Desan stood atop the broken pile of bodies—limbs twisted, armor cracked, blood already drying under his boots.
This was right before he ran.
Right before the fear clawed its way up his throat and told him leave or die.
He turned his head, slowly, almost unsure if he wanted to look.
Mire was still fighting.
Calm. Controlled. Surrounded by death and yet untouched by it. Every movement was deliberate. Measured. Efficient. Each swing of his blade carved through the vowbound like a priest cutting scripture into flesh.
Desan swallowed hard.
…and Desan began to run.
Not away this time.
Toward.
Toward the chaos. Toward Mire. Toward the thing that didn't flinch when the world tore apart around him.
He weaved through broken bodies and cracked stone, boots scraping against blood-slick marble. His eyes scanned every corner, every twitch of light—anything that hinted at another explosion, another blindside.
"What are you doing? Why are you—" Velcrith's voice rang sharp in his skull, tinged with both panic and confusion.
"I don't know," Desan muttered under his breath. "But I'm tired of dying alone."
Velcrith went silent, like he didn't know whether to insult him.
BOOM.
The ground split and roared just meters ahead of Mire, fire and stone erupting like the world itself was vomiting up its guts. But Mire didn't flinch. Not even a twitch. Cloak billowing. Sword low. Unbothered.
It was like the chaos parted for him. Like it feared him.
Desan didn't have that luxury.
He was just a few strides away—nearly there—when the next explosion thundered to his right.
BOOM.
And from the choked cloud of dust and bone, it came. That thing. The hulking brute, scarred and stitched with hatred, dragging its mace like it weighed less than a whisper. Eyes burning.
Its roar was not a sound—it was pressure, force.
And Desan was its target.
The mace came down like the fist of some laughing god.
But Desan—this time—was ready.
He moved. A sharp side-step, weight on his right leg, ducking low and fast. The mace missed by inches, slamming into the ground so hard the stone cracked open and vomited dust.
Desan coughed, heart hammering, body screaming at the sudden motion.
Without missing a beat, the creature swung again.
And again.
And again.
Each blow came faster, heavier, like a storm of iron fists trying to bury Desan in the earth. The air howled with every swing, the force alone enough to stagger.
But Desan moved.
He moved.
He ducked one.
Slid under another.
Sidestepped the next, letting the wind of it brush past his face like death's hand grazing his cheek.
The creature roared in frustration, smashing the mace down once more, hard enough to make the ground beneath their feet jump.
Desan dropped to a knee, skidding through the dust, sword dragging behind him like a claw.
Using the stuck mace as a springboard, Desan shoved himself forward.
A twist of the hips. A flash of muscle.
He brought his new sword down in a savage arc and rammed it straight into the creature's skull.
It screamed—a low, gurgling thing—and lifted Desan off like dead weight.
Then it slammed its head into the ground.
Once.
Twice.
A third time.
Each impact cracked the stone, blood pouring from Desan's mouth. Pain bloomed in his chest like a wildfire.
Desan cursed through clenched teeth, brain still sparking with thought even as pain tried to shut it all down. The improved neural web—the fused flesh with Velcrith—made him sharper, but that clarity came with agony.
Still cursing himself.
Even through the haze of agony, he felt it—that suffocating, disgusting sensation crawling over his skin.
Desan could feel it. Not see it—feel it. That unnatural, spine-crawling sensation of being observed by something that wasn't quite human anymore.
Mire's eyes.
Mire fought on—graceful, calculated, surgical.
But his attention?
It was on Desan.
Like Mire was measuring him.
Judging him.
Maybe even waiting for something.
Velcrith hissed in his skull. "His sword's cutting through them like they're paper. But he's got his eyes on you."
Desan spat blood, stumbling to his feet. "Of course he does," he muttered. "Freak show's never over."
"Other lift..." Desan muttered through bloody teeth, spitting crimson.
But he was still here.
The creature roared and reared up.
Desan drove the nails in his boot straight into its monster's face.
Desan used it like a step, leveraging himself. The creature howled in confused rage. He grabbed the hilt and yanked the sword free, tearing it loose with a wet rip.
Then he fell.
Hard.
Velcrith screamed—high-pitched, fraying at the edges—the prayer was still echoing, gnawing at his soul like acid. Every word, every tone, cut like razors through their fused consciousness.
Desan hit the ground near a priest.
The creature charged, mace raised high, bringing it down like judgment itself.
It smashed against the priest's protective barrier—an invisible wall of force cracking under pressure.
The ground shook.
The shield groaned.
