The chaos below the Great Wall was a symphony of screeching metal and dying roars.
The air was no longer breathable; it was a thick, clotted soup of crimson mist and the metallic tang of Asura blood.
"Hold the line! Don't let them breach the secondary gate!" Vane's voice cracked through the din, sounding far more confident than he likely felt.
The formation was a masterpiece of desperate strategy. At the very front, the Tanks—men and women clad in massive, reinforced plate armor—stood like a wall of iron.
They didn't move to strike; they simply braced their tower shields, their Abha cores humming in unison to create a shimmering translucent barrier that blunted the initial impact of the charging Asura horde.
Behind them, on the high battlements, the Archers worked with mechanical precision. Every few seconds, a volley of Abha-infused arrows hissed through the air, trailing streaks of white light before exploding in the thickest ranks of the monsters.
But the space between the shield-wall and the enemy was where the "Reapers" lived. This was the killing field, and right now, it belonged to Vane and Rudra.
"Rudra, move left! I'm clearing a path!" Vane yelled.
Vane's body suddenly erupted in a brilliant, searing orange light.
He began to weave his hands in intricate patterns, his blue saber acting as a conductor for the raw energy he was drawing from his core.
"Abha Art: Agni's Wrath!"
With a violent swing of his blade, a wave of liquid fire erupted from the steel. It wasn't ordinary flame; it was white-hot Abha compressed into a physical force.
The fire roared across the dirt, incinerating a dozen Scavenger Asuras in an instant. Their obsidian skin cracked and peeled away like burnt paper as the holy heat melted their marrow.
Vane was a blur of motion, his style elegant and terrifyingly efficient, dancing between the claws of the monsters while leaving a trail of ash in his wake.
Beside him, Rudra was a complete contrast.
While Vane used the "Arts" of the Gods, Rudra used the "Brutality" of Man.
He didn't cast fire. He didn't weave light. He simply gripped his blackened iron slab with both hands, his knuckles white, and swung.
Crunch.
A Soldier-class Asura, nearly eight feet tall and wielding a jagged bone-mace, swung at Rudra's head.
Rudra didn't dodge.
He stepped into the strike, catching the mace with the flat of his blade. The impact would have shattered a normal man's shoulders, but Rudra's violet Abha flared, rooting him to the spot like a mountain.
With a guttural growl, Rudra pivoted. The heavy iron blade caught the Asura in the ribs. There was no magical explosion—just the sickening sound of reinforced bone shattering under sheer, kinetic pressure.
The creature was sent flying twenty feet, crashing into its own kin like a cannonball.
Rudra's fighting style was devoid of grace. He moved with a heavy, relentless momentum. Every step he took left a footprint in the hard earth.
Every swing was a death sentence. He wasn't just killing them; he was breaking them.
He caught a leaping Scavenger by its horn mid-air and slammed it into the ground with such force that the earth cracked.
"You're a monster, Rudra!" Vane shouted over the noise, breathless as he unleashed another gout of flame.
Rudra didn't answer. His eyes were fixed on the black-horned figures still pouring from the treeline.
His violet Abha was humming at a frequency that made his teeth ache, a cold hunger that seemed to grow stronger the more he exerted himself. He wasn't tired. He was waking up.
The Aftermath
By the time the moon began to rise, the red mist had started to recede back into the Fractures.
The sky hadn't healed, but the immediate assault had been broken. The field was littered with the dissolving remains of Asuras, turning into black ash that the wind carried away, leaving only the human dead behind.
Hours later, the survivors limped back through the massive iron gates of the fortress.
The Warriors' Dorms were a stark contrast to the violence of the wall. The long stone hallway was lit by steady, warm braziers.
It smelled of pine oil and sweat. Warriors sat on benches, some clutching bandaged limbs, others staring blankly at the floor in the "Battle Trance."
In the center of the common hall stood Instructor Kaelen, a man whose left arm had been replaced by a prosthetic of Abha-silver.
He watched his students enter with a gaze that was both proud and painfully weary.
"Stand tall," Kaelen's voice boomed, silencing the murmurs in the hall. "Today, you didn't just survive. You held the gate. The Eastern Pass is still ours because you refused to let the Land of Death claim it."
His eyes drifted to Vane, who was leaning against a pillar, his face pale from over-exerting his fire-Abha.
"Vane. Your Agni Arts were masterful. You saved the third platoon from being flanked. Your core is growing stronger."
Vane gave a weak, tired smirk, nodding in thanks.
Then, Kaelen's gaze moved to Rudra, who stood at the back, his black iron sword still stained with dark fluids that hadn't yet dissolved.
The room went quiet. The other recruits looked at Rudra with a mixture of awe and genuine fear.
They had seen him in the pits; they had seen him kill without a single 'Art.'
"Rudra," the Instructor said, his voice lowering.
"Your sheer strength is... unprecedented. You fought like a man possessed by a Rakshka. But be careful, boy. Strength without the light of the Arts is a heavy burden on the soul. Don't let the iron become part of your heart."
Rudra didn't move. "The iron is the only thing that didn't break in Drita, Instructor."
Kaelen sighed, a sound full of hidden history. "Dismissed. Rest. Tomorrow, the war begins again."
The Quiet Night
As the other warriors began to peel off toward the mess hall to eat and celebrate their survival, Rudra walked in the opposite direction.
He made his way to the back of the dorms, where a small balcony overlooked the cliffside.
The adrenaline was fading, and the dizziness was returning. He leaned over the stone railing, his breath hitching. He looked at his hands—they were still trembling.
"It wasn't enough," he whispered to the dark.
"Even today... it wasn't enough."
He reached into his tunic and pulled out a small, charred piece of wood—the remains of Kael's practice sword he had recovered years ago. He gripped it so hard the edges dug into his palm.
Suddenly, a strange sensation washed over him. The violet glow in his chest began to pulse, but this time it wasn't cold.
It was a sharp, biting cold, and for a fleeting second, he felt a presence. Not a person, but a will. A voice that didn't use words, but felt like the echo of a mountain falling.
'Grow...' it seemed to say. 'The Void remembers you.'
Rudra gasped, dropping the piece of wood. He clutched his chest, the violet Abha flaring so bright it illuminated the entire balcony.
"Who's there?" he demanded, drawing a small dagger from his belt.
But there was only the wind, and the distant, mocking glow of the Fractures in the sky.