The screams began before anyone could breathe.
First one.
Then another.
And then all of them—a dissonant, animalistic sequence that echoed across the field as if their blood were trying to escape their own bodies.
Karna gripped the bow so tightly his fingers trembled.
He looked at Éon, trying to understand what was rising before them.
"What's happening?"His voice came out hoarse, tense, almost a growl.
Ryden twisted on the ground.
A scream tore through the air—raw, visceral, so painful it seemed his throat would split open.
Brianna caught him before he smashed his head again.
Her fingers came away slick with hot blood.
Chaos took shape.
Soldiers started stepping back, trembling, some dropping their own shields.
Others tried to hold position, but terror made their bodies vibrate like over-tightened strings.
Brianna drew a deep breath.
Not fear.
Control.
She lifted her chin, eyes glinting within the shadows—shadows that, for an instant, seemed to hesitate, as if listening to something no one else could hear.
"Éon," she said, firm, low, voice sharp as cooled steel. "Just answer me one thing."
The wounded began arching their backs in spasms, breathing as if their lungs were trying to escape through their ribs.
Something moved beneath their skin—slow, irregular, unnatural.
Brianna watched them without blinking.
"The creatures…" she continued, each word heavier than the last, "when the fog cleared… they looked like they were running from you."
She turned fully to Éon.
There was no accusation.
No fear.
Only analysis. Cold. Surgical.
"Tell me… what did you do?"
The first crack came like a response.
A deep, wet crack—bone splitting, not breaking.
Zeph stepped back, his breath trapped in his throat, as if the air itself had become too heavy to pull in.
Another crack.
Louder.
Éon didn't answer.He didn't move.
His shadow seemed to stretch behind his feet, as if something inside it were waking—watching.
The third crack sliced the air.
This time, the body of one of the wounded folded at an impossible angle.
A muffled sound escaped his throat—something between a sob and a whisper that didn't belong to any living language.
Brianna pressed her lips together.
And then she realized.
She didn't need his answer.
She understood.
The way the creatures had fled.
The way the wounded were reacting now.
The way Éon was.
Aligned with something larger than him.
A minimal smile—quick, cold—crossed her face.
Not humor.
Recognition.
Then her expression changed.
Completely.
Abruptly.
Leader.
"EVERYONE!" she shouted, voice cutting like a blade. "Abandon the wounded! We move IMMEDIATELY!"
The troop hesitated only half a second before obeying.
Zeph tried to keep formation, breathing unevenly, his eyes darting from Ryden to the writhing wounded on the ground.
"This… this isn't normal…" he muttered, more to himself than to others.
Karna, however, exploded:
"CAN SOMEONE EXPLAIN WHAT THE HELL IS HAPPENING HERE?!"
Brianna turned just enough to look at him—a quick, cold, clinical look.
"NO," she said, firm, cutting. "Not now. If I stop to explain, half of you will be dead before I finish the sentence."
She advanced, her hand already wrapped in bright green filaments, focusing again on Ryden.
"You scream later. Right now, you obey."
"Bring the other three back," she said, eyes locked on Ryden. "One Awakened is worth more than two hundred regular soldiers."
She placed her hand on his head.
The air changed.
Cold.
Dense.
The green filaments appeared again—darker now, deeper, like roots diving into his consciousness.
She whispered in ancient words, each syllable carrying ritual weight:
"Dormis sub umbra mea.Vita tua nunc mea custodia est.Cade in silentium… et non pereas."
(Sleep beneath my shadow.Your life is now under my guard.Fall into silence… and do not perish.)
Ryden's eyes slowly rolled back, the yellow-electric glow fading until only white remained.
A deadened state.
Induced.
Controlled.
Deep.
Necessary.
Karna stared at her as if she had ripped the ground from under him.
"…Is he…?" he stammered.
"Alive," she replied, cold. "For now."
And then Karna drew a long breath, nocked an arrow…
…and fired it into the sky.
The signal.
The order.
Soldiers were already beginning to retreat, carrying those still capable of movement, but the contaminated wounded… none of them left.
Karna carried Ryden in his arms—the fragile body, the failing breath—and shouted for the group to move quickly.
"Fall back! Leave the wounded behind! Fall back now!"
The formation began to rush, dragging those who could still walk, while Brianna watched, eyes sharp, ready to react.
But Éon did not follow.
He stopped right at the boundary between what was safe… and what was being born from horror.
The wounded, abandoned on the cold ground, began to contort.
The first dropped to all fours, arching his back in an impossible curve.
Black veins crawled across his skin like roots trying to latch onto something alive.
