Enough time had passed for the field to cease being mere expectation.
The rain kept falling—heavy, unbroken—mixing with the steam rising from wounded ground.
Black bodies piled up in irregular pockets, broken weapons sank into the mud, and the metallic clangor of impact had been replaced by something rawer—the stubborn dragging-on of a battle that refused to end.
The Drakkouls had been advancing for minutes.
Not in disorder.
In persistence.
Amid the chaos, a presence asserted itself.
The Black Fury did not need to search.
Her gaze was already there.
Below the wall, among exhausted soldiers and formations on the verge of collapse, a figure moved as if the field obeyed a different set of laws.
Cold, pale skin, almost translucent beneath the constant rain.
Deep blue eyes, crystalline, focused—there was no panic in them.
Long, silver hair streamed wet down her back, reflecting the diffuse light of the sky like threads of living mercury.
The water answered her gestures.
Not explosively.
Disciplined.
Liquid currents rose from the soaked ground at the exact instant black blades descended, deflecting blows that would have crushed ordinary shields.
Arcs of condensed water shot forward, severing joints, locking advances, knocking Drakkouls down with dry, precise impact.
There was no waste.
When a soldier faltered, the water interposed itself.
When the line threatened to give, the pressure shifted.
When an enemy pushed past the point of no return, it was swallowed, dragged, or pierced by liquid blades that dissolved moments later, returning to the formless state of rain.
The battle seemed to reorganize around her.
Not because she led.
But because she sustained.
Atop the wall, the Black Fury watched.
Motionless.
Her light-brown eyes followed Neriah's every movement not like one witnessing a spectacle—but like one recognizing a rare pattern emerging from chaos.
For a brief, almost imperceptible instant, the gleam in her gaze intensified.
It was not surprise.
It was a recalibration.
"I must say…" Her voice crossed the distance with controlled softness. "Conscious Drakkouls have always been a variable to be feared."
A short pause.
Her gaze remained fixed on the silver-haired young woman, wrapped in water that obeyed like an extension of her own body.
"But what moves down there…" she continued, almost affectionate, "doesn't fit that equation."
A slight tilt of the head.
"It's the kind of exception that makes any sacrifice… justifiable."
The rain kept falling.
And by the way the water moved around Neriah, it seemed to have heard.
The clash continued.
Metal, water, and mud mingled as the Drakkouls pressed the human line without pause.
Iaso slipped a low strike, spun her body, and released a short burst of energy that opened just enough space to breathe.
As she landed, her eyes instinctively sought the same point as before.
Neriah.
The water around her was moving too fast.
Iaso clenched her jaw.
"She's going too far," she said, without raising her voice.
Lys did not answer at once.
She stepped forward, pulled her body into a contained turn, and the thread responded before the Drakkoul completed its motion.
Water splashed, mixed with dark blood.
"I know," she said at last.
Another impact.
Another body fell.
"But if it weren't for her…" she continued, between one dodge and the next, "our forces would've been reduced a long time ago."
Iaso blocked a heavy blow, felt the impact reverberate through her arms, and took half a step back.
"Zeph isn't here," Lys added, without looking at her.
The wind carried a deep roar ahead.
Iaso drew a slow breath.
"Still, this is dangerous," she said. "Last time… if it weren't for Lord Karna and Zeph himself—"
She didn't finish the sentence.
She didn't need to.
Lys shoved a Drakkoul with her shoulder, spun, and finished it with a dry strike.
Only then did she answer.
"I know."
For a brief moment, her eyes lifted above the line of combat.
Not toward Neriah.
Farther.
Much farther.
"What truly worries me," she said, low, "is that creature."
Iaso followed her gaze.
Ghatotkacha remained motionless.
Colossal.
Too large to be there merely as a spectator.
"She still hasn't moved," Iaso murmured.
Lys nodded, fingers tensing as if pulling invisible lines.
"And when she does," she said, "everything we're doing here will stop mattering."
The fighting stretched beyond the main line.
Where the formation had already broken, Kaelir Rynne and Skýra still stood.
Not side by side.
But in harmony.
Kaelir advanced low, almost skimming the ground, twin daggers carving air and black flesh in short, efficient motions.
There were no wide swings—only quick entries, cuts to tendons, thrusts beneath poorly fitted plates.
One Drakkoul fell, another took its place before the body touched the mud.
Skýra held the center.
Her shield planted ahead like an immovable marker, her spear describing precise arcs above it.
