War (2)
--
The battlefield had gone quiet.
The distant groans of the wounded, the snap of embers flickering in the cold air—these were the only sounds left. The Rift loomed in the distance, pulsing, slow and deliberate. It was still breathing. Still waiting.
The scent of blood clung to everything. The snow had turned dark with it, the bodies of the fallen—both beast and human—strewn across the ground. The soldiers moved like ghosts, silent, methodical, tending to the wounded, dragging corpses away, reinforcing what little defenses remained.
It wasn't victory. Not yet.
Solace sat on a broken slab of stone, hands resting loosely on his knees. His breath was slow, controlled, but he could still feel the tremors in his fingers. The remnants of battle clung to him—the phantom weight of his blades lingering even as they sat sheathed beside him.
Lyra dropped down next to him.
No words. Just the quiet company of someone who understood. She tilted her head slightly, her gaze flicking to the streaks of dried blood along his arms.
"You're a mess," she said.
He huffed. "You're worse."
Lyra smirked, then tossed something into his lap.
An energy bar.
Solace blinked down at it. He hadn't even realized how hungry he was.
Across the camp, soldiers sat in small groups, tearing into the same rations—compressed bars of dense, tasteless calories, enough to keep them moving, keep them fighting. Some ate in silence. Others muttered half-hearted jokes, forcing down the exhaustion with food and laughter that barely reached their eyes.
Solace peeled back the wrapper, taking a bite. Dry. Like chewing on dust. But it was better than nothing.
Lyra finished hers first, crumpling the wrapper and flicking it at his shoulder.
"Don't think too much," she muttered.
He chewed slowly, glancing at her from the corner of his eye. "Not thinking."
She gave him a look.
He sighed. "Maybe a little."
She shook her head but didn't push further.
Across the field, the generals stood near the Rift, their faces grim.
A voice rippled through the cold.
"A fine victory."
Yssarun.
The god's presence loomed, unseen yet suffocating, his voice a weight pressing down on the gathered warriors. His gaze flickered across them before settling on the generals.
"But the war is not over."
Francis wiped his sword clean against his sleeve. "We know."
"Then prepare." Yssarun's words pulsed like the Rift itself. "The gate still breathes. And it is not done with you yet."
The pulse came again. Deeper this time. A slow, rhythmic beat, like a second heartbeat beneath their own.
David turned sharply. "We need reinforcements. Now."
One of the lieutenants hesitated. "It'll take at least three days for backup to arrive—"
"Then we hold for three days," David said. "Send the message."
The order was given. A flare shot into the sky—a signal to the main base.
Solace and Lyra stood.
Across the field, soldiers strapped on their gear, finishing their rations with hurried bites, wiping their mouths before grabbing weapons again. They weren't rested. They weren't ready.
But readiness didn't matter.
The Rift pulsed a third time.
And the flood came.
---
A wave of monstrosities tore through the blackened gate.
They were stronger this time. Larger.
Rank 4s and 5s swarmed forward, hitting the soldiers like a hammer against glass. They slammed into the hastily built defenses, their roars deafening, their claws flashing like blades in the dark.
Solace moved before thinking—his sword was already in his hands.
Beside him, Lyra surged forward.
They fought as they always did—relentless, sharp, precise.
She ducked under a beast's strike, her shadow twisting around her like a phantom as her fists slammed into its skull. Solace carved through another, his blade slicing through flesh, his breath steady despite the carnage.
The battle raged.
The soldiers fought.
They were holding.
Until it came.
The Rift shuddered.
And from the abyss, two figures descended.
They were Rank 7—the true nightmares of the gate.
The first loomed like a colossus, its body an amalgam of twisted bone and living shadow, its eyes burning with ancient malice. The second was equally horrifying—a hulking behemoth with jagged armor of corrupted flesh, its roar echoing like the wrath of forgotten gods. They landed with such force that the ground cracked beneath them.
And they moved.
Fast.
Too fast.
The first soldier the monstrous pair reached didn't even have time to scream before he was torn in two. Solace swore under his breath.
Lyra was already moving, racing toward one of the Rank 7s. She shouldn't have been alone. "Lyra—" Solace called, but she was swallowed by the chaos.
She clashed with the beast, her movements a blur of shadow and fury. She was fast—her fists and feet a lethal dance—but the creature was swifter still. Solace saw it before it happened: the beast's claws lashing out. In a heartbeat, they struck her side. Blood sprayed in a crimson arc as she fell.
Solace's world snapped.
He ran—ran with every fiber of his being, his heart pounding in a storm of terror and rage. He knew he wouldn't make it in time if she fell for good.
The beast loomed over her, claws raised for the killing blow.
An arrow sliced through the air. It buried itself deep in the beast's eye, staggering it for a single, fleeting moment.
Kyle.
He stood on the ruined battlements, his bow drawn, his arrow flying true as he fought to buy precious seconds.
Lyra gasped for breath, stumbling back to regain her stance. Kyle had bought her time.
But Solace saw only red.
The Rift pulsed again—and this time, the rage inside him surged louder than ever before. Something in him cracked open, a dark fissure where his restraint once lay. The anguished cry of Lyra, the beast's guttural roar—it all vanished into a searing void.
The ring on his finger twisted; liquid metal flowed, reforming into his artifact blade. Yet, from his waist, his high-rank military katana—ever his steady companion—was drawn in one swift motion. For the first time in the battle, he held both katanas.
His military blade gleamed coldly under the bloodstained sky—a symbol of unwavering discipline—and his artifact blade whispered dark promises, echoing with the dark god's insidious laughter in his mind.
And Solace answered.
He lunged forward—faster than the eye could follow—a storm of steel and wrath incarnate.
The first beast turned, but it was too slow. Solace's right blade slashed across its throat while his left plunged deep into its chest. Blood burst across the battlefield like a macabre sunrise.
Not pausing, he pivoted as the second Rank 7 roared and charged. It lunged with savage might, its claws a flurry of death. Yet Solace was a blur of motion—a deadly dance of blades. He dodged the snapping claws, spun, and in one seamless, brutal arc, his blades carved upward, splitting the beast's chest open. The creature howled in agony, staggering under the relentless fury.
Still, Solace pressed on. His foot slammed into its stomach, sending it reeling backward, and before it could recover, his blades found its throat, ending its roar with a final, savage twist.
The dark god inside him whispered, Yes. Tear them apart.
And tear them apart he did. Solace carved a path through the onslaught—a furious maelstrom of black steel and blood—cutting down every creature that dared stand in his way. His breaths came ragged, his eyes burned with unquenchable fury. He wanted them dead. Every. Single. One.
---
Far behind him, Lyra exhaled shakily. Her hands trembled as she wiped blood from her face, her breathing heavy.
Kyle moved to her side, helping her to stand.
"You good?" he asked, his voice tight with concern.
She nodded faintly. "Thanks," she managed, though her eyes remained fixed on the horizon—searching for Solace.
And when she found him—
her breath caught in her throat.
He was a blur of fury and steel—an unstoppable tempest.
Something that didn't stop.
Something that wouldn't stop.
And deep inside the forgotten temple, shrouded in darkness, the dark god smiled.