Broken Prayer
"I'm heading to see Bell."
Raksha left those words behind and stood before the fortress gate. Nas spoke first.
"We'll hold the fort until you return, Raksha."
Raksha's gaze swept over El, Nas, Gart, and Morcan in turn. It paused briefly on the massive demon standing nearby with arms crossed by the gate. Charred black skin, arms fused like iron and bone melded together. Balrag, the high-rank demon once known as Hell's Iron-Blood Lord.
"You."
Raksha said curtly.
"If you can't hold here, your bones get pulled first."
Balrag let out a tiny snort.
"My bones are already embedded in this place this much."
He stamped the ground lightly with his toe. From beneath the stone came the faint creak of iron grinding.
"If it collapses here, I'll shatter first. Who'd let that happen?"
A moment later, another high-rank demon emerged from the shadow of a pillar. Wings like stacked black ledgers, quiet eyes. Navriel.
Raksha turned his head slightly toward her.
"Navriel."
"Yes."
"Record today's events properly."
"Your command is the contract."
Navriel bowed her head.
Finally, his eyes met mine, standing a bit farther back.
"You."
Raksha's voice dropped just a fraction.
"Just stay alive."
...Just stay alive? I couldn't grasp what he meant right then. Still, I bowed my head.
"...Yes."
Raksha turned away.
"The base."
Just before stepping out the gate, he added,
"Belongs to every bastard here."
He paused, then,
"In the end, it's El's."
"Got it."
El replied with a faint smile.
As Raksha vanished beyond the gate, the air inside the base cracked ever so slightly. No one was chattering deliberately, yet breaths, footsteps, clanging metal, and curses grew louder bit by bit. When the commander leaves, the survivors' breaths grow rougher, more honest.
"Jan."
El turned to me.
"Don't go wandering alone and collapse today."
"...Understood."
"It's good you're moving around," El rolled her shoulder once. "But if you collapse again, I'll have to heal twice as much."
Her words were light, but her red eyes quietly counted my steps. I looked down at my fingers. At the tips, a faint light flickered.
The fragments of light that had fallen to the treatment area's floor yesterday. Not like the beams rising to the heavens during prayer. Short, shattered remnants circling near me, unable to reach anywhere.
I repeated it slowly in my mind, not aloud.
My fingers stayed open, unclenched. Please save me, end it—I said nothing to anyone.
The base's morning began with the training field's clamor.
"Shield forward. Gart, lower it more!"
Nas's voice bounced off the stone floor. Gart thrust out his thick shield, and beside him, Morcan crouched low and lunged.
"Chest wide open."
Morcan's dagger grazed below the opponent's waist. As balance crumbled, Gart's shield slammed in.
Thud.
The stone floor rang once.
"Push once more from that angle, Gart."
Nas traced a line in the air with his finger.
"You hold, Morcan exploits the gap."
"You two keep hammering the same guy. Got it?"
"Got it."
Gart answered shortly. Blood beaded on his thick forearms, trickling down the shield.
"I hold, that mad bastard stabs."
"Mad bastard's a bit harsh."
Morcan laughed. Sinews bulged on his lean arms. Short horns swept back. Ash-gray eyes tracked only the teetering balances.
"I just move first when I see an opening."
Those eyes flicked toward me briefly.
"Done spectating?"
"...Yes."
I stood leaning against a stone railing at the training field's edge.
"Here, human or demon—doesn't matter."
Nas said.
"Hold on to survive, we train together. Try to leave, die outside."
His tone was flat, but beneath lay the battlefield's instinct. Save, discard, usable hands and flesh right now. I glanced up at the red sky.
'...No one dies because of my prayers anymore.'
The words circled my mouth instead of prayer. They reached nowhere. Just spun inside me.
The strange aura hit around noon. First, the air shifted. Not blood or ash, but like iron soaked in stagnant rot. An ambiguous decay, neither boiling nor fully putrid, riding the wind into the fortress.
Nas halted training.
"All stop."
Breaths cut off at once. Morcan muttered low.
"Rotten smell."
A lookout on the gate shouted.
"Fog!"
"Black fog rising outside!"
El was already at the window. Her red eyes scanned outward.
"...Plague stench."
El clenched and unclenched her hand.
"Who is it?"
At my question, Nas answered curtly.
"Astamar."
"High-rank who handles rot and plague."
Nas turned toward the gate.
"Our side's been quiet a while."
"Come to scavenge something."
From atop the wall, black fog rose outside. Like steam from forcibly boiled water, seeping slowly from the battlefield layer's ground. Not enough for a legion, but shadows moved within the fog. Minions with peeling flesh, beasts with moldy bones. At the center, a silhouette clutching something like a bouquet of decayed flowers.
The silhouette parted the fog.
"......Old scent."
Her voice was low, oddly pleased. Cracks spidered her gray skin. Black ooze seeped slowly from them. Bloodstains and stone at her feet swelled, rotting flesh clinging like living meat.
Her eyes—venom-green. Not bright green, but the toxic shade on leaf veins that dried the throat on sight. A gaze imagining rot first wherever it looked.
"Bell's territory dried up this much, huh."
She looked up at the wall.
"Scent's changed."
El leaned out further from the wall.
"Scram."
Her red eyes met Astamar head-on.
"Raksha's in charge now."
Astamar's lip curled slowly.
"Raksha...?"
She rolled the name on her tongue.
"A demon whose name I don't know crawled this far?"
"Polishing Bell's turf like his own home—like carving rotten bones into a bird shape."
"No fun breaking things for a while."
Black fog thickened at her feet.
"Mind if I scratch a little?"
Orders poured inside the fortress.
"Battle stations!"
Nas's voice cracked.
"Gart, front line! Shield up, block the entrance!"
