They were coming. The rattling storm of feet scraping against gravel rose from the distance, pricking at Havoc's skin, raising the hairs along his arms, electrifying his senses as though lightning crackled through his veins. Though still a distant silhouette, the horde was visible—their jerking, shuffling motions rippled like a wave over the bedrock, surging ever onward, irrepressible, indifferent to all it would drown.

The day-sun clung low in the sky. Its sovereignty fading, it bled scarlet light into the approaching dusk. Gone was its basking warmth. In its place, a chill gripped the air, biting at Havoc's fingers, forcing him to clench them tight against the creeping numbness. Yet this was a boon. It was in pale light that his captive Spirit grew, and as the glow of the night-sun supplanted the day, his Anchor thrummed inside him. The Midnight Urn stretched its reach through the mountain passage, tasting the power around it like a serpent flicking its tongue, hunting for what it would consume.

But he could not mimic everything. A cub may set its sights on a tiger, but it does not dare step into the beast's den. Of the powers beyond his Servant rank, he could only taste their presence—distant, untouchable. He could not grasp the Dungeon-Spawn's might, nor Annalise's esoteric insight.

Still, there was much to choose from. Anton's fleeting invulnerability had already redeemed him once, sparing him from death's grasp when they faced the arachnoid monster two days prior. But that had been a battle against a singular, towering force—a far cry from the swarm now surging toward them.

He needed something that would allow him to fight—and keep fighting—amidst the unceasing chaos of war. His own Remnants were ill-suited for the task. While the Stone Guardsman's barriers were both an irresistible offence and an impregnable defence, they bound him to the statue's reach, severely constraining his mobility. Against a solitary combatant, this limitation was manageable. But against a horde? It was a death sentence. He would need to push forward, carve a path, adapt—and for that, his current arsenal was lacking.

I should've held on to the Buried Strike, he lamented, watching the dust cloud rise in the swarm's wake, drawing ever nearer.

His gaze shifted to the side where Aaron stood. Instead of restricting his Armour Remnants to their natural form, Aaron had extended and refined their structure, forging a full suit of ebony scales that lined his frame. The plates stretched from his shoulders to his shins, a seamless layer of draconic protection.

As Havoc understood it, this was a unique trait of Armour-type Remnants. The Dungeon—ever-fashionable—permitted disparate armour pieces to meld into a cohesive whole. A single gauntlet could unfold into full-plated armour; a cloak could weave itself into a cuirass, vambraces, and greaves, forming its own perfect ensemble. All form, little substance. The process did not strengthen the Remnants—if anything, it diluted their integrity. By forgoing focal protection, the Inheritor gained full-bodied coverage, but at the cost of resilience. A suit pieced together from fragments would never match the fortitude of armour crafted as a whole. Yet even knowing that, Havoc could not ignore the way Aaron moved—the sheer adaptability of his form, perhaps that, at least, was worth borrowing.

He turned his attention to the rear of their formation, there Franklin and Myra stood. Myra's control over the flow of Harmony was an asset, for certain. But it required assent to function. Even as her bond coiled around his core, with a thought, it would unravel. It could only court, it could not ravish.

A shame, he thought. The idea of turning the horde's might against them was enticing, but it could not endure the vitiating maw of reality.

Havoc briefly considered Myra's other abilities. Clutched in her grip was a bow that, when drawn, would release bolts of ruinous lightning, its potency fortified by the charm around her neck. He had seen the devastation her power could unleash, but it would not suit his needs—the delay was too long, and the display too unmistakable. With his duel with Aaron set, now more than ever, it was vital to keep the true range of his capabilities concealed.

He had masked his survival of the spider-like spawn's bowel-rending cleave as an effect of the Flesh-Weave Needles, but no such contrivance could pass off a crash of lightning as anything other than an altogether separate ability. Similarly, Franklin's elemental bolts and Anton's flaming whip were too conspicuous to be duplicated.

The assortment of support-type Remnants merited contemplation, but they too lacked what he truly needed.

'Take this,' Shar called from behind.

As though slipping from the shadows, her presence came without warning. One moment, she prowled near the Seer; the next, she was there—sword clutched in her grip, held out for Havoc to take.

He gazed at the scarlet falchion, recognising it instantly. It was the Thirst Edge. The blade that had shepherded him through the first days of his endless trials. His stare lifted to Shar, then shifted to Annalise, who waved from the rear line.

'It is not the blade you knew,' Shar said, her tone blunt as she motioned for him to take the weapon. 'This is Thirsty Strike. It won't mend your wounds, but when bathed in blood, it can discharge a severing wave.'

'How—' Havoc began, but Shar cut him off before the through could form.

'My lady suggests you exchange the charm. The statue and needle still have their uses,' she said, pressing the sword's grip into his half-raised hand. 'There's not much time. Bind the blade and prepare—this will be a long campaign.'

Without so much as a parting word, she leapt toward the mountain wall, the wind scattering the gravelled ground in her trail.

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She was right—time was short. Already, he could hear the rasping snarls of the approaching drove. Their features were no longer obscured—he could see them clearly now, their raw, hideless forms exposed in the fading light. Each stood the height of a man, their bloody footprints staining the earth in a relentless march. Their danger was not in any single one of them—he was confident he could cut down any lone creature with ease. Together, they were a writhing mass of flesh and hunger—more terrible, more deadly, than anything he had faced before.

