The anchored roared—no vocal cords, just the grinding screech of plates grinding over bone. It swung, and Riko flew.
Not just knocked back—launched.
Tarrin didn't see where he landed. He couldn't afford to.
Celith ducked under the next blow, her blade flashing out in a brutal arc. Sparks erupted, but no blood followed. The anchored's armor held.
Her expression steeled just as one of the creature's hulking arms tore through the air toward her face.
Celith didn't back down. She grit her teeth, forced her Gift into overdrive, and drove her fist forward to meet the incoming blow.
A thundercrack rang out as flesh met flesh. Dust and pressure rolled outward in a wave.
Tarrin's eyes widened mid-sprint.
'She tanked it.'
Blood ran down her hand, but the anchored's arm had been knocked off-course—just enough. Celith stood firm, her boots gouging lines in the dirt.
Tarrin surged forward, closing the last stretch."Lucas—knee! Riko, now!"
He ducked under a wild swing, blade glinting as he moved. A glance to the side showed Jayden still locked with two Banes. Time was bleeding out.
'We finish this or we get buried.'
Tarrin reached deep—into that cold hollow in his mind. The one that breathed fear like smoke. The one that pulsed whenever things went quiet and wrong.
From it, a pressure radiated—thin, but sharp enough to pierce instincts.
At the same moment, he slashed wide to the left—telegraphing force, not speed. The blade wasn't aimed to kill. Not even to land. It was a feint.
But his aura did the rest.
The anchored flinched.
Just a flicker. A hitch in its motion. Something primal in it read the strike as fatal—even though it wasn't.
Tarrin saw the twitch and smiled.
Tarrin pivoted hard, twisting on the balls of his feet as his blade reversed direction mid-swing. This one was real. No bluff. All force.
The edge slammed into the anchored's side, right where ribs should've been.
A thin black line appeared. Shallow, but it bled.
'Finally.'
He didn't have time to celebrate. The anchored roared and brought both fists down. Tarrin barely got his blade up.
The impact cracked through his arms like a bell tolling in his bones. The sword bent—didn't snap—but it was close.
He rolled to the side, narrowly dodging the anchored's next swing. The creature was fast—brutal—but its patterns were starting to show.
Big, sweeping strikes. Delayed wind-up. Predictable.
Tarrin planted his feet, ready to counter, when the anchored shifted.
It wasn't its arms this time.
Its leg twisted, weight shifting with terrifying speed. Then—The kick came.
A full-body pivot, the monster's foot lashing out like a battering ram aimed straight at him.
Tarrin reacted on instinct, diving to the side. But he wasn't fast enough.
The heel caught his shoulder mid-roll. Bone crunched.
He hit the ground hard, pain ripping through his torso in a blinding wave. His vision swam. Air fled his lungs. But through the blur, he caught a flicker of movement—
Riko, dashing in from the side, blade arcing forward.
Tarrin glanced at his shoulder. It hung loose.
'Dislocated. Could be worse. Better than losing the damn thing.'
His legs wanted to give. Every nerve screamed to stay down. Let the others handle it. Be smart. Be still.
But Tarrin gritted his teeth and rose anyway, one hand limp at his side, the other tightening around his sword.
He wasn't done. Not yet.
A lone arrow whistled through the air—fast, clean. Tarrin's eyes caught it mid-flight as it buried itself in the monster's knee with a dull thunk.
The beast snarled, leg faltering under its own weight.
Tarrin didn't wait. "Celith, the head! Riko, finish the knee!" he barked, surging forward.
In a blink, he was face-to-face with the anchored. His sword lunged in a sharp, stabbing motion—aimed straight for the gut.
He spotted Celith out of the corner of his eye—high above, sword raised, diving toward the creature's exposed skull.
Tarrin smirked. We got i—
Then its mouth opened.
And the world ended in sound.
A roar tore through the field—deep, guttural, primal. It didn't just echo—it invaded.
Tarrin's knees buckled as the sheer force of it caved into his chest. Riko collapsed beside him, clutching his ears.
Only Celith finished the charge.
Her blade carved a brutal line across the monster's head, flesh and blood spraying.
Then a limb whipped around like a catapult. She didn't even have time to brace.
She flew ten feet before slamming into the dirt.
Four arms snapped forward—blindingly fast. Before Tarrin could breathe, he was yanked into the air like a ragdoll.
His breath caught. Below him, the anchored's mouth split open—jagged fangs glistening, its breath a wave of rot and death.
Terror surged through his veins, raw and electric. His heartbeat spiked. His mouth went dry.It's going to eat me.
The monster's grip tightened. Bone shifted with a sickening crack. Pain exploded in his ribs.
Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Riko—bloody, staggering, barely upright. His arms trembled. His expression was frozen in horror.
Tarrin looked back at the creature.
And something shifted.
Terror didn't vanish, but something rose to meet it. Cold. Solid.
Defiance.
Blood welled in his mouth. He tasted iron. His vision blurred red.
'I'm not done. Not yet. Not like this.'
