Thud-thud-thud-thud-thud—
The rhythmic thunder of horse hooves echoed across the barren landscape, accompanied by the steady tramp of boots—thousands upon thousands of boots—striking earth in synchronization.
Over a million soldiers moved in formations, their columns stretching for kilometers across the wastes between the Pit and the frontlines. Each battalion bore the gray uniforms of the Last Reserve, unmarked by domain allegiance, branded only by the simple truth of what they were Prisoners. Criminals. Traitors. Collaborators…
The forgotten dregs of humanity, now marching to buy time with their lives.
Not all prisoners had made the cut, of course. Only those who remained mentally stable—or stable enough—and those who'd chosen aggressive Themas that granted combat capability were selected. The truly broken, the passive, and the purely intellectual had been left behind in their cells.
Still, over a million had qualified.
And among them, leading a platoon of two hundred near the formation's middle, was Ashen Hart.
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Sixth step now. That meant something in the military hierarchy, at least enough to warrant command over two hundred bodies instead of being just another nameless soldier in the ranks.
Not that Ashen looked particularly commanding at the moment.
For most of the march, he rode with his eyes closed, head bowed as if lost in deep meditation. When he did open them, it was only to pull out a worn notebook and scribble strange symbols and geometric patterns with complete seriousness, pen moving in practiced motions that suggested meaning where none was apparent.
His platoon had branded him a weirdo since day one.
Was he trying to act like some philosopher? Was this some type of advanced Embodiment they'd never heard of? It had nothing to do with Sloth from their perspective, anyway, since they knew that was their leader's chosen Sin.
Some muttered. Most simply shrugged and focused on marching.
At least he wasn't the type to scream orders or make speeches about glory and sacrifice. That was something.
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Behind closed eyes, Ashen floated in his dreamscape.
Thousands of black portals still swirled in the sky of his mental space, each one a connection to a sleeping prisoner left behind in the Pit. The dream parasites continued their work even now, feeding lives to chronicle whenever he had the capacity to process them.
The current army wasn't spared from his clutches either. Dream Parasites kept infecting them, starting with his own platoon.
But that wasn't what occupied his attention during the march.
No… he was deliberately avoiding something else entirely: Making connections.
The thought alone made phantom images flicker across his vision. Paul's easy grin. Jake's weird antics, Donna's awkward seductions…
They were all dead now, their faces sometimes superimposing themselves over the two hundred soldiers riding behind him.
It was the Liminal Dreamer trait at work, probably. Blurring the line between dream and reality, memory and present, until he couldn't quite trust what he saw anymore.
It made conversation... difficult. At least for now. He was sure he would get used to this hallucination just like he got used to Alice sometimes missing her heart...
Ashen had considered simply giving up on making new connections entirely. Just embracing solitude, focusing on the mission, treating these two hundred as tools rather than people.
But he'd learned his lesson about giving up on things.
'Never say never,' he reminded himself, pen scratching another encoded phrase into his notebook. 'Especially not for a Sloth user.'
So instead, he procrastinated.
Avoided eye contact. Kept his eyes closed. Scribbled in notebooks. Created the image of an eccentric philosopher-warrior too absorbed in higher thoughts to bother with small talk.
Procrastination was perfectly acceptable within Sloth's parameters. It wasn't giving up, it was just... delaying. Indefinitely.
The Sloth concept tolerated that just fine.
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The insights he'd harvested from other Sloth users' dreams had been enlightening in ways he hadn't expected.
While Ashen had the best compatibility to date among every Sloth pathwalker he'd encountered, it didn't erase the reality that he'd only walked this path for a year.
Decades of experience from his predecessors had given him new perspectives.
For one, many thought Sloth was simply the act of staying still in body and mind. But that was closer to the concept of death, or stasis and complete cessation.
From what Ashen had gathered and finally concluded, the more accurate description would be: Moving slowly, but never stopping.
The thought made him smile faintly, eyes still closed as his horse continued its steady pace.
It reminded him of the Candlebearer.
That middle-aged man in ancient noble attire, walking his eternal march through darkness, candle flame flickering crimson in cupped hands. Never speeding. Never slowing.
Just... walking.
Moving slowly, but never stopping.
Though he'd done something foolish recently.
Ashen had thought long and hard about Sloth's penalty: the permanent nature of giving up on things, and had an idea that seemed clever at the time.
Why not use this to give up on things I truly don't need but can't help clinging to due to human nature and emotions?
Irrational fears, perhaps? There would be nothing negative about giving up something like that. Quite the opposite.
So he'd experimented.
He started with something he absolutely never wanted to do: giving up on his loved ones.
Some might call it foolish… after all, loved ones might not always love you back, and if they ever separated, this curse could haunt him for the rest of his life.
But Ashen had a bit of a romantic side beneath it all. He was sure that would never happen to him.
He liked to think he could judge a person's character fairly well before he even thought of loving them.
The thought of never giving up on them wasn't foreign to him, so it had only taken a mental nod to acknowledge it… and for Sloth to take his choice of ever giving up on anyone he loved.
Ashen hadn't felt that different at first.
