Under the female knight's leadership, Seven's squadron had slain twenty of the Spawns. Seven focused on delivering the final blow whenever he could, hoping for the chance to receive a Memory. He dealt the killing strike to twelve of them, yet none offered him a Memory nor an Echo.
The army gathered once more, patching up the wounded and tightening their formation before resuming the march.
Seven looked down at his hands.
They were shaking, almost uncontrollably.
It was not fear.
During his years in the House of Talents, his sense of self had slowly eroded. Every thought, every breath, every drop of blood spilled in the arena had been directed toward a single purpose: climb higher. Reach first place. Endure. Survive. Perform.
He had fought countless battles before. He had killed more times than he cared to count. Yet those fights had felt mechanical, hollow. Efficient exchanges of violence, calculated and cold. Even when his life was on the line, it had been nothing more than another step toward a number.
But this…
This was different.
Even if only for a fleeting moment, he felt free.
The clash of shields, the rhythm of marching boots, the synchronized thrust of spears—fighting as part of a unit awakened something inside him that he had not known existed. The thrill was sharper. The danger more vivid. The line between life and death felt thinner, and that thinness made his blood burn.
For the first time in years, he felt alive.
He had always been alone. In the arena, in the corridors, in his room. Every victory had been his alone, every wound endured in silence. But here, surrounded by soldiers who matched his skill and trusted the shield beside them, he felt a strange sense of camaraderie.
They were creations of the Spell. Phantoms born of a nightmare.
And yet, fighting beside them felt more real than anything in the waking world.
He could not name the emotion rising within him. It was as though a sealed chamber in his heart had been forced open, letting in air after years of suffocation.
'My previous self suddenly feels so bland and boring…'
"Hey, rookie! Move it! What are you spacing out for? March!"
His thoughts were cut short as the female knight called out to him. Seven immediately stepped forward, falling back into formation behind her.
"You really are fearless, kid. Jumping into those abominations' arms like that. Do you not fear death?" an older soldier from his previous squadron asked with a grin.
Seven remained silent for a moment before replying.
"I had the squad's protection. That is why I could strike without hesitation. It is thanks to your skill."
The simple flattery earned him several approving nods and a round of rough laughter. Praises were thrown his way, and he responded to each with calm humility.
The column resumed its march. Steel scraped softly against steel, and boots crunched against dirt as low chatter spread through the ranks. Crude jokes mixed with subdued discussions of the recent clash. The tension eased, not enough to disappear, but enough to remind them that they were still alive.
The relief did not last.
Smaller packs of nightmare creatures descended from the slopes, testing the formation in brief, vicious clashes. Spears struck true, shields held firm. Though a few soldiers fell, the army pressed onward, bloodied but steady.
Eventually, the narrow road ended.
"Halt!"
The command echoed between the towering slopes, and the marching army came to an abrupt stop. One by one, soldiers lifted their gazes, momentarily forgetting the ache in their limbs.
The sun, long hidden behind jagged stone walls, finally rose into view. Pale light spilled across a vast prairie ahead of them. Endless stretches of tall grass swayed in the wind like a living sea, their tips glinting faintly as though dusted with gold. The land lay cradled between colossal mountains, their dark silhouettes looming like silent judges sealing the field away from the world.
Then the enemy appeared.
Through the mountain pass on the opposite side, the rioter army poured into the prairie like a dark tide. Lines of soldiers spilled forth in disciplined waves, banners snapping violently in the wind as war horns sounded. The call was deep and thunderous, reverberating across the open field and crashing against the mountains.
"Shields up!"
The command rang out just as the rioters' archers raised their bows in unison.
A heartbeat later, the sky darkened.
Arrows screamed through the air, descending like a black storm. The war army braced itself, shields snapping into place with practiced precision. The first volley struck with a deafening clatter, iron ringing against iron as shafts splintered and skidded away.
An arrow slipped through a narrow gap to Seven's left. A soldier beside him jerked, blood spraying across Seven's cheek as the man collapsed without a sound.
Seven did not flinch.
The line did not break.
Before the second wave could fall, the war army began to advance with shields raised high. Even as arrows continued to rain down upon them, they marched forward in disciplined silence, boots striking the soil in steady unison. If they could close the distance and crash into the rioters' front lines, the archers would lose their advantage entirely.
The rioters understood this as well.
Their bowstrings sang in frantic harmony. The fourth volley fell. Then the fifth. Then the sixth, each crashing against shields, armor, and flesh alike.
And then, there was no seventh.
Not because the war army had reached the enemy lines.
Their march had stopped.
So had everything else.
The battlefield fell into an unnatural stillness.
A chill crept down Seven's spine before he even knew why. The wind had not ceased, yet the grass below no longer swayed. The air felt heavy, as though something vast and unseen pressed down upon the world.
Slowly, heads began to tilt upward.
High above the prairie, a lone figure hovered in the sky.
Skeletal wings stretched wide behind it, their bony frames cutting stark silhouettes against the pale sun. A flowing blue cloak wrapped around its emaciated form, fluttering softly in the wind. Beneath the fabric, gray flesh was visible, twisted and unnatural, bearing grotesque similarity to the Spawns they had slain.
The creature was tall, impossibly tall, and possessed four arms.
Two cradled a delicate instrument whose strings glinted faintly in the sunlight, resembling a guzheng. The remaining arms hovered above the strings, long fingers poised to play.
No one spoke.
Even the enemy army stood frozen.
Seven's breath turned shallow.
The creature's presence felt wrong, not merely powerful, but invasive. As though its shadow reached into his skull and brushed against his thoughts.
Only then did the realization form.
'An awakened terror…'
Even if he was skilled, he could not face such a being alone. Perhaps if the two armies combined their might, they might stand a chance. There was also the third army he had glimpsed at the beginning of his nightmare. They had yet to arrive.
The rioters' archers reacted first, turning their aim skyward in unison.
Before a single arrow could be loosed, the terror moved its fingers.
The guzheng sang.
The sound was neither loud nor sharp. It was soft, almost gentle.
Yet it cut through the battlefield like a blade.
The melody spread across the prairie in an instant. One by one, mortal eyes turned hollow as the sound reached them.
Seven felt it brush against his mind.
And then, his eyes turned hollow as well.
***
Once Seven regained his consciousness, the first thing that assaulted him was sound.
Animalistic cheers tore through the air, raw and unrestrained, mingling with screams cracked by pain and despair. The echoes multiplied against stone walls until they became unbearable.
Alongside them came the stench of blood, thick, metallic, and suffocating. Coating his throat with every breath he took.
Seven gasped.
His lungs burned as if he had been running for miles, his chest rising and falling in ragged, uneven bursts. Something felt wrong. Deeply wrong.
His body felt… smaller.
Weaker.
Seven was panting as he struggled to stand straight.
The ground... it was the familiar polished stone.
The cheers grew clearer now, no longer distant noise but distinct voices: loud, cruel, exultant. The kind of sounds made by spectators, not soldiers. By people enjoying a spectacle.
Slowly, as he lifted his head, Seven was met with a familiar scene.
A girl knelt on the stone floor only a short distance away, her clothes soaked dark with blood that did not belong to her alone. In her arms lay a boy, limp, broken, his skin deathly pale. His chest no longer rose. His eyes stared lifelessly into nothing.
She clutched him desperately, shaking him as if sheer will might force life back into his body.
Then, she looked up. Her gaze locked onto Seven.
In that instant, her sorrow twisted into something far uglier.
"You monster!" she screamed, her voice hoarse, shattered by grief. "You killed my brother!"