And then—
The skin tore.
Not like a cut.
Not like a puncture.
Like something climbing out.
A black arm—thick, uneven, textured like burned leather—burst through the soldier's chest, long claws scraping the air.
Another wounded arched his neck, jaw opening beyond human limits.
A lupine snout pushed the flesh outward, ripping everything with a wet crack.
The third victim couldn't even scream.
Her chest simply burst open, revealing a massive torso, short horns, bones snapping as the creature freed itself.
Moonlight fell upon them as they finished emerging:
Skin fully black, thick, irregular;Eyes red like living embers;Broad shoulders, bestial bodies;Long claws, exposed fangs;And a hot, putrid, metallic smell.
While the group made for safety, only Éon remained—motionless before the nightmare taking form.
The creature that tore out of the first soldier's chest lifted its head slowly.
Its red eyes met Éon's.
It didn't roar.
It didn't charge.
It only recognized.
Éon tilted his chin slightly upward.
The creature tilted its head—minimal, predatory—and then charged.
Fast.
Far too fast for something that heavy.
The ground trembled under its strides, the air split like water torn by a blade, and the sound that escaped the beast's throat was not a roar:
It was a blunt impact.
A deep crack.
The warning before the kill.
Its whole body launched toward Éon, claws spread, jaw unhinging into a grotesque split, ready to swallow him in one strike.
But Éon didn't step back.
He just…
Breathed.
One single step forward.
Silent.
Devout.
Ritual.
Air poured into his lungs as if the entire world had been pulled in with it.
And when he let it out…
…the sound carried centuries.
"To… tsu… ka… no… Tsuru—"
The outline of his arm vanished.
Not light.
Not shadow.
A cutting void—too fast for sight to register.
The creature blurred past him…
…and then stopped behind him.
Motionless.
One second.
Two.
A thin line of dark blood trickled from its monstrous neck.
And then—
"—gi."
The head hit the ground.
Heavy.
Dull.
Final.
The massive body collapsed a moment later—without glory, without roar—as if its soul had been torn out before the cut even happened.
Éon didn't turn to look.
He simply drew another breath…
Calm.
Ritualistic.
The other creatures didn't wait for the head to fall.
The bodies of the 48 in grave condition began to rise all at once.
Each one cracking from the inside out.
Each one releasing a putrid, hot, metallic stench.
Each one staring at Éon as if he were the only fixed point in that world.
They charged.
Not one.
Not two.
Forty-eight.
At once.
The ground shook.
The fog vibrated.
Flesh tore in unison as claws struck the earth.
And Éon…
just closed his eyes.
Silence fell over him like a veil.
Breath entered slow—ritual.
Left deep—ancestral.
The air around him warped.
And then he whispered, almost a sacred chant:
"Moon Dance… Crescent Moon."
His pupil sank into the abyss.
An Abyssal Trance descended.
Time lost order.
The creatures moved as if through thick water.
No sound reached him.
One step.
The ground didn't answer.
Another.
His silhouette split into three reflections—illusions left behind by speed.
The creatures crashed into these afterimages…
…but Éon was already somewhere else.
His arm moved in a wide, light, perfect arc.
"Crescent… Blade."
Five creatures lost the upper half of their torsos at once.
The cuts were so clean their bodies took a full second to realize they had been divided.
Blood rose like black smoke.
Éon spun in the air.
His foot touched the ground softly.
The second whisper came—firmer now, closer to danger:
"Ascension Cut."
He rose vertically among the creatures, the strike leaving a luminous trail like moonlight over turbulent water.
Nine throats opened in a single motion.
The bodies collapsed like trees falling in a silent forest.
Éon dropped back to the ground, landing on one knee, breathing fast—but controlled.
The remaining creatures roared, charging as a pack.
He raised his head, his eyes burning in the dark.
He inhaled deeply.
His body curved like a drawn bow.
"Lunar… Impulse."
The ground exploded under his feet.
Éon shot forward like a living arrow—and pierced through the chests of three creatures before they even sensed the movement.
They fell to their knees almost at the same time.
Silence devoured everything again.
But that was only the beginning…
Because behind the forty-eight,
the other 110 began to rise.
Hundreds of red eyes ignited.
And Éon smiled—small, cold, ritualistic.
He lifted his chin.
And in a tone so calm it felt like blasphemy amid the surrounding horror, he murmured:
"Moon Dance… Full Moon."
The aura darkened.
The air grew heavy.
Every muscle filled with ritual strength.
The next wave would die on impact.
Not on speed.