Lance Varay's POV:-
Beside me, a few soldiers exchanged tense glances. The expedition team had been outnumbered and forced to send a single survivor to request aid. The probability of their survival was—
**Low. Extremely low.**
Yet, I had long since abandoned the habit of dwelling on pessimistic odds. It was useless to do so. Our mission was to recover what remained, whether it be bodies or survivors.
I turned to the assembled squad. "We move immediately."
Without hesitation, they obeyed.
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The journey was swift and silent. There was no need for words, no need for empty reassurances. Those who followed me knew their duty, and I knew mine.
The rhythmic beat of boots against the ground filled the air, a steady cadence that blended with the howling wind. The sun had begun to dip, casting long shadows over the uneven terrain, but it did not slow our pace.
My thoughts returned to the expedition team. **How long could they have held out?**
If they had remained hidden, perhaps they had a chance. But if they had engaged in prolonged combat…
I let out a slow breath, dismissing the thought before it could take hold.
**No use dwelling on maybes. We will see soon enough.**
Beside me, Arjan clutched his first aid box tighter. His fingers were white with tension.
Something about that bothered me.
**A man who believed his comrades were dead wouldn't be holding on to medicine.**
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The entrance loomed ahead, a gaping maw carved into jagged stone. The air was thick here, laced with something foul—something bitter and metallic.
**Blood.**
I stepped forward. "Is this the place?"
Arjan nodded, his lips pressed tightly together.
I studied his face, searching for something—grief, desperation, hope—but found nothing except the same rigid discipline he had displayed earlier.
Strange.
"Form up," I commanded, then strode into the darkness without another word.
The others followed.
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The moment I stepped inside, I knew.
**Slaughter.**
The scent of burning flesh clung to the cavern walls, thick and acrid. Smoke curled in lazy tendrils, drifting over the sea of bodies littering the ground. Blood soaked into the cracks of the stone, pooling beneath corpses that had been twisted, broken, **torn apart**.
Some were pinned to the walls, impaled by jagged spears of ice and stone. Others had been bisected cleanly, their severed torsos lying feet away from their missing halves. Entrails spilled in steaming heaps, the warmth of their bodies still fresh.
I moved forward, stepping over a severed arm.
The expedition team had not gone down without a fight.
Most of the corpses wore Alacryan armor, their bodies were brutalized. Weapons remained lodged in their throats, their chests, their skulls—desperate, final strikes that had landed even as their wielders fell.
Yet, even amidst the death, some still lived.
Bodies shifted, mouths opened in silent gasps, fingers twitched as if grasping for salvation that would never come. The wounded lay among the dead, their breaths weak, their eyes glassy with shock.
I exhaled slowly. ""It's impossible.""
**They should all be dead.**
And then I saw "him ". A Scythe or a retainer? Lets see what he is these alacryan sure like to play with their foe.
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He sat atop a pile of mutilated bodies.
His armor, once silver, was **stained black with blood**, so much so that it seemed to meld with the carnage beneath him. His hair, darkened with crimson, clung in damp strands to his forehead.
A severed head dangled from his grasp.
My soldiers tensed, weapons at the ready, but the figure did not move to attack. Instead, he raised the severed head slightly, turning it as if studying the expression of frozen terror upon its face.
Then, he smiled.
""A slow, deliberate smile.""
My grip on my blade tightened. ""Who was he?""
An enemy? A survivor? A ""monster""?
He finally turned his gaze toward us. ""Unfocused, hazy—but not unaware.""
Then, he spoke.
"Took you long enough," he murmured.
His voice was hoarse, rough from either injury or exhaustion, but his tone carried something ""almost amused "". But this voice I had heard it somewhere.
The soldiers beside me bristled. I remained still, watching, waiting.
And then—
"Boss!!"
Arjan broke rank, his voice raw with desperation. He sprinted toward the figure, dropping to his knees at the base of the corpse throne, first aid box trembling in his hands.
I did not stop him.
I only observed.
And then, the bodies began to move.
A shiver ran down my spine—not from fear, but from the sheer **wrongness** of it.
The corpses **twitched**.
Limbs jerked, fingers clawed at the air, bloodied mouths parted in silent, gurgling moans.
Then came the laughter.
Two figures rose from the carnage looking at us.
To the left stood a giant of a man, broad and monstrous. His body was marred with wounds that should have killed him—a spear embedded near his stomach, his axe still lodged into a skull of its enemy—but he stood as if they were nothing.
His voice was a deep rumble of amusement, guttural and unfazed.
The second figure was shorter, but no less grotesque. Three spears impaled his body—one through his shoulder, another through his leg, and a third protruding from his ribs. In his hand, he clutched a severed head, its face frozen in agony.
His laughter was high, unhinged, slicing through the heavy silence like a blade.
Arjan had stopped in front of the first man—his "boss"—his expression somewhere between **relief and devastation**.
I exhaled through my nose.
I had prepared myself for a massacre. For the dead.
Not for the dead to stand back up.
