Tormule
Tormule
His breath hitched in his throat, and his arms sagged with exhaustion. Aslan felt the weight of his own body, wiping cold sweat from his forehead with the back of his hand.
High Fighting Spirit conferred bonuses to a player's willpower and endurance. A player with high Fighting Spirit could execute techniques demanding intense concentration more frequently, maintain focus through prolonged battles, and resist fatigue far longer.
Aslan's Fighting Spirit was 7. A level bordering on the superhuman.
That very stat had kept him sharp and unflagging.
But now that razor focus was dulling, and his tireless body was slackening with wear. Aslan gasped in short, convulsive breaths and stared through his remaining eye at the surging horde of Tormule.
Then he shifted his gaze to Ereta.
The mana tattoo glimmered faintly through the sweat-damp fabric clinging to her back: Valor of the Flying Bird.
That tattoo granted modest bonuses to Fighting Spirit and Strength, and restored vitality with every enemy slain.
Even so, Ereta was spent. Sweat soaked her hair and plastered the fabric to her skin, already far too revealing, tracing every line of her body.
Her eyes met his, and she let out a short breath. Aslan regarded her wordlessly, then turned away.
Where he turned, Rumel stood, even more drained than Ereta.
The noblewoman bore not a single tattoo and was ill-suited to endure such a forced march. She panted as if she might collapse at any moment.
Companions and Aslan alike were at their limit. They could not fight on like this.
Aslan acknowledged the fact and shifted his attention elsewhere.
The thunder of Tiyamal's arrows striking home echoed through the air. The gaps between shots were growing longer. His quiver thinning, Tiyamal grew more deliberate with every draw.
The booming report of Anna's magic remained steady in rhythm, but the noise grew louder with each cast.
More resistance and vitality than she'd anticipated—she was resorting to stronger spells.
Aslan was not alone at his limit. The companions he could not see had reached theirs, too. Aslan understood that further fighting held no meaning.
Could they overcome that horde by continuing this fight? Unknown. Without a reliable estimate, he could not act rashly.
But one thing was certain.
If they kept fighting blindly, Aslan would collapse from exhaustion long before the enemy's numbers ran dry.
He knew it was time to retreat and find another path.
It was at that moment, watching the charging horde of Tormule, that he tightened his grip on Purity.
'Moon Splitting.'
His breath seeped out between his lips like white steam in the heated air. Aslan fixed his right eye on that pale wisp as he swung Purity sideways from its drawn-back position.
Shaaaaak!
The white radiance carved a pale arc, sliced through the puff of breath, and carried on. Tormule caught along the length of that trailing slash split at the waist.
The effect of Purity—of a sword of fire—was simple yet devastating.
It cut whatever its wielder willed to cut. True to that principle, the torsos of the charging Tormule bisected and tumbled across the floor.
As the rain of collapsing bodies pattered like a downpour, the shadow that had lingered faintly at Aslan's feet vanished.
'Shadow Flip.'
Shhhrak!
Two slashes filled the empty space at once. Twin attacks wrought from white light and blazing white shadow carved through the ceiling, and a cascade of rubble crashed to the floor.
Amid the thunder of falling stone, the corridor sealed shut. Aslan watched it for a long moment, then turned swiftly. He found the two women looking bewildered.
Facing expressions that seemed to demand an explanation, Aslan let out a small sigh and spoke.
"Further fighting is meaningless. We'll wear out before we break through them. We've bought some time, so we need to change the plan."
Rumel and Ereta did not reply. They had neither the will to argue nor the strength.
Aslan swept his hair back and retraced his steps down the corridor.
When he flicked the sweat from his palm and returned to one side of the guard post, the number of wounded guards was already considerable.
Still, none were dead or at death's door—owing entirely to Angie and Fay's efforts.
"Hup!"
Crack. A vicious kick from the girl caved in a Tormule's chest, and Fay, who had kicked off the wall and launched herself into the air, carved a V through its throat with her blade.
The corpse collapsed and dissolved into black ooze across the floor, but the moment was brief—countless more figures rushed forward. Angie clicked her tongue and raised her fists, while Fay spun her twin swords and dropped into a low stance.
Even at a glance, the situation was dire.
Fay, as an elf, did not tire, and Angie seemed to be holding on through sheer high Health.
Had Aslan or any of the others been here instead, they could not have endured this long. Aslan approached Angie just as she tore a Tormule's head off with a sweeping punch.
"Aslan!"
With a sharp kiai, she kicked a Tormule clear out of the guard post, then let out a heavy breath and wiped her forehead.
"These things are wrong. They just keep coming no matter how many we kill!"
Fay nodded in agreement while Angie wiped her brow, and Aslan, as if he had expected exactly this, pressed his lips together and gave a grim nod.
He turned that grim look upon their surroundings. Everywhere his gaze landed, he saw wounded guards slumped against walls, each nursing injuries.
Meeting their terror-stricken eyes, Aslan closed his own and opened them again.
A plan crystallized in that instant. No hesitation, resolute.
Aslan was not hard-hearted enough to stand by and watch others die, nor could he look away when people were dying, in trouble, or in danger.
Thud. Thud!
The sound came from the blocked corridor right behind them. Tormule pounding at the rubble, trying to break through.
If they held out in this guard post, the only outcomes awaiting them were a slow death by attrition or wholesale slaughter.
The guards, his companions, even Aslan himself—none would last.
Angie's exceptional stamina and Fay's tireless body had no way to outlast these numbers.
One option remained: breakthrough.
"Gather the guards."
Aslan called out to the one who seemed the highest-ranking among them. The man turned to look at him, then frowned in puzzlement.
"Weren't you supposed to... seal off that corridor?"