The priest screamed prayers louder, faster, trying to hold it—voice shrill, breaking into desperate syllables.
Didn't matter.
CRACK.
The monster pushed harder. The barrier split, creaked, then shattered.
White energy flared, exposed.
The priest didn't get a second chance. He was paste. Red and bone and pulp on the ground.
The shield gone.
And Desan?
He was next.
BOOM.
A second too late to pray, but just in time to survive.
BOOM. BOOM.
Four more explosions tore through the side of the mansion, walls collapsing, flames licking at the sky.
A chunk of debris tore through the air, jagged and fast, smashed into the creature's head, ripping away half its face in a spray of black blood and bone.
This was it.
Now.
Desan pushed off the ground, body screaming.
Hands out.
No thought.
Just will.
"Come on—COME ON!" he snarled through clenched teeth.
His fingers found the opening in the ruined skull.
With raw, savage force, he shoved his hand into the thing's head.
It spasmed, body twitching. He didn't stop.
He grabbed.
And he pulled.
Wet. Warm. Slippery. It came out with a sickening rip.
"Think that's the brain," Velcrith said idly.
The dead collapsed on top of Desan.
Heavy. Wet. Still twitching.
About six remained.
One charged at him, mace raised, fury burning.
The rest went for Mire.
Desan struggled under the corpse's weight, managed to roll free—but the creature was already on him, its weapon coming down—
SHLNK.
It never hit.
The thing was cleaved clean in half mid-swing.
Mire's image flickered for half a second—gone the next.
The aura around Mire's sword flared—bright, unnatural, holy wrong.
Two more charged. Both swung. One aimed high, the other low.
Mire caught the first mace bare-handed.
The second smashed into his head.
No reaction. Not even a flinch.
Desan's eyes widened. "What the hell…"
Mire crushed the weapon in his grip like it was dry bark. Then, with a single, effortless upswing, he cut the first in half.
The second? Just got backhanded. Skull shattered like a kicked melon.
Silence.
Desan lay there, heart hammering. Face bloodied. Still breathing.
"…How the fuck is he that strong?" he muttered. Anger under his breath. Frustration. Jealousy bleeding at the edge of it.
He didn't want to be jealous. He was grateful. Sure. He got saved.
But Mire didn't struggle.
Didn't bleed.
Didn't hurt.
And that… that stung more than anything.
Velcrith hummed inside his skull."I think he's an exception. I don't know much about the outside. Just the stuff I picked up while squatting in your mansion-brain, if that makes you feel any better."
It didn't.
Not even a little.
By the time Desan sat up, Mire had already killed the rest.
No sweat. No pause.
Just another day.
That same black aura seeped out of the corpses—slow, curling tendrils bleeding from the dead—and, just like before, it flowed straight into him.
Desan didn't fight it.
It healed him. Strengthened him.
But only for a moment.
Just like before, the strength leaked right back out—like his body couldn't hold it. Like he was a cracked vessel, only good for sipping death.
Velcrith muttered, half-interested, half-concerned. "You're leaking soul juice again. Real impressive."
Most people couldn't even see it. The aura or will of the living or dead. You need to be strong enough to see that kind of thing. Or you needed to be cursed. Or built for it.
Like Desan.
Like something else, too.
Desan saw Mire move quickly, deliberately.
He stepped between Desan and the last priest, blocking the view.
Didn't say a damn word.
But both Desan and Velcrith noticed it.
"He saw it." Velcrith's voice now quieter, sharper. "And he didn't want them to."
And then it was gone.
The aura, the warmth, the whispers of the dead.
Mire didn't speak about it. Didn't ask questions. Didn't even give Desan a look.
He just turned to the priests and said, "Set up the camp here. We'll go inside, finish the objective. Then we can mourn the dead."
Mourn the dead. Like they weren't meat shields five minutes ago.
The priests scrambled to obey. Fires were lit. Supplies moved.
And just before Mire stepped through the door of the ruined mansion, he paused. Turned his head, just slightly.
"Stay here," he said to Desan. Calm. Almost gentle.
Then, colder than ice—like something not human was trying to imitate humanity—"If you run, I'll hunt you down."
And then he was gone.
Just like that.
Desan sat in front of the fire. Let it warm his skin.
It wasn't much, but it helped.
Something not cold. Something not dead.
Just a fire.
For once, no blood. No screaming. No running.
Desan closed his eyes.
Who the hell would've thought… after all that… he'd still be alive?
He let the warmth wash over him.
And finally, finally… he slept.
Because gods damn it… he earned it.