Until the group was decimated, their numbers would never wane. Though they appeared as separate entities, it was an illusion. In truth, they were one—disjointed pieces of a singular, appalling whole: a Champion-ranked Spawn they could never hope to overcome.

This was their final battle. It would start as a trickle, but the trickle would swell to a tide, and the tide would flood the land. It would not happen all at once—but it would happen all the same. None would survive but those the Seer had forewarned.

I can't save them, he told himself as the Scouts-Eye crumbled to dust, replaced in his Spirit Chain by the Thirsty Strike. If there was anything I could do—

He shoved down the thought and pushed himself to his feet, the scarlet falchion forming in his grip. It was not that he could do nothing—he simply would not. Not without sacrificing his own survival. Shame twisted through his gut, coiling in barbed knots, but he would not surrender his life for another's. He would not even jeopardise his prospects. The sharp ache of conscience gnawed at him, and guilt pressed upon his chest, but guilt could fade. The finality of death offered no such reprieve.

'Ready, kid?' Anton asked, eyes fixed on the nearing swarm. His voice was steady, but his hands trembled—just slightly, barely noticeable beneath his dauntless display.

'Yeah,' Havoc replied, his tone clipped as he stepped forward, readying his stance.

Anton exhaled through his nose. 'You've got potential, kid. More than I ever had. If we make it out of this, don't throw it away in some pointless brawl with a noble,' he said, his whip igniting along its length.

The horde surged closer, sinewy faces stretched over skulls, amber teeth gleaming against lipless maws—bathed in the red glow of the dying sun.

'Promise me,' Anton said. He broke his gaze from the swarm just long enough to glare at Havoc before snapping his attention back to the oncoming flood of bodies. 'Swear it!'

Havoc glanced at the man clad in gold-plated armour. His lips curled into a half-smile before turning his gaze toward Aaron.

'No,' he whispered.

Anton's focus snapped back to him. Havoc shook his head, slow and deliberate.

'He tried to kill me. There's no coming back from that,' he said, loud enough for Aaron to hear. His eyes locked onto the noble, his voice cutting through the charged air. 'So you better survive this…' he paused, his silence coiled like a drawn bowstring. '…Because when this is over, I am going to kill you.'

Across the battlefield, Aaron's gaze met his own. His lips curled, more snarl than smirk.

'You can try,' he mouthed, his voice lost to the rising tide of the horde.

With that, the time for words had passed. Without hesitation, Havoc charged toward the swarm, blade poised to cleave shoulder through hip.

****

Naereah fell onto her back as a ghoul lunged toward her, claws outstretched to rend flesh from bone. She barely had time to brace herself before—

A blur.

A severed head spiralled through the air.

Havoc's blade had already found its mark. He stood over her, hand outstretched. Without a word, he pulled her to her feet before vanishing back into the fray.

Her heart clenched as she watched him move—a contradiction of savagery and grace. He glided through the battlefield like mist, cutting down foes with brutal efficiency, his sword carving a path of ruin. She wanted to fight. She wanted to stand at his side—not as a burden, but as his equal. To be the saviour, not the saved.

But the will was not enough. Not here. Not against this.

A rasping breath snatched her from her bleak reverie. It was true, she lacked the strength to stand in battle, but she was not useless.

Far from it, she resolved.

She pressed her palms over a claw-torn chest, radiating warmth into the torn flesh. The wound flushed tender—raw, but sealed.

'Thank you,' the man gasped, slowly raising himself from the ground, already bracing to return to the fray.

A shadow fell over her, and Shar landed with a grunt, her boots scraping the dirt, a man twice her size cradled in her arms.

'We've got another one,' Shar said, setting him down without ceremony. 'Work fast. We need to push forward.'

'Of course,' Naereah replied quickly. She gripped the man's lacerated shoulder. The squelch of torn flesh churned her stomach, but she pushed the nausea aside and closed the wounds.

'Praise the Seer,' the man murmured as a spear shimmered into his grasp. He dug the pole into the ground, hoisting himself upright before staggering back into the fray.

The horde seemed endless, yet their group held. With her love at the vanguard, they pushed the swarm back, steadily carving a path deeper down the mountain trail.

But it was hopeless.

Naereah watched as the group clashed against the horde, the ignorant survivors fighting with unrestrained fervour—no doubt believing that with a final push, they would win the day. The belief was understandable. A desperate struggle, and then reprieve—was that not the way of things? One yank, and the tooth is out.

She had never found it so. Except in tales of dragons and knights. She knew the truth of the world. Nothing improved—only worsened. At least until someone took a stand. She would be that someone. She would take her stand and with her own hands she would seize her storybook ending—one where she could rest in the arms of the man she loved, and be loved all the same.

The Seer had shown her the path to liberty, and she meant to walk it.

After the wave of horrors—when Havoc and Aaron clashed, when Lucia made her move—her time would come. With the crystal dagger hidden within the newly forged link of her Spirit Chain, she would pierce Lucia's tar-black heart.

And finally—she would be free.

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