Kaldros, Drayke, Mirelle, Ironheart, Grayson, and Hawkins made up the ground team for the mission. The Kaelwyn twins were reassigned at the last minute to support artillery and manage comms with the follow-on forces. The decision came after concerns were raised about what would happen if communications failed—or if the tank lost power.
Team Obsidian's newest member, Hawkins—known as the Stone-Skinned Guardian—strengthened their ranks: three tanks, a rogue, a fighter, and a support mage.
They stood at the edge of the city. A faint purple mist curled through the ruins—the drug-laced vapor spoken of in every report. Otherworldly and potent, it dulled the mind, stole consciousness, and was the goblins' weapon of control... and comfort.
The goblins were more alert now—far more than when the team had observed them from the cliffside. The initial bombardment must've rattled them. It was expected... and part of the plan. A distraction meant to set the stage for Grayson's role.
Team Obsidian moved in silence, cloaked by shadow, eyes scanning for the perfect breach point.
There.
Kaldros raised a clenched fist, signaling his team toward a crumbling watchtower. One goblin perched lazily at the top, four more lingered below, weapons at the ready.
On his cue, Grayson would dispatch the ground patrol. Mirelle, with a whispered spell, would use her wind magic to silently choke the lookout above.
Like clockwork, the team moved.
The five goblins dropped in silence, dead within a breath. No alarms, no struggle. Just practiced precision.
Grayson melted back into the shadows, dragging the bodies with him. His eyes scanned ahead, seeking any stragglers—laying the path, one shadow at a time, toward the hotel.
Drayke scoffed, frustration simmering beneath his breath. He hated feeling useless. Drawing his sword would be like lighting a flare in the dead of night—loud, bright, and begging for attention. He was here, weapon sheathed, heart pounding… and no clue why he'd been chosen for this mission in the first place.
Amidst the shattered streets, the only sounds were the steady hiss of breath through gas masks and the dull thud of boots against cracked pavement. The silence was unnatural—thick, suffocating. The hotel loomed just a block ahead, a dark monolith in a city long lost. Too quiet. Far too quiet.
Thump.
An arrow embedded itself in the ground inches from Kaldros' boot. He froze, instincts kicking in.
Then came the whispers—jagged and inhuman—rising from the crumbling houses lining the street.
Torches flared to life, illuminating twisted figures perched with bows in hand. Flames licked the edges of their arrows, ready to rain hell.
It was a trap.
They hadn't just been spotted—
They'd been expected.
The goblins' intelligence had been grossly underestimated.
"Run! To the hotel!" Kaldros shouted, his voice muffled by the gas mask but still commanding through the chaos.
He lunged forward, wind ripping around his form—not conjured, but pulled by sheer momentum. The team followed, boots pounding the pavement, firelight flickering across their lenses as arrows rained from the rooftops.
Mirelle gritted her teeth, extending her hands as she summoned a whirling dome of wind around the team. The air shimmered with force, catching most of the arrows mid-flight and deflecting them off-course. Still, a few slipped through—one grazing Hawkins' shoulder, another thudding into the ground inches from Drayke's foot.
"Keep moving!" she shouted, straining to hold the barrier as they sprinted toward the hotel.
It didn't get any easier. In front of the hotel, a group of goblins charged with crude weapons raised—but they never got the chance to use them. Kaldros surged forward, greatsword gleaming, and cleaved through them in a single sweeping strike, their bodies dropping before their cries even finished.
Across the street, high-goblins cloaked in tattered robes jerked their heads toward the commotion. Their hands rose in unison, glowing with a sickly green light. Arcane symbols flared to life midair as they began chanting—dark, guttural magic that rattled the bones.
Kaldros planted his feet firmly at the threshold of the hotel, greatsword braced across his shoulder, eyes locked on the advancing high-goblins.
"Everyone else—get inside!" he barked through the mask, voice low and steady. "Find the source of the mist. Save anyone still breathing."
He didn't wait for a response. The clash was coming, and he was the wall.
Drayke hesitated, heart pounding louder than the chaos outside. His hand hovered over the hilt of his blade—power barely caged, aching to be unleashed. He could end this. He knew he could. But if the Kaelwyn twins mistook the display for a flare…
One misstep, and he'd doom them all.
Jaw clenched, he turned with a bitter taste in his mouth, lips pressed into a line as he stopped following the others inside. Power meant nothing if it couldn't be used.
"Get inside now, Drayke! That's a direct order!" Kaldros shouted, his voice muffled but fierce behind the gas mask. "Disobey, and you answer with our lives!"
He held the line alone, deflecting a barrage of elemental attacks that rained down like a storm—unyielding, unstoppable.
Drayke flinched at the command, the weight of Kaldros' words slamming into him harder than the shockwaves tearing through the street. Fire, ice, and raw kinetic force exploded around the Sergeant, but Kaldros stood firm—an unyielding wall between chaos and his team.
Drayke's fingers curled into a fist at his side. His pride screamed. His power begged. But orders were orders—and Kaldros wasn't bluffing.