The figure atop the corpse pile leaned back, as if finally allowing himself to relax. His grip on the severed head remained firm, his expression unreadable.
I did not speak.
I only studied him.
His breathing was slow. His body, drenched in blood, remained...
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As the healers rushed forward, their white robes already stained with fresh blood, the soldiers moved methodically, gathering the remains of their fallen comrades. The air was thick with the stench of burnt flesh, blood, and something far worse—the lingering scent of death itself.
Yet, despite the chaos, my focus remained fixed on one thing.
Him.
The so-called captain of this battered team.
His voice... I had heard it before. The way his words carried, the faint rasp of exhaustion beneath his amusement—it was familiar. Too familiar. Yet, no matter how I searched my memory, I couldn't place where I heard it.
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Random soldier POV:
(Near the healing tent)
The night was thick with the scent of blood and something worse—burnt flesh. It clung to the air like a curse, sinking into my lungs with every breath. I shifted my grip on my spear, trying to focus, but my fingers were clammy with sweat.
They had brought the captain in not long ago, a broken mess of blood and steel. But what unsettled me—what truly made my stomach twist—was the way he refused to let go of that severed head.
Even in unconsciousness, his grip had remained like iron. The healers had tried prying his fingers apart, but they'd given up after a while. Now, it just lay there, cold and lifeless, the face frozen in eternal horror.
The healers worked quickly, murmuring amongst themselves as they peeled away his ruined armor. It wasn't easy—the metal had fused to his skin, burned into his flesh like a second layer. The moment they tried to separate it, steam hissed from his wounds, releasing a sickening stench. Someone gagged.
Then, his body tensed.
A sharp intake of breath.
Bloodshot eyes snapped open, emerald pupils glowing like molten stone.
For a moment, no one moved.
Then his gaze swept across the room, slow, deliberate, like a predator sizing up its prey.
His metal arm shifted—the one that still clutched the severed head. He raised it slightly, pointing at us, and when he spoke, his voice slithered into the air like a whispering blade.
"All of you. Out."
The words were calm. Too calm.
No one dared to argue. Even the healers, who moments ago had been barking orders, fell silent. One by one, they hurried past me, their faces pale.
But I remained frozen.
His gaze locked onto mine.
One eye visible through his shattered helmet, watching me with an intensity that sent a chill racing down my spine. A warning. A command.
I swallowed hard and stumbled out, stepping back just as the flap of the tent fell shut behind me.
Silence.
Then—
A sickening sizzle.
The smell of burning meat.
I turned sharply, instinct screaming at me to intervene. But before I could take a step—
"DON'T COME INSIDE!"
The voice was deeper now, different from before. Less human.
I gripped my spear tighter, nails digging into the wood. Every instinct told me that whatever was happening inside that tent... I didn't want to see it.
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The night air was thick, the tension settling like a weight on my chest. I had been standing outside the tent for an hour now, shifting restlessly. The silence had stretched on for far too long. At first, there had been noise—low murmurs, the occasional rustling of movement—but for the past thirty minutes, there had been nothing.
My fingers twitched around my spear. I couldn't ignore it any longer. Something was wrong.
Taking a deep breath, I moved toward the tent, determined to check inside. But before I could reach for the flap, it shifted.
Someone stepped out.
My breath hitched.
A boy.
His skin was unnaturally pale, almost glowing under the moonlight. Shoulder-length pale blonde hair framed his sharp features, and his eyes—emerald and brilliant—shone like polished gems.
He was beautiful. Ethereal. And yet, there was something… off.
I couldn't speak, couldn't even think. My mind refused to process what I was seeing.
The last time I had seen the captain, he was on the verge of death, his body torn apart, his armor fused to his skin. He had been a broken man, barely breathing.
Now…
This boy stood before me, fully healed, his form pristine, as if he had never been injured at all.
Then he smiled.
"You," he said, his voice smooth and almost amused. "Take me to the leader of the backup."
I didn't respond. I couldn't. My tongue felt like lead.
His brows furrowed slightly, a flicker of impatience crossing his face, and he opened his mouth as if to repeat himself, this time with irritation.
I jolted out of my daze and hastily nodded. Without another word, I turned and began walking toward Lance Varay.
With every step, my mind spun with questions.
Was this truly the captain? If so… how had he healed so quickly? What had happened inside that tent?
I wanted to ask. I wanted to demand answers. But my throat closed up, my cursed social anxiety sealing my lips shut.
As we walked, I couldn't help but notice the object in his hands—something wrapped in white cloth, held carefully yet firmly.
I didn't ask. He didn't offer an explanation.
The quiet between us was suffocating.
Soon, we reached Lance Varay. She stood motionless, her gaze fixed on the ruined landscape, as if committing every detail to memory.
The moment we stopped a short distance away, she turned toward us.
Her icy blue eyes landed on the boy.
I felt her gaze pass over me briefly, a silent dismissal.
I didn't wait.
I bowed my head slightly and left as quickly as I could, my heart pounding in my chest.
I didn't know what had just happened.
But something told me—whatever it was, it was far beyond my understanding.
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