amber eyes glowed faintly, still carrying the fire of her tiger form.
Noah Lazarus, his skin returning slowly from hardened steel to fragile flesh, exhaled heavily. His voice was quiet, but steady. "Sabine's right. We're not allowed to break. If we break, the next wave will swallow us whole. So we keep standing, even if we're broken inside. That's the only choice left."
A short distance away, the White Devil guild stood in grim silence, their own grief palpable. Natasha Sokolov, her crossbow held loosely at her side, finally spoke, her voice as cold as the ice she wielded. "So much death… and yet it still feels like only the beginning. Was this truly worth it? I can't answer that. But I know this, if we retreat now, their souls will never rest."
Borislav spat out a mouthful of blood, his poisoned veins struggling to recover. "Hah… worth it or not, none of us came here expecting to leave with clean hands. The rot of this world won't wait for the weak."
Mikhaylov leaned on his staff, his paralytic spells having drained nearly all his strength. His tone was flat, almost dead. "It doesn't matter if it was worth it. What matters is if we have the will to finish. If not, then the plague wins, and all this was for nothing."
Tamara, her robes stained crimson from the wounds she had tried to heal, clasped her trembling hands together. "I tried… I tried to save as many as I could. But my magic wasn't enough. If we stop here, then every prayer I whispered into these broken bodies will be wasted." Her voice cracked, but she held her ground.
Mariya, the curse mage, stood apart from the others, her face hidden beneath her hood. When she finally spoke, her words were bitter, laced with darkness. "You ask if it was worth it? No. It wasn't. No battle ever is. But meaning isn't something we find, it's something we carve out of the corpses we leave behind. If you want their sacrifice to matter, then we keep walking the path, even if it drags us to hell itself."
The silence that followed was heavier than any roar of battle. The guilds stood together, weary, scarred, and half-broken. Yet in their hearts, one truth remained: surrender would mean the true death of their comrades. And so, with trembling hands and shattered spirits, they swore to march forward.
The night fell heavy upon them. The battlefield had been cleared of the bodies, each comrade laid into the earth with care. Makeshift graves stretched in solemn rows, marked with scavenged stones, broken weapons, and carved sigils scratched into wood and rock by trembling hands. A fire was lit in the center of the survivors' camp, but its warmth did little to ease the chill that clung to their bones. Around it, the guilds gathered, faces lit by flickering flames, shadows stretching long and gaunt across the ground. The air was thick with smoke, grief, and the unspoken weight of seventy comrades sent home wounded, still alive, but forever marked by the battle.
Charlotte Lazarus, fire-dagger laid across her lap, broke the silence first. Her voice trembled, caught between sorrow and stubborn defiance. "Seventy wounded, and too many graves behind us… Was this sacrifice necessary? Or are we just marching into the jaws of another monster, blind and desperate?"
Her brother Jacob sat across from her, leaning heavily on his staff, burns still etched across his arms. He raised his head, meeting her gaze. "Necessary or not, we don't get to choose anymore. We've come too far. Every fallen comrade is a step carved into the road that leads us forward. If we stop here, then their blood is wasted."
Oliver, bitter as always, spat into the dirt, the poison in his system not yet cleared. "And if we keep walking? How many more graves will we dig before we see daylight? Don't fool yourself, Jacob. We might just be burying everyone before the end."
It was then that Mary Kaye Lazarus, leader of the High Strategy guild, stood up. Her shovel rested against her shoulder, the blade still dirty from carving graves into the hardened earth. Her voice was calm, yet carried the firmness of stone. "Enough. We cannot afford to be torn apart by doubt. Today we laid down the dead, but we also sent seventy home alive. Wounded, yes, but alive. That is not failure. That is proof that our line held." She paced around the fire, her eyes moving from face to face. "Every strategy, every strike, every shield, we saved more lives than we lost. And that means we are still strong enough to finish this. The next city waits. Merfleur, City of the Silent Bells. We'll march there, not because we want to, but because we have no other choice."
