The sounds of battle raged like a storm all around, but at the center of it stood two monsters—one draped in noble colors, the other in savage furs.
Herrick, the squad captain, his long coat stained with dirt and blood, faced off against the barbarian warlord. The man was huge, muscles wrapped in leather cords and bone armor, his eyes gleaming with primal rage and satisfaction. His axe had already drunk too deep of our blood.
"You nobles are all the same," the warlord growled, spitting blood. "Pretty magic, soft hearts."
Herrick said nothing. His eyes were sharp, his grimoire floating beside him. Wind swirled around his feet, wrapping him in a violent gale.
"Wind Style: Crescent Wing Blitz!"
He vanished.
Reappeared midair, blade-first, and came crashing down like a whirlwind of death.
The warlord raised his axe just in time.
CLANG!
The impact sent shockwaves through the clearing, knocking over tents and sending sparks from clashing steel. They broke apart, danced again. Herrick was fast—inhumanly fast. But the warlord's strength and endurance were monstrous. Each of his swings could crush a tree, and more than once Herrick barely deflected a killing blow.
A dozen exchanges. Then twenty.
Until finally—
"Tempest Spiral Fang!" Herrick roared, driving his sword forward with a spiraling gust of wind.
It pierced the barbarian's ribs.
The chieftain gasped, coughed blood, and dropped to one knee.
"I win," Herrick hissed.
But then—
Schlick.
A blade slid into Herrick's back.
Not the enemy's.
Not a barbarian.
It was his vice captain.
"...You talk too much," the man whispered with a cruel smile, eyes empty of loyalty.
Blood sprayed from Herrick's mouth. He twisted, but the blade had missed the heart—an inch too shallow, too far left. Luck. Or maybe fate.
"You…" Herrick growled. "Traitor."
The warlord, still alive despite the wound, grinned. "So even your own kind turn on you. Maybe you're not so different after all."
The vice stepped back, not to finish the job, but to let them kill each other. "You'll die either way. I'll clean up whoever survives."
Herrick spat blood, raised his sword with one hand. "Come then…"
But then it happened.
They all froze.
The trees stilled.
The wind died.
The fires stopped crackling.
A wave of… something swept through the camp. Thick. Heavy. Ancient.
From the bushes—not far from the burning tents—a grey aura began to rise like smoke. The air itself felt crushed by it. Weighted down by its unnatural presence.
The vice turned his head slowly, the warlord's grin faded, and even Herrick staggered backward with wide eyes.
"W-what is that?" the vice muttered, lowering his sword instinctively.
The aura thickened, and with it came pressure—crushing pressure. Like gravity had tripled, and a storm had taken form without sound or wind.
Two glowing eyes opened from within the shadows of the brush.
Cold.
Alien.
Terrifying.
The barbarian leader fell back, trembling. "That's no spell…"
Even the vice took a step back.
Herrick blinked. "No… not a spell. That's…"
A figure stepped out slowly. Smoke trailing from his skin like a second layer. His body still small. Frail even.
It was me.
My hair swayed despite the stillness in the air, eyes glowing that same impossible grey.
No one moved.
No one spoke.
Even death seemed to pause to watch.
The battlefield, scorched and battered, had fallen into a dreadful silence.
All eyes were on me.
Herrick, blood dripping from his mouth, stood with his sword lowered, barely holding himself upright. The barbarian leader, despite his wounds, staggered back with a wary stare, like a beast recognizing a predator it couldn't name.
And the vice captain…
He scoffed, the fear cracking in his voice as he forced a mocking grin. "What is this? You trying to play mage now, boy? That aura is just fancy fog. I've seen street rats in the capital pull better tricks."
He stepped toward me.
Wrong move.
I didn't speak. I didn't blink.
I just lifted my hand slowly—palm open, fingers spread.
The grey mist that curled around my body seemed to pulse, like something alive. Then… it twisted toward him.
The vice's mocking smirk faltered.
"What the hell…?"
The mist slithered closer—gaining shape, density. It shimmered faintly under the moonlight, turning into overlapping rings of silvery energy. From it formed the shimmering shape of something massive—a serpent, coiling around him in the blink of an eye.
Its scales were translucent, glowing faintly with light from another realm. Its eyes were twin moons—soulless and endless.
"GAAAAAHHH!!" the vice screamed, thrashing.
The snake reared up, invisible to the untrained eye but felt by all. It lunged—its mouth opening unnaturally wide—and bit down on his shoulder with spectral fangs.
He tumbled to the ground, clawing at his body, shrieking like a madman.
"There's nothing there!" the barbarian hissed, taking a step back.
Herrick was staring too, his brows tight, unable to speak. Blood still dripping down his chest, but all of it forgotten now.
The vice rolled in the dirt, sobbing. "GET IT OFF ME! GET IT OFF ME! IT'S TEARING ME APART!!"
He clawed at the skin of his arms and neck where nothing was visible—where only he could see it. The serpent's body wrapped tighter, squeezing. His ribs cracked. Veins bulged in his face.
But I stood still. Silent.
Watching.
Until I lowered my hand.
The aura retreated—like fog dispersing at dawn.
The serpent vanished without a sound.
The vice captain lay still, convulsing—his limbs twitching, his breath shallow and erratic. His eyes stared into nothing, mouth hanging open in a silent scream.
A whimper escaped him.
"Make it stop…"
Herrick looked from him to me. "...An illusion?"
The barbarian's eyes narrowed. "No ordinary one. That wasn't just fear. That was… something else."
I didn't answer. Because I didn't fully understand it either.
My breath was calm, but my heart thundered in my chest. That grey serpent… it had felt real. Too real.
Yet I hadn't summoned it through a spell.
It came from something older, deeper. Instinctual.
"Y-you…" Herrick finally said, forcing himself to stand straighter, "What was that magic?"
I shook my head. "I don't know."
The barbarian grunted, holding his bleeding side. "Doesn't matter what it is. No sane man wants to see it again.".
The fight wasn't over.
I looked down at my hands again—hands still trembling with a phantom energy that I hadn't yet claimed as my own.
But I could feel it now.
Waiting.
Watching.
The moon magic had stirred.
And something told me…
It wasn't finished.