Кан Джун глубоко вздохнул, оттирая с лица кровь и тёплую, вязкую слизь, оставшуюся после схватки со зверем. Щёки горели — не от страха, а от предстоящего шага навстречу силе, разрывающей его изнутри. Он дрожал, но стоял.
Рядом с ним Трент Барлоу, чьи выцветшие глаза все еще пылали боевой яростью, обернулся и крикнул:
«Эй! Ты в порядке, Артас? Цел?»
«Да… Я в порядке!» — выдохнул Кан Джун, даже удивившись собственному голосу. Он звучал… спокойно. Холодно.
Но спокойствие длилось недолго.
Что-то мелькнуло позади.
Копьё просвистело в воздухе, нацеленное в спину Трента. Клинок едва не пробил его доспехи, но Барлоу обернулся вовремя — металл лязгнул о его меч, и искры осветили искажённое лицо старейшины.
«Чёрт…» — прошипел Трент, глядя старику в глаза. «Я надеялся, что эти ублюдки не появятся ещё несколько дней…»
Он цокнул языком и отступил назад, всматриваясь в темноту, но насекомого там не было. Того, кто вторгается в разум. Того, кто отравляет волю.
«Держи его! Я прикрою тебя спереди!» — рявкнул Трент, нырнув обратно в рой ползающих по стенам насекомых, не дожидаясь ответа.
Команда мгновенно обернулась к старейшине. Копья и мечи были подняты. Напряжение между ними накалилось до предела.
«Эй, старый пердун!» — голос Ларса был хриплым от гнева. «Проснись! Не заставляй меня умирать из-за твоих фантомных мыслей!»
Но старик не ответил. Его взгляд был пустым, зрачки расширены, как у дохлой рыбы. Его больше не было. Только тело, которое дышало — и убивало.
Он бил бездумно, отрывистыми, хаотичными движениями. Никакой стратегии. Никакой цели. Только молниеносная реакция Трента спасла новичков от мгновенной смерти.
Прошло тридцать секунд — для этих людей целая жизнь в бою.
Старец замер, словно в голове у него что-то щёлкнуло. Он моргнул, растерянно огляделся.
«Почему... вы все на меня так смотрите?» — прохрипел он.
«Вы напали на нас», — ответил Марк, все еще сжимая копье, словно это была их последняя надежда.
«Я… Жук. Тот жук, о котором говорил Трент… Он вторгся в мои мысли…» — пробормотал старейшина.
На мгновение повисла тишина, а затем раздался яростный голос Трента:
«Эй! Я один держу линию фронта! Хватит болтать — вооружайтесь, пока не поздно!»
Этот крик вернул всех к реальности. К раскаленной, скользкой, пропитанной кровью земле.
The next ten minutes were almost calm—but not quiet. With every blade strike, every dying scream, the tension thickened in the air.
Even Mark, who'd been trembling, found his composure. His movements grew confident as he stood behind Kan Joon, covering the flank. He thrust back monsters trying to reach the front. Every time his spear struck a bug, it fell from the wall into the dark abyss, leaving behind a cloud of acidic fog.
Kan Joon thought: they're all still alive. For now. I hope it stays that way until the end.But deep in his mind pulsed the thought— the mind-altering bug was still here. Observing.And soon it would strike again. Not at bodies—but at consciousness. And then…
I don't want to kill anyone, Kan Joon spoke aloud.Don't worry, we'll do everything to make sure you don't hurt us! Trent called back loud enough for all to hear.
The elder and Mark both patted him on the shoulder in support; only Lars snorted and said nothing.
Soon the next team arrived to guard the wall for the next thirty minutes. As they stepped up, their hearts constricted. Before them stood not warriors, but bloodied husks, slime dripping off them 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 been a punchline just told. 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 by a lifeless lake swimming with bloated corpses of gods.
But this mask of easy laughter was deception. Each of them carried invisible scars of horrors that had ripped their insides. What they'd seen, what they'd felt—had cracked their souls deeper than the abyss itself. Still—they had survived. And in each eye flickered a single thought: what comes after this ends?
When Kan Joon stepped down the first stair, something inside him broke—but not in a bad way. As though the weight of stone chains pressing on 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 time—he could breathe. As though the earth itself had taken his fear and swallowed it into a place where it no longer ruled.
Together, they descended into the castle courtyard. Between cold stone columns, each collapsed to the ground, exhausted. The cold floor felt like a blessing—the only firm support in a world falling to pieces. No one spoke. Even breathing seemed an unnecessary disturbance.
An hour passed before Trent Barlow finally broke the silence:
"Good job… Honestly, I thought half of you wouldn't make it off that damned wall. And the elder… I saw his spear go through one of you. But you survived. And that… damn it, that means something."
He stood and stretched, as though shrugging off the shadow of death.
"Let's go. We need to eat something. In two hours—back up. And we need to wash off—we stink worse than those things."
The team rose silently and headed for the mess hall.
Inside, everything was mixed—blood, vomit, sweat, and fear. Some sat with bowls, trying to force down a spoonful of gruel, hands trembling. Others simply stared at the table, as if afraid even breath might wake them in that hell again.
The smell of the bugs was a curse that wouldn't release them. It had soaked into their bodies, clothes, minds. For those with keen noses, even human flesh now reeked like rot in the void. Their eyes held despair. 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. Chewed quietly, quickly, stubbornly. He shoved gruel into his mouth with both hands, as if trying to fill the void growing inside him. The smell of blood still clung to him, but he didn't care. This short meal was a moment of silence before the next storm. Because he knew: Operation "Survive" had only begun.
As they left the mess hall, an ominous silence hung 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, and less than sixty minutes remained until their next turn on the walls.