Every enemy push met resistance; every impact was absorbed, redirected.
She did not retreat—she adjusted.
Rynne moved between them.
The rapier was a silver line in the rain, rapid, lethal thrusts always seeking joints, throats, weak points.
She did not fight the Drakkouls' strength—she fought their time.
A body fell at her feet.
Another followed.
Where he broke the line, she prevented it from reforming.
Even so, the Drakkouls did not stop.
They came.
They always came.
"These creatures don't tire," Rynne said, between two precise thrusts. "If this keeps up… we break before they do."
Kaelir spun, crossed his daggers at a Drakkoul's neck, and shoved the body aside without looking.
The black sea ahead showed no sign of thinning.
"I know," he replied. "But we can't fall back."
He lifted his gaze for an instant.
Not to the field.
Beyond it.
"The energy of that creature…" he continued, voice low, "is terrifying."
Another impact.
Another advance contained.
"And there's that new presence," he added, "inside the walls."
The daggers stopped for half a second.
Kaelir stepped back, drew a deep breath.
His eyes swept the field.
The sea of Drakkouls seemed inexhaustible.
Soldiers fell.
Others took their place.
But something else troubled him.
Much more.
Kaelir's eyes rose.
Up high.
Above the wall.
A motionless figure, wrapped in a dark cloak.
Nothing moved in her—except light-brown eyes, attentive, assessing everything like someone watching pieces on an ancient board.
"We still have a lot to do," Kaelir said. "Until we understand how to deal with the real monsters…"
He moved again.
"Let's keep our distance from them," he finished. "And keep whoever we can… alive."
Skýra adjusted her shield, her spear driving forward immediately after, steady.
"We'll do as you wish," she replied, without hesitation.
Rynne dodged a heavy blow, the rapier piercing a Drakkoul's eye in the same motion.
She pulled the blade free from the falling body without looking at it.
"Then it's simple," she said. "We don't die today."
She repositioned herself between Kaelir and Skýra.
"And whoever crosses this space," she added, "stops being a problem."
The rain fell harder.
The battle went on.
But for them, it was no longer just survival.
It was preparation.
The water touched her skin before any sound arrived.
Neriah kept her eyes closed.
Not from exhaustion.
By choice.
The field did not disappear—it merely changed shape.
The rain stopped being noise and became information.
Each drop that struck the ground carried a brief echo, an almost imperceptible return that spread through the sheet of water formed among mud, blood, and shattered stone.
She didn't just feel.
She translated.
Not with her ears.
With everything.
The vibrations of the Drakkouls' heavy steps traveled through the pooled water like irregular pulses.
Where they advanced in mass, the flow grew dense.
Where one fell, the surface trembled in a short interval—a liquid silence she recognized without needing to see.
Blades cutting the air created fine distortions.
Shields breaking sent back broader waves.
The entire field breathed.
And she breathed with it.
For an instant, an old voice crossed the present.
Calm.
Firm.
Not raised—but impossible to ignore.
"Eyes are not the only way to see the world."
The memory arrived too vividly to be mere recollection.
Phoebe stood before her, hair tied back in elegant carelessness, gaze attentive like someone observing something larger than the training hall itself.
There was no hardness in her voice.
There was certainty.
"Water sees before we do."
Neriah felt the cold floor beneath her feet in that memory.
Felt the weight of expectation.
"You need to become one with it."
Phoebe walked slowly, hands clasped before her body, like someone who rules without haste.
"Feel every vibration."
One step.
"Every change."
Another.
"Just as a fish feels the entire world through what touches it."
She stopped in front of Neriah.
The look was not severe.
It was sovereign.
"A tetra doesn't see the current."
A brief pause.
"It understands it."
In the present, the water around Neriah responded.
It didn't rise.
It didn't explode.
It simply… aligned.
The liquid currents shifted rhythm, adjusting to the new information she received.
Three Drakkouls advanced from the right.
She felt them before they appeared.
The water thickened there.
Two liquid blades emerged at different angles, severing joints with silent precision.
To the left, a soldier slipped.
The impact of his body against the mud reverberated like an involuntary plea.
The water moved before he hit the ground.
It caught him.
Held him.
Returned him to the line.
Neriah opened her eyes.
Crystalline blue reflected the rain, the field, the chaos—but did not lose itself in them.
Now, she wasn't reacting.
She was anticipating.
And atop the wall, the Black Fury tilted her head one degree further.
Like someone who realizes that the piece before her… has just learned that the board also listens.