GLOW.
The mage conjured spheres of light, dispelling the suffocating darkness around them. Mineral shards pinned on the edge of the wagons hummed, casting faint light onto their road, making it easier to direct the beast against the tunnel walls.
The air felt damp, like a forest after a long hour of heavy rain but there was no smell of wet earth; no scent of leaves or dirt. It lacked life.
Instead, there was a stench.
It hit Tuka like an uppercut to his nose—a foul, rotting odor that made his stomach somersault. He gagged, pressing a hand to his mouth. He looked around. No one else flinched.
Some were leaning against the wagons. Others were chewing on dry jerky, the sound of their grinding teeth echoing in the silence. He needed to endure it. They moved for several more minutes until a quick, light footsteps coming from ahead—
Pitter–patter
Footsteps. Light. Fast; the scouts had returned.
The scouts drifted out of the darkness. One of them who looked like their leader spoke to the boss in a low whisper. The boss nodded and moved his lips. The scouts dispersed and ran to each party they belonged to, the command filtered down to Tuka's party.
"Hundreds of ghouls and skeletons. A kilometer ahead," the short-haired scout reported to the acolyte. "Another group is already there—head scout said it was him. We offered to coordinate. But he told us to piss off."
The acolyte didn't blink. "And the Captain's order?"
"Increase pace," the scout said, his face a mask of indifference. "Obliterate everything. Monsters... and Asuras."
The acolyte sighed, a soft, tired sound. "Typical of him. Move out then."
Tuka froze.
His feet kept moving, matching the increasing pace of the march, but his mind had come to a screeching halt.
Obliterate everything?
They weren't just talking about monsters. They were talking about people. Was this it? Was this what it meant to be an Asura? He looked at his hands. He had been falsely charged with murder. Now, he was being ordered to make that charge into reality.
I'd rather be a shepherd, he thought bitterly.
He reached for his sword. The cold steel, which had comforted him minutes ago, now felt like a curse.
"You look like you're in trouble."
Tuka flinched. The short-haired scout was walking beside him, eyes tracking Tuka's pale face.
"I'm not trying to be your friend," the scout muttered, glancing ahead. "But if you want to live, you can ask for help."
Out of all people it has to be him. Tuka scowled and ignored him.
The scout didn't wait for an answer. He drifted away, joining his peers. They whispered to each other, casting a sharp glance back at Tuka.
Chill.
A shiver raced down Tuka's spine. The old man was right. They were vultures waiting for him to trip. He looked at the old man's back, hunched over the reins. He was the only anchor left in this sea of madness. Feeling miserable, alone and lost; he bet his luck on the old man.
Swoosh—
The pace changed.
The metallic screech of iron-rimmed wheels filled the tunnel. The boar-beasts pounded the ground, kicking up a storm of choking dust. A rhythmic clack-clack-clack accompanied their frantic march, metal echoing against the holster. They increased the pace again—
After minutes of empty darkness, the tunnel opened up. A vast cavern emerged—a jagged wound in the ground the size of the soccer field.
Klink. Klank.
The sounds hit them first. The screech of metal on bone. The guttural, wet shrieks of things that should have been dead. Dozens of Asuras were already there, locked in a chaotic fight against a sea of decaying flesh and white bone; their steels sent a shower of sparks across the tunnel, showering the darkness.
High above, mineral shards embedded in the ceiling glowed, illuminating the horror below.
Ghouls. Their skin hanging in grey ribbons, its jaw hung loose waiting to snap.
Skeletons. Clutching a rusty assortment of weapons, their empty sockets burning with a dim, hateful light.
Tuka's skin crawled.
The monsters noticed them. The fighting Asuras noticed them. Heads snapped toward the new unwelcomed arrivals.
The boss stood up on the lead cart. He drew his claymore, the heavy steel singing as it left the sheath. He didn't look at the monsters. He looked at the other humans who glared in their direction.
"I have no need for prisoners!"
Schwing!
Dozens of blades left their scabbards. The archer drew her string until they groaned. The mage raised his staff, the air around them shimmering as sura essence pooled like liquid fire.