Then it happened—that elusive pressure he'd chased since the training hall. It stirred in his chest, moved up his throat, slid along his tongue.
He didn't scream. He didn't roar.
He just spoke.
"Stop."
The word was soft. Not a plea. A command.
And something inside it cracked the air.
The anchored froze.
So did everything else within reach.
Even the battlefield held its breath.
Everything froze.
For a heartbeat, the world held its breath. The monster's grip slackened.
Tarrin twisted, trying to break free—he was almost out—just a second more—
Then it hit him.
A cold, suffocating weight dropped into his chest. His gaze snapped back to the creature's face.
Its eyes were clear again.
Shit. It wasn't enough.
Pain screamed through his body as the arms yanked him forward—toward those open jaws, toward death.
But then—
A flash.
Brighter than lightning, white-hot and sudden. His vision went blank.
Then the ground slammed into him, knocking the breath from his lungs. Like a marionette with its strings cut, he crumpled in a heap.
As his eyes adjusted, shapes formed—four severed limbs, thick and gray, strewn across the dirt beside him.
The anchored stood for a moment, swaying.
Then it collapsed, a lifeless hulk hitting the earth with a thunderous thud.
A voice followed, dry and amused.
"That's enough fooling around, don't you think?"
Tarrin looked up—saw the leader standing over him, sword still glowing, a cocky grin tugging at his lips.
Tarrin coughed, dust stinging his lungs, shoulder screaming. The leader offered a hand, grin fading to a nod. "Get up, kid. You're not dead yet." Tarrin gripped it, wincing as he stood.
Riko limped over, bloodied but grinning. "Next time, I ain't getting out the truck."
Jayden joined, a cut bleeding beneath his eye, while Lena helped Celith stand, her Gift steadying a sprained arm.
Celith met Tarrin's gaze, quiet respect gleaming in her eyes.
"Riko, over here. Help me pop it back in." Tarrin's voice cut through the haze as he motioned to the limping soldier, who looked like he'd gone three rounds with a Scarbane and lost each one.
Riko winced but obeyed.
One sharp pull. A sickening crack.
Tarrin gritted his teeth through the pain. The shoulder slid back into place—mostly. The ribs still throbbed like hell, but that could wait.
"Alright, kids. Back in the truck," the leader called out, casual as ever. "You can clean the blood off at the next pit stop."
The words drifted over the battlefield like smoke. Commanding, but calm.
Tarrin spared the anchored one last glance. The corpse still steamed in the dirt, massive and broken. The adrenaline finally began to fade, leaving behind the heavy ache of survival.
He climbed into the truck and dropped into his seat, chest rising slow.
We didn't die.Not today.
"Tarrin, lemme see the shoulder," Lena snapped. Her voice was brisk, impatient, like she needed to fix something just to stay upright.
He looked at her—dust-covered, hair matted, blood drying on her sleeves—and gave her a single nod.
Her hands pressed against his shoulder. Warmth surged, then pain. His body flinched, nerves lighting up in protest as her Gift got to work.
The truck rumbled on beneath them, wheels grinding over ruin without a second thought.
For the three days, they barely left the metal coffin.
They sat, bruised and silent, watching the real soldiers outside make war look easy—one enemy after another falling, the wrecked landscape shifting into something new, something stranger.
And still, the truck rolled on.
After what felt like a small eternity, only a handful of them remained in the truck—Tarrin, his squad, and a few other stragglers from their battalion.
The others had already been dropped off, scattered to gods knew where.
Riko sat near the back, legs bouncing, eyes fixed on the sealed door like he could will it open. He looked like a caged animal, every muscle taut with barely-contained impatience.
"Hey Jayden," Riko muttered, his voice ricocheting off the cold metal walls, "they said we're next, right?"
Jayden turned his head slowly, the bags under his eyes darker than ever. "Yeah, bro. Tenth time you've asked."
"Feels like we've been in here a damn week," Riko muttered, rubbing his face. "How much longer are the—"
He didn't get to finish. Two sharp bangs rang out from outside, then the heavy door creaked open, flooding the compartment with pale, spire-filtered light.
Riko's eyes lit up like he'd just glimpsed Luna descending from the heavens.
Without hesitation, he launched himself toward freedom, boots slamming against the truck floor as he disappeared into the light.
Tarrin followed at a slower pace, stepping down into unfamiliar terrain—and was instantly wrapped in a blanket of unease. Stone. Everywhere. Grey, jagged, silent.
The landscape felt hollow, like the earth itself had been carved out and never healed.
A soldier stood by the path, armor dusted with ash. "Alright, privates," he barked, voice loud and clipped.
"Welcome to Stonewake Heights. The bastion's up the hill. Hope your legs aren't useless."
He pointed toward a massive structure looming five hundred meters uphill, carved into the very mountain like a scar that refused to fade.
Tarrin stared at it. The bastion didn't just look important—it felt it. Heavy stone walls, steep towers, and a presence that screamed regal in the way only old power could.
Like something built to last long after they were all dead and forgotten.