"Run! Kisatsu!" Ryurei bellowed, his voice tearing through the air like a high-pitched chainsaw. "Kisatsu! Please!"
Behind Ryurei loomed a black, familiar figure—though Kisatsu couldn't quite place it. His hands trembled uncontrollably, a torrent of terror flooding through him, wild and unrestrained.
No... not again!
"I'll... I'll save you!" Kisatsu cried, though the slight quiver in his voice belied his grit. Doubts crowded his mind, paralyzing him—hesitant, trembling. For all his efforts to grow stronger, he was still vulnerable to fear.
He couldn't move. He could think, speak, and tremble—yet he couldn't move of his own will.
I can't move?! His eyes flicked down to his hands, which had been trembling the entire time. That's all right, I can still use Rage pressure.
Then, a flicker of realization crossed his mind for a moment.
I... don't know how to cast it! I've never used it—not once since I found out I had it!
His gaze returned to Ryurei, woven with despair and powerlessness. This time, the sun caught Kisatsu's eye before dipping behind Ryurei and the unfamiliar figure, causing him to flinch at the brief, dazzling glint.
"Ryurei!" he cried.
If only I were as strong as Astafa...
A breath.
Astafa... did I really know someone by that name? No... something's wrong.
"Kisatsu," Ryurei mumbled, his voice dropping to something grave, cold—slightly ominous. "Didn't I tell you to run?"
"Ryurei..." Kisatsu murmured, a hint of disbelief marking his expression, his voice subdued.
Suddenly, the priest's visage—ghastly, bloodcurdling, like the ghosts Kisatsu had seen in pictures—materialized before his face, causing him to shriek back to consciousness.
He sat upright, the darkness wrapping around him like a cold, still blanket. The rhythmic clopping of the horse's hooves softly echoed through the quiet air, rocking the carriage at a steady, precise pace.
How could a dream feel so real? he thought, eyes wandering the darkness as if searching for a faint shard of light. Are we there yet?
* * *
The morning sun painted the Tyvan Coast in a warm glow, casting long shadows across the slate-roofed houses. A faint breeze whispered through the crevices of abandoned homes, carrying the scent of dust and mildew.
Kisatsu stood on a precipice, the gentle gust of wind brushing his cheek like a motherly caress as he beheld the landscape of the village nestled between two guarding hills.
"So, we're supposed to fire these poppers once we've spotted the culprit, huh?" Frouc asked, absentmindedly toying with the flare gun in his hand. "I wonder if we can shoot it with this."
"Fire it accidentally, and if we don't see the signal—we'll never know if you're still alive, wanker," Gnovic huffed. "We're only given one bullet. Don't do anything stupid—even by accident."
"Tch," Frouc tutted, slipping the flare gun back into its holster. He crossed his arms over his chest, as if annoyed by Gnovic's tone.
"If I do make a mistake, though," he said, "I hope it's because I accidentally fired at your ass."
"I'm aiming for your groin if that ever happens, fuckwit," Gnovic retorted, voice sharp and edged.
From a distance, Austrad and Mwvyck watched carefully, their expressions unreadable in the quiet stillness. When the wind blew, it tugged at the edges of their uniforms, as if the place itself were pleading for their presence.
"I'll go after Astafa. You take Kisatsu," Austrad said, voice hushed and level—barely audible in the air filled with the wind's low hum.
* * *
A Midnight Before
The moon hung high over the trail amid the woodlands, shedding a faint, luminous light across the forest. A soft zephyr glided through the nearby hills, rustling the greenery and stirring the hairs of two emissaries sitting atop the wagon.
"When was our last ascension?" Austrad asked, his voice pealing through the cold silence.
"After finishing that H-rank quest with a few from the Ninth Division, we only moved up from the seventieth section to the sixty-eighth," Mwvyck replied, his expression calm and unreadable. "Still, that's the biggest leap we've made all year—two sections up."