"Slaughter them all!"
The march ended. The massacre began.
*******************************************************************************************
The boss leaped—
[Seismic Bash]
BOOM!
He descended like a meteor; carving a smoking crater into the center of the battlefield. Bone and flesh disintegrated instantly. He rose from the dust, looking for his next prey. Two enemy Asuras glared at him, their blades trembling. He grinned and charged as dust erupted outward, blinding the survivors and choking the air around him.
Behind him, his party followed like a tidal wave—obliterating the front line.
The rest of the party engaged with their own battle as The boss chased the enemy Asura breaching to the very front line.
Slash.
Thrust.
Volley.
Elemental bolts hissed through the air, melting the marrow of the undead. The undead were slow, against the veterans, they were just target practice. But no one relaxed. The monsters weren't the real threat.
The swordsmen with swords slashed, some with spears thrusted; and Tuka still had his sword on his hip. Again and again the ghouls and skeletons were beaten off, and many of them were killed.
In the end Tuka could think of no plan except to let the other Asuras fight first and show him the ropes. He was rather sorry about it, but it could not be helped, he was frozen and his party was assigned to protect the wagons in the first place.
Protect the cargo. Let the veterans die first.
He felt a pang of guilt, sharp as a needle, but fear was a louder master.
CRASH.
A ghoul's body sailed through the air, its body folding under the weight of the blow before skidding across the dirt, landing at the feet of the boss's aide. He was the swordsman who handed Tuka his equipment before. He shifted his gaze at the direction from where it came—
Roar.
A new shadow loomed.
A giant of a man clad in scarred, blood-stained plate armor. He flicked his shield, sending a spray of gore onto the cavern floor. His eyes, burning behind a steel visor, locked onto them.
"You bastard!" He roared. "I told you to stay out of it!"
The swordsman raised his massive claymore, readying a stance. His party flinched, but no one stepped back.
The giant man surged forward.
From atop the cart, The mage and archer hurled their ranged attacks. But arrows bounced off his shield like rain. Magic dissipated against his enchanted plate.
"Now you die!"
CLANG.
The claymore swordsman met the charge. He held his blade horizontally, his entire frame shuddering as the giant's overhead strike landed. The giant grunted, the steel of his armor creaking with effort as he exerted more strength. The swordsman gritted his teeth, his feet carved furrows into the dirt as he redirected the weight.
Shing. Clack. Bang.
It was a dance of desperation. The swordsman's technique was flawless—a blur of silver batting away the behemoth's assault. But technique has a price. His lungs burned. His grip was failing; his sura was draining out faster than he thought.
He signaled. Two of his men—a spearman and a short-swordsman—dived into the fray.
"Weaklings!" the giant bellowed..
[Shield Charge]
The giant roared, pivoting with surprising speed. The movement was too fast for a man that size. He didn't use his sword. He swept his heavy metal shield around in a devastating arc.
THWUMP.
The sound was sickening.
The spear snapped like a dry twig. The spearman's arm followed, bending at an angle that made Tuka's stomach turn. The short-swordsman took the shield square in the chest; he spun through the air with a cry. He hit the stone wall with a wet thud and slumped to the ground and fainted.
The archer and mage tried to intervene; arrows notched and elemental energy crackled in the air, but before they could release it, a blur of silver cut through the air forcing them to abort the attack. The shadows vomited forth two rogues, an advanced scout-class with a specialty in fighting dirty.
Whistle—
Throwing daggers hissed through the air. The backline scrambled, diving behind the wagons as the whistling blades bit into the wood.
The claymore swordsmen was alone now and nearly tired out; most of the men were assisting the boss, the spearman was barely standing, his archer and mage were occupied with the rogues—soon they would all be overpowered.
Bang—His shoulders screamed as his blade met the giant's shield. Bang—the giant's counter-strike jarred his very spine. Bang—a bead of sweat broke from his brow as the relentless hammering-strikes of the behemoth continued.
He looked toward the rear guard. Toward the acolyte. Toward the asuras who hadn't even drawn their sword.