But when he'd dived back into his concept's mental visualization, he'd noticed that the Candlebearer had somehow... slowed down further in his gait.
The fire on the candle was also just a bit dimmer than before.
And the more Ashen observed, the more he got the ominous feeling that if the Candlebearer ever stopped his march, it would also be the time Ashen had given up on himself and chosen to embrace death.
That fire suddenly meant much more than just an indicator of his advancement.
It was the fire of his life itself. When it snuffed out, so would he.
From that moment on, he'd never thought of messing with the concept so casually again.
He even went as far as making his new motto to Never say never. For anything.
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Still, the other insights had proven valuable.
Embodying Sloth could be divided into two main approaches: mental and physical.
Either your body was sluggish, or your thoughts were.
Using both could accelerate embodiment, but almost no one did. Who would be content to live such a sluggish life, after all?
Walking the path of Sloth didn't mean succumbing to it, though—it meant mastering it. Wielding it when convenient, discarding it when it became an obstacle.
Climbing the steps of a concept didn't necessarily mean becoming it, but rather becoming better at using it to your benefit.
Otherwise, no one would ever take negative concepts as paths to power. Wrath users would be mindless berserkers. Envy users would be paralyzed by jealousy. Greed users would hoard themselves into immobility.
But they weren't, because mastery meant control.
Ashen opened his eyes, pen pausing mid-stroke.
On the horizon, barely visible through the heat shimmer, rose the Great Wall of the Wrath Domain: The Eternal Shield.
Even from this distance, it was impressive.
The wall stretched across the landscape like a mountain range made manifest by human will. Even sparse records from a thousand years ago mentioned its existence in passing, as if it had simply always been there.
But more than its age, the wall possessed something truly remarkable: it was self-healing.
Even if breached, even if destroyed, it was said that as long as the human race didn't go extinct, it would eventually rise back up and continue shielding them from threats.
Many had no idea if that was literal truth or propaganda, but its destruction two hundred years ago and the fact that it stood proudly now silenced any doubt.
Of course, The Eternal Shield did not win wars; it merely bought time, and the Reserve Army's mission was similar in nature.
Their primary objective was to use guerrilla tactics to harass and slow down the Narkal tribes until the other domains could gather their forces for a coordinated defense.
They had to hold for at least one month.
Ashen's hand tightened on his horse's reins as he thought about the duration.
The similarities to two hundred years ago weren't lost on him. Rowan Vance had faced the same situation.
But back then, without the system's assistance, the domains had managed to mobilize in ten days.
Now, with the system's aid and two hundred years of preparation since the last major tide, they needed a minimum of a month.
'Humanity has become more arrogant,' He judged, gaze fixed on the distant wall. 'More corrupt. The more they embodied the Seven Sins... the more selfish they became.'
It was like humanity's pride had burned alongside the Pride Domain two hundred years ago.
Without Pride to anchor them, the other Sins had grown unchecked. Greed hoarded resources. Envy plotted against neighbors. Wrath sought petty vengeance. Gluttony consumed beyond need. Lust indulged without restraint. Sloth avoided necessary action.
And standing against all of it… or perhaps orchestrating it, Cassius Asta's organization, The Veiled Moon, had only grown stronger, more mysterious. And more ominous.
…More deeply embedded in every domain's infrastructure than anyone wanted to admit.
Ashen had chronicled enough prisoner memories to piece together fragments of their reach. There were even sympathizers, even among this army.
Cassius had spent two centuries building his web, and now it was tightening.
But despite everything… despite knowing what was coming, despite understanding the scale of what they faced… Ashen found he couldn't muster an ounce of fear.
Not after that dream.
The vision showed him a future where he stood as Godkiller. Where he'd slaughtered a god for the second time. Where a god had been terrified of him instead of the other way around.
"How can you be traumatized when you're the traumatic event?"
The guard's hysterical words echoed in his memory, and Ashen's lips curved into a faint smile.
Fear? He simply couldn't feel it. Not after witnessing that. And certainly not after seeing what he was capable of becoming.
Maybe it was delusion. Maybe the vision was false, or a trick of his Liminar Dreamer, or some fever dream born of stress. But it had felt real.
Real enough to chase away the seed of fear that had plagued him since learning about the Outer Gods.
Ashen closed his notebook, tucked it away, and opened his eyes fully for the first time in hours.
His platoon noticed immediately. Their weirdo leader was finally paying attention.
"Listen up," Ashen called out, voice carrying across the formation without shouting. "We're approaching the wall. Once we pass through, we're in active combat zones. Stay sharp, follow orders, and don't do anything stupid."
He paused, then added with a slight smirk, "And if you're going to die, at least make it memorable. I'd hate to chronicle a boring end."
Confused looks were exchanged, but a few nervous laughs broke through the tension.
Good enough.
Ashen faced forward again, hand resting on the spear strapped to his saddle.
Alice was safe in Ashbastion with Sabrina as escort. Seraphine was... wherever the Chapel had stationed her. His family was as secure as they could be in these times.
…Now. He could finally let loose a little bit without having to think too much.
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