"And why do you think we've only been climbing the ranks in tiny steps?"
Mwvyck hesitated for a breath, his gaze dropping to the jagged, uneven trail with careful thoughtfulness. His breath unfurled into the air like smoke revealed by the quiet cold, drifting lazily before lingering like forgotten memories.
"I guess it's because we've only been taking quests at our level, with no one stronger on the team," he said, facing forward once more. "Meanwhile, the others from lower divisions have been climbing faster."
A pause. His eyes narrowed in dawning realization.
"I mean, our questmates made it through quests way above their level. Bottom line? We're being used—even if they didn't mean to." His expression hardened. "Hmph... pisses me off!" he scoffed.
A quiet exhale drifted from Austrad's lips as he lifted his gaze, the corners of his mouth barely tugging.
"No, Mwvyck," he said, his voice smooth and even. "It's because they survive that they rank up so fast. Think about it—why else would they be climbing that quickly if they were only taking on quests at their own level?"
Mwvyck's brow furrowed slightly, his arms drawing together toward Asutrad—deliberate, composed.
"What exactly are you getting at?" he muttered, his voice now edged and direct.
"It's simple," Austrad noted. "If our questmates die in battle, it just means the quest was too much for them."
A pause.
"But if we make it out alive, it shows that only higher division members could've pulled it off."
He adjusted his posture, straightening his back as he drew in a deep, measured breath.
"The fewer survivors, the faster we'll climb the ranks," he uttered, a subtle undercurrent of coldness tingling his voice. "And losing a knight with his potential? That'll push it up even more, don't you think?"
He turned to Mwvyck, his eyes cold, sharpened by something dangerously close to murderous intent. Animalistic. Sadistic.
"Hmph. I knew you'd pull something like this," Mwvyck huffed, his gaze drifting to the moon hanging above them—serene, waning.
"Kisatsu Vurgemond isn't the only one to worry about," Austrad remarked. "Right now now, Astafa Kindleton might be the real threat."
Mwvyck's gaze sharpened at his words.
"You're saying you might struggle against him? With your speed?" he grunted, his tone laced with a tinge of disbelief.
"He's not even a human, Mwvyck. If you're planning to push your luck, leave me out of it. I doubt you could take on both of them at once anyway."
Mwvyck let out a long, resigned sigh—the kind born from someone who couldn't accept inferiority in any form.
"How long are you gonna keep underestimating me?" he grunted. "Sure, I'll admit you're stronger—but you really think I'd lose to two so-called prodigies?"
A breath.
"They're still just kids. Far from deadly."
A short, barely audible chuckle parted from Austrad's lips, tinted with a hint of ridicule. The wind blew against their faces with soft murmurs, the cold gently grazing their skin as the edges of their uniforms swayed in a rhythmic flow.
"You've getting soft, Mwvyck," he exhaled slowly. "One prodigy's enough to wipe out both of us."
His words hung in the air like a truth one could begrudgingly accept—yet neither of them denied it. Mwvyck's fingers drummed lightly against his skin, his expression unreadable as it settled into the quiet stillness of the moonlit night.
"And? You planning to kill them both?" he spoke at last, his voice breaking through the hushed silence.
Austrad pondered for a beat, letting the breeze dance lightly across his surface. He gazed into the depths of the darkness before him, reminiscent of places he once dwelled in—places the light could never reach.
"To make sure they don't make it out alive, yeah," he said. "Then we'll just toss what's left to whatever creature's lurking in that place. That way, even if their bodies are found, the beast'll have done most of the damage—no one'll know it was us."
Mwvyck listened in silence, weighing his thoughts carefully before responding:
"I see." He heaved a brief, shallow breath. "Sounds like a pain. It'd be easier after we take down the monster—but fine, I get it. I'll go along with it, like always."
A subtle smile ghosted over Austrad's lips, as if another chuckle threatened to seep from them. The horses' trotters tramped over the ragged earth, their paced treads resounding through the hush, the wagon swaying unevenly with each movement.