Trent Barlow stretched and cracked his shoulders, freeing his body from the bonds of tension.
"You're free to go wherever you like," he said, his voice laced with the chill of experience. "But reconvene at the checkpoint in forty minutes. Don't be late…"
Kan Joon said nothing. His long, predatory shadow slanted against the stone wall as he immediately walked to the meeting point and sat cross‑legged. His eyes clouded over, breath deepened, like the hush before a mountain storm.
The vision of the purple bug flared again in his mind. That beast… its carapace had been as hard as cursed iron, and Kan Joon's blow—though powerful—had only pushed it back without a single crack. An inner voice howled—you're weak, you are a shadow. And then he understood: it was time to choose his path through the darkness.
At first, he decided to cultivate the power of fire, but it was too bright, too flashy. It burned, but left behind ashes—and drew attention. Lightning was different. It penetrated within, strengthened the body, ripped muscle to rebuild stronger, and left no witnesses. Most importantly—it struck the heart instantly, without warning. That was the path Kan Joon chose, since knights who wielded aura didn't use elemental energy—or couldn't.
As subtle electrical sparks began coursing through his body, Trent finished his meditation nearby, restoring his aura in twenty minutes. He rose like a death machine and silently began repeating sword slashes in a courtyard corner, where the stone was already pitted from his training.
His moves were precise as clockwork yet alive, steeped in raw experience. Trent's technique had something primeval about it, as though the sword itself hungered to spill blood. But Kan Joon, watching from half‑closed eyes, recalled another figure—the young man in golden robes whose presence had shaken him days ago. Compared to that, even Trent's skill looked like a shadow of true fire.
And yet, Kan Joon's heart held respect. Trent was the one who first pulled him from the abyss of fear, made him believe survival was a choice—not fate. His words, his support during that first battle, became the anchor Kan Joon clung to, to stay from tipping into madness.
But another question gnawed at him: what was a bright soul like Trent doing in this hell? He didn't look like someone digging through blood for gain… not like Lars.
At that moment, Lars entered one of the dark bars run by his organization. Inside, the atmosphere was thick as tar—a mix of smoke, alcohol, and sweat. Barely a half‑dozen people remained where dozens had sat before.
"Where is everyone?" Lars asked in a hollow voice.
A broad‑shouldered man with a jaw scar answered:
"Most… didn't come back. The rest are still out on the walls. Hear them?" He gestured toward a distant hum.
At the table sat two more—one, the scar‑jawed giant, stared at the ceiling as though seeking answers for why his comrades hadn't returned. The other, a youth with a red tattoo on his neck, quietly smoked something that smelled of bitter herbs.
"The walls are quiet now," added the tattooed youth. "And that's always bad. The monsters are quiet too. Like the calm before the storm."
Lars nodded in silence. But inside him, heat boiled. Not from loss—they were expendable. Something else was eating him.
"And that idiot Arthas Darkbane?" he hissed softly, grinding out the words like poison. "He's alive. And not just alive. The bastard's starting to shine like a cursed gem. He holds the sword like he was born with it. Do you realize what he did? In front of everyone, he cut off the purple bug's limb… purple, damn it!"
"He's our informant," the youth interjected cautiously. "Maybe he's useful?"
"Useful?.." Lars looked at him, darkness flickering in his eyes. "His usefulness was supposed to be to watch those we can't see. To be silent. Invisible. And now he's becoming a hero for those stinking idiots around."
Lars clenched his fist.
"If he keeps going like this—he'll get picked up higher. Pulled into the center. And there… he'll remember who put him there. And how we kept him on a chain."
«Так убить его?» — прошептал юноша, на этот раз тише.
«Нет. Пока нет. Но мы должны быть готовы. Если он начнёт угрожать нашему положению… мы сотрём его. Его имя, его тело. В идеале — убьем его на стенах. Там всё исчезает. Даже память».
Тем временем Марк и старейшина практиковались в своём ремесле. Ледяной ночной ветер гулял по стенам. В тёмном углу двора две фигуры оттачивали свои движения – словно тень и свет в неровном танце.
«В копье важна не сила, а дух», — сказал старейшина дрожащим от возраста голосом, но с твёрдой внутренней силой.
«Но как остановить монстра с челюстями, словно жернов?» — спросил Марк. Его руки были испачканы кровью после тренировок, но он не остановился. В его глазах горела решимость, смешанная с отчаянием.
«Ты не останавливаешь монстра. Ты его обманываешь. Заставляешь его ошибиться. А затем — наносишь удар. Прямо в сердце. И делаешь это быстро».
Старец подошёл ближе. Его скрюченные пальцы легли на плечо юноши.
«Я вижу тебя, Марк. Ты молод… но в тебе нет яда. А это здесь редкость. Ты слушаешь. Ты растёшь. И я молюсь, чтобы ты не стал таким, как большинство. Как я…»
Марк посмотрел на него с удивлением. Грудь у него сжалась. Не от страха, а от уважения. Этот старик, сгорбленный, но непоколебимый, он стал кем-то вроде господина. Тихий, молчаливый, но настоящий.
«Я не хочу умирать», — тихо сказал Марк. «Но если это неизбежно… я хочу, чтобы ты сделал меня сильнее».
Старец улыбнулся — впервые за много дней.
«Я уже, мальчик. И снова. Техника «Опаленной тени». Парирование влево, поворот, а затем — прямой выпад. Если попадёшь в сердце — даже монстр отступит».
Марк стиснул зубы, отступил назад и снова атаковал. На этот раз точнее. Решительнее. Его тень удлинилась, копьё стало продолжением руки. С новой решимостью он становился всё более искусным с каждой минутой.