His face went pale as he belatedly saw the passageway choked with shattered stone. He must have just come back from the rooftop; he was still cradling a crossbow in his arms.
"It proved impossible. We pulled back. Those monsters don't die even when you kill them. If we keep fighting, it becomes a war of attrition we're guaranteed to lose."
At the implication that a more fundamental solution was needed, the guard could only furrow his brow in silence. Aslan nodded at him.
"Bring all the guards from above, along with my companions and Lady Anna."
The guard eyed Aslan for a long moment, clearly doubtful, then headed upstairs. As soon as he left, Aslan moved to help Angie block the door and called his party together.
The piled rubble shifted and rattled. Beyond it, the presence of Tormule swirled like a chill wind.
"They do not die."
Aslan made the declaration before the assembled guards and companions alike, and the guards' expressions curdled as if the words themselves were a curse.
"I suspect some of you have already noticed."
As he spoke, he looked at Anna. She showed no surprise at all, merely folding her arms with an air of having suspected as much. Tiyamal, beside her, rubbed his shoulder and grumbled.
"Knew something was off. Numbers never went down no matter how much I shot. Wasted arrows."
As Tiyamal's grumbling made clear, further fighting was a waste—spending everything on an unwinnable battle. When the guards' faces grew grave, showing they understood, Aslan studied them one by one and continued.
Some seemed to grasp it, but others still looked lost.
"We need a more fundamental solution. So..."
"Could we not simply hold out here?"
The question that followed fit that very context, and Aslan, having anticipated it, shook his head without an instant's hesitation.
"If we do that, we'll probably die slowly. A slow and painful death."
The guard swallowed as if that answer were a foretold fate. A female guard seated beside him cautiously raised a hand.
"Then what are we to do?"
"Everyone who's wounded and everyone who can still fight—we group together and break out through the entrance."
"Wait, then casualties will..."
"Even if there are casualties, we have no choice. If we don't break out of here now, we all die. Once we break through, we need to find the source of these monsters."
Source? The questioning word came not from a guard but from Angie. Aslan answered only with a nod, leaving it ambiguous, and the guards exchanged uncertain glances.
"Then... can we survive?"
A natural question. In normal times, he would have smiled and promised survival with certainty, but now he could not offer such guarantees.
The enemy was Tormule.
A man who controlled countless versions of himself through some unprecedented magic or divinity.
The master of the Spiral Spear, a man who had once held the title Master of the Spear.
Casualties were inevitable.
A bitter smile surfaced unbidden. Aslan wore it as he answered, his voice somehow solid.
"I can't give you a certain answer. Some will live. Others will die."
"Haa... then... waiting until the Imperial soldiers arrive..."
The one who spoke with a sigh was the guard who had suggested holding out. He clutched his wounded leg and asked with trembling, anxious eyes, and Aslan could not smile in answer.
Instead.
"Listen carefully."
"Hm?"
"Listen to the sounds around you, and hear what I'm about to say."
He continued, meeting the man's puzzled expression.
"Those monsters have the ability to transform others into copies of themselves. Once transformed, that person becomes a monster. Keep that in your mind, and listen closely. Then think about it."
The guards' faces went pale as the implication sank in. Aslan looked at them and spoke.
"Before this all started, did you hear anyone moving around out there? Patrols returning? Sounds of fighting? Did you see anyone like that?"
No further explanation was necessary. The guards' jaws clenched, legs shook, eyes darted—expressions of raw terror. Yet despite the churning emotion, they remained silent.
Aslan looked at them and said,
"The longer we drag this out, the more the city will overflow with those monsters. It'll sustain damage it can never recover from. People will die, and then they'll have to wander as monsters. So I'll ask you."
When Aslan fell silent, only the sound of rubble being pounded in the corridor filled the space—a clamorous emptiness.
In that noisy quiet, Aslan looked around at the guards.
"Starting now, I'm going to break through the monster encirclement, find their source, and kill it. I don't know whether that will bring people back or not. I'm not even certain it will succeed. But if it does, we can stop the city from falling entirely into their hands."
But what if it fails? As the thought surfaced in the guards' minds, Aslan stepped forward. He stood at the center, Purity blazing in his hand.
"Those who join in this may be killed or injured. If we fail, everything is lost. Even if we succeed, there will be a cost. So I will not force anyone. I'll say only two things."
The guards' eyes, swirling with tangled emotions, turned to Aslan. Standing in their midst, he thrust Purity into the floor.
The pure-white sword sank into the stone as smoothly as piercing paper. A gentle warmth radiated from the blade.
That gentle warmth touched their faces, and their expressions hardened.
"You are the guards of Asan. You are the people who protect this city."
When the trembling in their pupils stopped, Aslan looked from face to face and added,
"And outside these walls, there is an enemy threatening your city."
Wounded, exhausted, terrified people. They looked at one another, and as their gazes crossed, they swallowed.
They had lived in this city.
The pleasure city of Asan.
A place the outside world saw as a breeding ground for crime.
But in truth, it was not so corrupted.
The reason was simple.
Because of them—the guards of Asan.
They had moved tirelessly for the city, judged those who strayed, and worked hard even as they earned nothing but scorn.
For the city.
Those with families, those with responsibilities, those with desires, and those simply swept up in the spirit of the moment.
Every last one of them, men and women, young and old, remembered their duty.
They were the guards of Asan.
Protecting the city was their duty.
And now, the city was in crisis.
Aslan watched them for a moment as they dwelled on that fact, then asked,
"What will you do?"
The question was softly spoken, but it pushed at them harder than anything else could. Without a word, the guards seized their weapons.
Aslan watched them in silence, then allowed himself a gentle smile.