And for the night, the midnight's gale stole all words spoken before they could settle—words spoken by those who had dared to unravel everything, steering it toward a different path.
* * *
Kisatsu, Astafa, Frouc, and Gnovic held their positions at the outskirts of the village, forming a square as they guarded its exterior, sealing off all possible exits for the entity. The Rage presence flooded the area with overwhelming intensity, lightly pressing upon those who could sense it.
Austrad and Mwvyck roamed the center with practiced caution, each movement sharpened with precision. Strangely, the entity's Rage presence didn't bear down as heavily on them, the whispers of the wind cutting through the cracks of forlorn abodes.
"Do we seriously have to wait for them to fire the signal?" Mwvyck whined, his gaze roving between the houses with a listless ease. "We're already at the core. Shouldn't the monster be just an inch away from us?"
Austrad didn't speak right away—didn't even turn to face to him. Out of the corner of his eye, a faint gleam snagged his attention, flashing from a decrepit shack. Without hesitation, he swiveled toward it, stepping forward with mechanical deliberation.
"We're the only knights assigned to handle the source of this Rage," he explained, his voice low and steady. "Those greenhorns are just supposed to patrol the village borders and fire a flare if anything comes up."
Stepping into the hovel, he knelt down, staring at a chipped serum vial with probing eyes, a thin trickle of unfamiliar liquid dripping from it. The wooden floorboards beneath him creaked sharply, the sound reverberating through the tense air wrapped around them.
A vial? Austrad mused, his forehead creasing in puzzlement as he picked up the phial, his fingers twitching slightly.
"Smells musty in here!" Mwvyck muttered, pinching his nose lightly as his gaze whipped around the battered furnishings, now shrouded in dusty dimness.
And the liquid's still fresh, Austrad thought, turning the vial over with meticulous care. Did someone come here recently?
* * *
Kisatsu sat on a nearby ledge, a remnant of a collapsed wall, painted in the soft glow of the mellow sun above him. The dust drifted past his face, tousling his lavender-ivory hair like a whimsical spirit waltzing through the air, kissing his forehead—branded by the weight of having lost everything, yet only able to hope for a fragment of redemption.
Have they already started? he contemplated, gaze fixed on the clear, borderless sky, cyanic at its core—just beyond the sun's blinding brilliance. The Rage presence still hadn't fluctuated, even after all this time. Could it be because they hadn't found the culprit yet?
A beat.
As his gaze remained locked on the firmament, a faint, shimmering red flickered into his peripheral vision. His eyes—once focused, grounded, fanciful—sharpened the moment they flitted toward the glint, his brow knitting in calculated thought.
That came from Gnovic's position!
His legs moved instantly, fueled by determination, each step hitting the ground with polished deftness. The Rage presence shifted immediately, its fluctuation matching his cadenced tempo as he bolted toward the signal at full throttle.
Wait, it moved right after it saw the flare? Then that means they haven't found the culprit yet.
His breath came heavy and uneven with each stride, his pace faltering ever so slightly.
Did they fire it on purpose—to lure the culprit?
A full minute had passed.
Kisatsu broke onto the scene. Time had stopped—or so it seemed. In his peripheral vision hovered an unfamiliar figure, though he remained unfazed. Unflinching. Unblinking.
Mwvyck was clashing with the creature, but the image slipped from Kisatsu's focus—it didn't even sit at the edge of his sight, for his gaze remained fixated on what brooded before him.
Astafa had his back turned to Kisatsu as Austrad hovered in the air behind him, his sword poised—distinctly keen, intricately wrought—ready to slash Astafa from behind. Kisatsu saw them—even though he shouldn't have been able to in this situation—his eyes tensely locking with Austrad's, sharp and thick.
What—?! Kisatsu whispered to himself.
He can see us?! Austrad screamed in his mind.