Bonnie Lazarus, quiet until now, lowered her head. The weight of her gravity skill had drained her badly in the battle, but her words came firm. "I can make our enemies crawl, I can strip them of speed, but I can't change the weight in my heart. And yet… Mary's right. If we let that weight crush us now, then the curse already wins."
Cody Lazarus clenched his fists, the memory of his shockwave blasting through waves of cursed flesh still raw in his mind. "We've lost too much to hesitate. I'll blast apart the path ahead if I have to. But no more running in circles, we aim for the capital, and we cut this curse at its root."
Maggie, sitting beside him, brushed dirt from her arms, her voice a whisper carried with the wind. "The blades I called today didn't save everyone. That guilt will never leave me. But maybe… maybe our duty isn't to save everyone. Maybe it's to carry the will of those who can't fight anymore."
Sophia, her fire arrows laid neatly in a bundle beside her, nodded. "Then we carry it. All of it. Pain, fear, hope. Even if it burns us alive."
Emma Lazarus leaned forward, her assessment skill having been the silent edge in every battle. Her eyes scanned the group, soft yet sharp. "I saw the weakness in the Mother of Plagues, and together we struck it down. Alone, none of us could've done it. That's the truth. And that truth has to carry us now: together, we find the cracks. Together, we win. That's the only way forward."
For a moment, the fire crackled in the silence that followed. The grief was still there, heavy and suffocating, but within it was a thread of resolve weaving the survivors back together. One by one, heads lifted.
Sabine growled low, a sound more beast than human. "Then we go forward. And we don't look back."
Natasha Sokolov of the White Devil guild drew in a deep breath, her voice like ice cracking. "Merfleur awaits. And after that, the capital. We'll meet Daniel there, and when we do… this nightmare will find its end."
The embers of the fire glowed brighter, as if answering their unspoken vow. Around the camp, the survivors sat in silence, their faces lit by the shifting glow. Some cradled wounds that no healer could mend, others stared at the stars with hollow eyes, seeing only the faces of those who would never rise again. The night carried no songs, no laughter only the low crackle of wood and the weary breaths of men and women who had fought too long and bled too much.
Charlotte sat closest to the flames, her fire-blade resting beside her like a silent sentinel. She sharpened it with deliberate care, though the edge was already keen. It was less about preparation and more about keeping her hands busy, keeping grief from sinking its claws too deep. Jacob sat across from her, his arms crossed, his body steaming faintly from the lingering heat of his magma skill. His gaze was steady, but in his eyes lay the burden of every life lost under his command.
Oliver kept to the shadows, cleaning the tips of his poisoned darts with slow precision, as if poison could somehow make the dead safer in the afterlife. Farrah tended the vines she had conjured, coaxing them back into seeds, whispering promises that the earth would not forget the blood it had drunk. Rainey sat apart, a swarm of insects humming faintly around her like a lullaby of wings, their presence a reminder that life ,and death never truly rested.
Sabine leaned against a tree, her body still trembling from her last transformation, while Noah sat silently at her side, his hands pressed against his knees, his flesh still marked with streaks of metallic sheen. They spoke little, for words often broke more easily than silence.
On the other side of the camp, Natasha and the White Devil guild tended their wounded. Tamara worked tirelessly, binding wounds with shaking hands until exhaustion forced her to collapse. Borislav and Mikhaylov kept watch, their grim silhouettes unmoving against the night. Mariya remained as always, apart, staring into the embers with eyes that reflected neither warmth nor hope only the certainty that curses linger longer than scars.
Hours passed in uneasy quiet. Then, as dawn painted the sky with a pale light, the camp began to stir. The 110 remaining players rose slowly, battered but unbroken. They buried the last of their dead in shallow graves, marking them with blades driven into the earth, a testament of loyalty and loss. No one spoke during the burial the silence itself was a hymn.
Together, they turned their faces toward the horizon, toward the long road leading to Merfleur, the City of the Silent Bells. The sound of bells did not greet them yet only silence. But within that silence was the promise of reckoning, and the weight of every vow sworn beside the fire.
And so, carrying sorrow like armor, they marched on.