He was reluctant to have her fight and he knew nothing about the new asuras. But he had no choice.
"Assist me!"
The acolyte didn't waste more time. She raised her hands, a soft, holy light gathering in her palms.
"Heal!"
A blinding dawn erupted from her palms. The golden radiance washed over the swordsman, stitching his frayed muscles back into cold, hard resolve. The acolyte didn't stop. She clasped her hands chanting another prayer, her fingers traced a shimmering arc in the stale air.
"Holy Light!"
A lustrous, silvery-white explosion tore through the tunnel's gloom. The giant hissed, his head snapping back as the light seared through his visor.
In the back, the shadows curled away from the walls like scorched paper. The two rogues were left standing naked in the glaring light—daggers poised, their silhouettes stripped of the dark.
The acolyte leaped, her brown hair fluttered as she landed gracefully and shouted.
"Forget the wagons!" she commanded. "Swordsmen, to the front! Flank them!"
"YAAARGH!"
The war cry ripped through the cavern. Tuka's party surged. The acolyte rushed to tend to the fallen. The scouts blurred toward the rogues. Even the porter had drawn their steel.
"She's charming, isn't she?"
Tuka looked at the old man with a deadpan stare.
"Haha nice expression," The old man grunted, his levity vanishing. "I'll draw the monsters off. You stick to the party, strike one or two ghouls for practice okay."
Tuka nodded grimly.
The world was a cacophony. Dizziness. Shouts. The rhythmic clank of steel on bone. It was difficult to understand with so many sounds around. Tuka felt he could delay no longer—the monsters were drawing their circle ever closer.
Tuka drew his sword. The weight felt different. And then, the floating words returned—accompanied by a cold, ancient whisper in his mind.
[The sword has been drawn.]
[The Shepherd of the Dead Gods never retreat.]
"Huh?"
Tuka grimaced, the memory of his penance flashed—a bitter reminder of why he was here.
*******************************************************************************************
"YOU COWARD! FIGHT WITH HONOR!"
The giant was losing it.
He ripped the helmet from his head, revealing a middle-aged veteran with a roguish face mapped with scars and desperation. He stole a frantic glance at the chaos surrounding him—his rogues were trapped and wounded; he was out of time.
He clutched the cross necklace at his throat until his knuckles turned white.
"O Lumen, forgive me," he rasped.
[BERSERK]
A violent red aura erupted from his pores like misted blood. His eyes bled into crimson pits of madness. The giant howled with a primal scream, he threw his shield aside. It hit the stone with a useless clang. He didn't need defense anymore. He was a blur of red-tinted fury as he lunged at the claymore swordsman.
The two-handed swordsman dropped low. He dragged his blade through the dirt, a weighted, lethal stance.
[SEISMIC BASH]
The sword ignited. The steel became a streak of roaring fire. He lunged forward, meeting the giant's charge head-on.
BANG.
The collision sent a shockwave through the tunnel that rattled the teeth and snapped heads around as the sound of the blast echoed off the damp walls.
Nearby, the two rogues were crumbling. Wounded. Cornered.
They tried to slip away, but the scouts blocked every opening, herding them into the path of whistling arrows and searing firebolts. Seeing the tide turning, the acolyte stopped healing her peers. She drew a flail—the morning star whistling a song of death as she sprinted toward the giant.
Then, she saw Tuka. Standing still.
"ARE YOU AN IDIOT?!" she screamed, her eyes flashing with urgency. "Help them finish the rogues!" She pointed to where the rogues were.
The shout hit Tuka like a bucket of ice water.
The sudden message from his sura had left him paralyzed and the fear of being "perfect prey"—a novice hunted by scavengers—made him hesitate. And now he was being scolded like a lost child by a woman half his size. His ego, battered and bruised by days of fear, finally revolted.
If he stayed hidden, he was a coward.
If he fought, he was a target.
To hell with being found out, he hissed internally.
"Fuck it all!"
He didn't care who saw his clumsy grip. He didn't care about his unpolished stride.
Tuka lunged. A blur of desperation and cold iron, heading straight for the rogues.