Kan Joon took a deep breath, wiping blood and warm, viscous slime from his face—the remnants of his clash with the beast. His cheeks burned—not from fear, but from the step he was about to take toward a power tearing him apart from the inside. He was trembling, yet he stood firm.
Nearby, Trent Barlow—whose faded eyes still burned with battle fury—turned and shouted:
"Hey! Are you alright, Artas? You still in one piece?"
"Yeah… I'm fine," Kan Joon exhaled, surprised by his own voice.It sounded… calm. Cold.
But the calm didn't last.
Something flashed behind them.
A spear cut through the air, aimed straight at Trent's back. The blade nearly pierced his armor, but Barlow turned just in time—metal rang against steel, sparks exploding as they illuminated the elder's twisted face.
"Damn it…" Trent hissed, locking eyes with the old man. "I was hoping those bastards wouldn't show up for a few more days…"
He clicked his tongue and stepped back, peering into the darkness—but the insect wasn't there.The one that invaded the mind.The one that poisoned will.
"Hold him! I'll cover the front!" Trent roared, diving back into the swarm of insects crawling over the walls without waiting for a response.
The team instantly turned toward the elder. Spears and swords rose. The tension between them snapped taut.
"Hey, you old bastard!" Lars snarled, his voice hoarse with rage. "Wake up! Don't make me die because of your phantom thoughts!"
But the old man didn't answer. His gaze was empty, pupils dilated like those of a dead fish. He was gone.Only the body remained—breathing, killing.
He struck mindlessly, in short, chaotic motions. No strategy. No purpose. Only Trent's lightning-fast reactions saved the novices from instant death.
Thirty seconds passed—an entire lifetime in battle.
Then the elder froze, as if something inside his head had clicked. He blinked, looking around in confusion.
"Why… why are you all staring at me like that?" he rasped.
"You attacked us," Mark replied, still gripping his spear as if it were their last hope.
"I… the bug. The one Trent warned us about… it invaded my thoughts…" the elder muttered.
Silence fell for a heartbeat—then Trent's furious voice tore through it:
"Hey! I'm holding the frontline alone! Enough chatter—arm yourselves while you still can!"
The shout snapped them back to reality.To the burning, slippery, blood-soaked ground.
The next ten minutes were almost calm—but not quiet. With every blade strike and every dying scream, the tension thickened the air.
Even Mark, who had been trembling, found his composure. His movements grew confident as he stood behind Kan Joon, guarding the flank. He thrust at monsters trying to reach the front. Each time his spear struck a bug, it fell from the wall into the dark abyss, leaving behind a cloud of acidic fog.
They're all still alive. For now, Kan Joon thought. I hope it stays that way until the end.
But deep within his mind pulsed a darker thought—the mind-altering bug was still here.Watching.And soon it would strike again.Not at bodies—but at consciousness.
"I don't want to kill anyone," Kan Joon said aloud.
"Don't worry—we'll do everything we can to make sure you don't hurt us!" Trent called back loudly.
The elder and Mark both patted Kan Joon on the shoulder in support. Only Lars snorted and said nothing.
Soon, the next team arrived to take over the wall for the following thirty minutes.
As they stepped forward, their hearts clenched.
Before them stood not warriors, but blood-soaked husks—slime dripping from their bodies as if the walls themselves had vomited up the night's entrails. Most horrifying of all—they were laughing. Loudly. Desperately. As though death had just delivered a punchline.
In their exhausted eyes flickered sparks of wild euphoria—as if this were not a battle on the edge of the abyss, but a hellish stroll along a lifeless lake filled with the bloated corpses of gods.
Yet this mask of easy laughter was deception.
Each of them carried invisible scars—horrors that had ripped through their insides. What they had seen, what they had felt, had cracked their souls deeper than the abyss itself.
Still—they had survived.
And in every eye burned the same thought:
What comes after this ends?
When Kan Joon stepped down the first stair, something inside him broke—but not in a bad way.
It was as though the stone chains crushing his chest had suddenly snapped. Though his hands still trembled and his clothes were soaked in blood, he felt relief.
For the first time in a long while—he could breathe.
As if the earth itself had taken his fear and swallowed it somewhere it could no longer rule him.
Together, they descended into the castle courtyard. Between the cold stone columns, each of them collapsed to the ground, exhausted. The frigid floor felt like a blessing—the only solid support in a world falling apart.
No one spoke.Even breathing felt unnecessary.
An hour passed before Trent Barlow finally broke the silence:
"Good work… Honestly, I thought half of you wouldn't make it off that damned wall. And the elder—I saw his spear go straight through one of you. But you survived. And that… damn it, that means something."
He stood and stretched, shrugging off the shadow of death.
"Let's go. We need to eat. In two hours—we're back up. And we need to wash. We stink worse than those things."
The team rose in silence and headed toward the mess hall.
Inside, everything blended together—blood, vomit, sweat, fear.
Some sat with bowls, forcing down spoonfuls of gruel with trembling hands. Others simply stared at the table, as if even breathing might drag them back into that hell.
The stench of the bugs clung to them like a curse. It had seeped into their bodies, their clothes, their minds. For those with sharp senses, even human flesh now reeked like rot drifting through the void.
Despair lingered in their eyes. Many didn't want to return to the walls—not because they feared death, but because something inside them had already died.
But Kan Joon ate.
Quietly. Quickly. Stubbornly.
He shoveled the gruel into his mouth with both hands, as if trying to fill the growing void inside him. Blood still clung to his skin, but he didn't care.