He ducked into the hotel's shattered doorway, gas mask fogging with every frustrated breath. "Damn it," he muttered, the roar of the battle outside sealing behind him like a cage door.
The team had already launched into action, engaging the goblins with grim precision. The building, once a symbol of civilization, now stood twisted—rebuilt not by hands of hope, but by the cruel ingenuity of monsters. Even through the gas masks, the stench of rotting flesh seeped in, sour and suffocating.
"Are you just gonna stand there, Drayke? We're inside now—pull out that damn sword!" Grayson shouted, cutting down a goblin with a fluid sweep as more poured in like floodwaters. It was endless.
Drayke's hands trembled. This was no simulation. No spar. This was his first true battlefield.
Tactics, formations, teamwork—it all spun in his mind. None of it clicked. None of it mattered.
All he wanted to do was get revenge. To carve a path back to his birthright—Old York, the city swallowed by the waves.
The sword on his back burned with purpose, as if it too remembered.
"Sorry—I'm a bit out of touch," Drayke muttered, his voice low as he drew his sword with a hiss of steel. The weight of it grounded him, muffling the chaos in his chest.
No more thinking. No more hesitation.
Just kill—
Exactly what he was taught to do.
The blade gleamed as it left the hilt, and in that instant, Drayke vanished into motion—a blur of steel and fury. He tore through the horde like a hurricane unchained, vaulting from floor to ceiling, hurling his sword and catching it mid-spin, never stopping, never faltering.
Goblins fell like wheat to a sickle. Their screams were drowned by the rhythm of death he orchestrated with every strike.
Blood soaked him—his face, his hands, his soul. But he didn't stop.
Couldn't stop.
Each kill muffled the screaming in his head, each body silenced another ghost.
He carved through them, burying his hate in the crimson trail he left behind.
In the end, he stood alone—surrounded by silence and the mangled remnants of the horde. It had taken less than a minute.
A trail of corpses marked his path, blood pooling at his feet, steaming in the cold air. Drayke's chest rose and fell with shallow, controlled breaths, sword still dripping, his eyes distant.
Lit only by flickering flames and the now crimson light of his sword, his silhouette looked inhuman—more demon than man, carved from shadow and fury. In that moment, he was no different than the monsters he was sent to destroy.
"Good job, Drayke!" Grayson called out, slapping him on the back with a wide grin, awe painted across his face. The impact jolted Drayke like a slap to the soul, snapping him out of the blood-soaked trance and dragging him back to reality—back to the weight of what he'd just done.
But the rest of the team stayed behind—silent, still, unsure.
"C'mon, this way."
Drayke didn't look back. His voice was low, steady—cold.
He walked forward, past the broken bodies, through the wreckage, as if the violence behind him hadn't happened at all.
The others followed—not because they understood him, not because they weren't afraid—but because the mission came first.
Sergeant Hawkins quickly assumed command again, her voice cutting through the thick silence like a blade.
"Check every room! If there are survivors, move them—fast and safe!"
No one questioned her. Orders gave them focus. Purpose. A way to keep the horror at bay.
Drayke kicked open the door.
What he saw—he wished he hadn't.
Women. Death.
The stench of violence and rot choked the room.
A goblin shrieked, springing up in a panic. It didn't get far. Drayke severed its hands in a flash, slamming it back onto the bed beside a motionless body.
Then, without hesitation, he drove his blade through its throat.
"Despicable," he muttered, his voice shaking.
"Burn in hell."
The body beside his blade twitched.
Drayke's eyes widened—he dropped the sword and rushed to her side, fingers pressed to her neck.
A pulse. Faint, but there.
Without wasting a second, he ripped a bedsheet from the mattress, wrapped her carefully, and slung her over his shoulder.
He stepped into the hallway. "Sergeant! I have one!"
The scene outside the room stopped him in his tracks.
Others had moved faster. Twelve survivors already lay in formation down the hall, mid-way through a purification process with Mirelle's help.
Her eyes shimmered with tears.
Everyone else wore stone faces. Numb. Focused.
There was no time for grief. Not yet.
Drayke's grip tightened around his sword until his knuckles turned white.
How many more?
How long had they endured this?
The idea that some were born into this nightmare—it gnawed at the edges of his sanity.
To see those like him, broken, used, discarded...
With a growl, he slammed his fist into the wall, biting down hard on his lip.
"Can I just kill them all yet?" he muttered, the fury trembling in his voice.
No one spoke.
The hallway, thick with silence, said everything. One by one, their gazes dropped to the bloodstained floor.
Drayke took the hint.
"Fine," he muttered, adjusting the weight of his sword on his hip. "I'll go ahead. You finish clearing the rooms."
He turned toward the end of the hall, the mist curling thicker in the air.
"I'm going to kill whatever's keeping this fog alive. I'm done wearing this mask."
Drayke bolted down the stairs, boots slamming against the warped steps. The deeper he went, the thicker the mist grew.
It had to be the vents.
Whatever was pumping this fog into the hotel was down here. He could feel it—like a heartbeat in the walls, pulsing with every breath he took.
"Keep hiding," he whispered, drawing his sword. "I'll drag you into the light."