This short meal was silence before the next storm.
Because he knew:
Operation "Survive" had only just begun.
As they left the mess hall, an ominous hush settled over the fortress corridors. Several torches that had burned brightly earlier now flickered out—not from wind, but as if exhausted wardens no longer wished to light the way for mortals.
It meant only one thing.
More than an hour had passed.
Less than sixty minutes remained before their next shift on the walls.
Trent stretched and cracked his shoulders, freeing his body from tension.
"You're free to go wherever you like," he said, his voice cold with experience. "But regroup at the checkpoint in forty minutes. Don't be late."
Kan Joon said nothing.
His long, predatory shadow slid along the stone wall as he walked straight to the meeting point and sat cross-legged. His eyes clouded over, his breathing deepened—like the stillness before a mountain storm.
The image of the purple bug flared again in his mind.
That beast… its carapace had been as hard as cursed iron. His strike—though powerful—had only pushed it back without leaving a single crack.
A voice howled inside him:
You're weak. You are a shadow.
And then he understood.
It was time to choose his path through the darkness.
Fire was powerful—but too bright, too loud. It burned everything and left ashes behind. It drew attention.
Lightning was different.
It penetrated inward. Strengthened the body. Tore muscle apart only to rebuild it stronger. And most importantly—it killed instantly, without warning.
That was the path Kan Joon chose.
Especially since aura-wielding knights either couldn't—or didn't—use elemental energy.
Subtle sparks of electricity began coursing through his body.
Nearby, Trent finished restoring his aura within twenty minutes. He rose like a killing machine and began repeating sword slashes in a corner of the courtyard, where the stone was already scarred from training.
His movements were precise as clockwork, yet alive—steeped in raw experience. There was something primal in his technique, as if the sword itself hungered for blood.
Yet Kan Joon, watching through half-closed eyes, recalled another figure—the young man in golden robes whose presence had shaken him days earlier.
Compared to that… even Trent was merely a shadow of true fire.
Still, respect filled Kan Joon's heart.
Trent had been the first to pull him from the abyss of fear. The one who made him believe survival was a choice—not fate.
Those words, that support in his first battle, became the anchor that kept Kan Joon from slipping into madness.
Yet another question gnawed at him:
What was someone like Trent doing in this hell?
He didn't look like a man digging through blood for profit.
Not like Lars.
At that moment, Lars entered one of the dark taverns controlled by his group.
Inside, the air was thick as tar—smoke, alcohol, sweat. Where dozens had sat before, barely half a dozen remained.
"Where is everyone?" Lars asked hollowly.
A broad-shouldered man with a scar across his jaw replied:
"Most… didn't come back. The rest are still on the walls. Hear that?" He gestured toward a distant hum.
At the table sat two more. One—the scar-jawed giant—stared at the ceiling, as if searching for answers as to why his comrades hadn't returned. The other, a youth with a red tattoo on his neck, quietly smoked something smelling of bitter herbs.
"The walls are quiet now," the tattooed youth said. "And that's always bad. The monsters are quiet too. Like the calm before the storm."
Lars nodded silently.
But inside him, something boiled.
Not grief—they were expendable.
Something else gnawed at him.
"And that idiot Artas Darkbane…" he hissed softly. "He's alive. Not just alive. The bastard's starting to shine like a cursed gem. He holds a sword like he was born with it. Do you realize what he did? In front of everyone—he severed the purple bug's limb. Purple, damn it."
"He's our informant," the youth said cautiously. "Maybe he's useful?"
"Useful?.." Darkness flickered in Lars's eyes. "His job was to watch what we can't see. To stay silent. Invisible. And now he's turning into a hero for those idiots."
Lars clenched his fist.
"If this keeps up, he'll be noticed. Pulled closer to the center. And then… he'll remember who put him here. And who kept him on a chain."
"So… kill him?" the youth whispered.
"No. Not yet. But we must be ready. If he starts threatening our position… we erase him. His name. His body. Ideally—on the walls. Everything disappears there. Even memory."
Meanwhile, Mark and the elder practiced their craft.
The icy night wind roamed the walls. In a dark corner of the courtyard, two figures refined their movements—like shadow and light locked in an uneven dance.
"In spear combat, strength isn't what matters," the elder said, his voice trembling with age but filled with inner steel. "Spirit does."
"But how do you stop a monster with jaws like millstones?" Mark asked. His hands were stained with blood from training, yet he didn't stop. Determination mixed with despair burned in his eyes.
"You don't stop the monster," the elder replied. "You deceive it. Force it to make a mistake. Then—you strike. Straight into the heart. And you do it fast."
The elder stepped closer. His gnarled fingers rested on the young man's shoulder.
"I see you, Mark. You're young… but there's no poison in you. That's rare here. You listen. You grow. And I pray you don't become like most of us. Like me…"
Mark looked at him in surprise. His chest tightened—not with fear, but respect.
This old man—bent, worn, yet unbreakable—had become something like a master.
"I don't want to die," Mark said quietly. "But if it's inevitable… then make me stronger."
The elder smiled—for the first time in many days.
"I already am, boy. Again. The technique Scorched Shadow. Parry left. Pivot. Then a direct thrust. If you strike the heart—even a monster will retreat."
Mark clenched his teeth, stepped back, and attacked again.
This time—cleaner. Sharper. More decisive.
His shadow stretched.The spear became an extension of his arm.
With each passing minute, his movements grew more refined—driven by a newfound resolve.