"Morcan, flanks! No jumping down—when they trip, slice necks from the side!"
"Treatment area's under El's word first!"
El added curtly.
"Keep 'em alive till death's door."
"Real goners, drag inside."
"Got it?"
"—Yes!"
Demons' voices filled the fortress. In the corner, Balrag uncrossed his arms.
"Battle without Raksha."
His massive shoulders shook once.
"Not bad now and then."
The stone at his feet dipped slightly. An invisible weight spread inward.
"If Bell's turf falls, my name rots off before Raksha's."
His words were joking, but metal creaked from his clenched fist.
Nearby by the pillar, Navriel stood. Wings folded like black ledgers, she alternated glances outside and in, finger slowly scratching a thin slate.
"Recording."
Navriel murmured.
"Bell's turf, Raksha's rules, Astamar's plague."
"Who holds, who gets abandoned."
No fighting for her, but her eyes mirrored one rewriting a finished battle.
The fog reached the gate. It covered bloodstains, climbed shattered weapons, touched the wall. Wherever it touched, stone swelled slightly, surface rotting slowly.
"Plague fog!"
A lookout yelled.
"Don't breathe it in!"
Astamar laughed.
"Holding your breath won't stop the rot."
She shook her hand. Black light sparked from her fingertips.
Silhouettes burst from the fog. Bones blooming like mold over decayed flesh, rotting demons crawling with twisted limbs.
"Front line!"
With Nas's shout, Gart shoved his shield. Iron-and-bone shield jammed the gate. The first wave crashed against it.
Thud—!
Each impact swelled the shield's surface slightly. Astamar's plague seeping into metal, rotting from within.
"Hold!"
Nas yelled.
"Don't break, Morcan—pick off the fallers from the side!"
"Got it."
Morcan half-descended the wall stairs. Ash-gray eyes sought near-falls. A demon headbutting the shield, another off-balance in blood puddle. Gaps opened between.
Morcan slipped through. Dagger stabbed neck-joint gaps. Decayed flesh burst, black ooze spraying.
Balrag stepped to the gate.
"Move."
Stone sank with each step. He clenched a fist, slammed the ground below the gate.
Ku-thud!
Invisible weight spread across the field. Inside demons' stances unconsciously firmed. Muscles tensed more, weapons gripped tighter. Conversely, incoming demons' feet dragged heavier. Armor pressed down, weapons sagged.
"Get lost."
Balrag growled low.
"Won't pass easy, you rotted fucks."
Astamar tilted her head at him.
"Oh, Balrag."
"First time seeing you toil under some nameless demon."
"It's Bell's turf."
Balrag retorted.
"As long as the field holds, don't care who's above."
"Long as it doesn't rot."
El flexed her hands.
"Let's push harder today."
"...You okay?"
El grinned at me.
"Fine."
"Save it, end up using more later."
"Save who you can when you can."
She tilted her head.
"The ones I can't... Raksha can chew out with me."
Light words, but the glow gathering in her red palms was thicker than before. I guarded the treatment area's outer corridor entrance beside her. Never properly held a blade, but before these downed demons, I'd throw my body at any intruder first.
No prayers.
My fingers twitched faintly.
Instead of prayer, just guard this place.
Battle sounds drew closer. Falls, shields yielding. Demons' roars, squelching rotting flesh. Even the corridor end reeked of blood and plague.
A body dragged around the corner. Flesh sloughed from legs to waist. Not blood, but pus, gore, black fluid mixed.
El turned to the bed.
"Here!"
Red light seized the sloughing flesh.
"Wanna live?"
The demon's lips quivered faintly.
"......Yes."
"Then live."
As red energy bound flesh and bone, another presence rose from the corridor. Something thudded at the threshold. I gripped harder reflexively.
Blood pooled wide on the floor. Far off, someone leaned against the wall, barely holding.
Wounds not yet fatal. But his eyes stared at the end.
Want to live.
Unspoken, but too familiar. Battlefield, cathedral, ravine, pyre. Grasping hands, clutching hems, kneeling. Save me, end it—those who opened their mouths.
Fingers nearly clasped, then stopped. I kept them open. Chilled tips froze mid-air.
Through the gap, shattered light fragments leaked again. Short lines, broken shards—prayer forms severed midway.
"...Jan!"
El's voice.
"It's fine. Don't."
"No need for prayer here."
But other voices boomed louder in my head.
Pray.Beg.Your words clear the battlefield.
Celestial heights, railings, flames, bells. Scenes mashed together.
"......No."
The words slipped from my mouth.
"No more prayers. Ever."
Fingers clenched tight. Hundreds, thousands of repeated prayers shattered into shards, scattering across my palm. Vision flashed red.
Light leaked from my fingertips. Not beams from heaven, but light rising through hell's red ash. Shattered prayer fragments mixed with hell's murk, twisting into new shapes.
A rotting demon staggering from the front corridor collided with the light. Short scream. It didn't heal, enveloping him. Instead, save me, end it—all those words crushed into force shoved him back.
The demon flew out the corridor, slamming the wall, flesh bursting wider. Black ooze sprayed.
Light erupted elsewhere. Doorframe, ceiling, floor, stone cracks around me—short light lines flashed.
Prayer paths lost, stabbing randomly. Plague fog surging at corridor's end halted on contact. Some reversed, sucked back. Like screams turned to repulsion.
"...What is this."
El approached. Red eyes tracked the fragments.
"Jan, you..."
"I didn't pray."
I panted.
"No names, nothing."
I deliberately bit off God inside.
"It stopped on its own. My power."
Maybe that's why. Light didn't rise to heaven. Flickered short at shoulder height between hell's floor and air, then vanished. Yet plague fog pushing in had clearly thinned. Distance to treatment area just short now.
El chuckled shortly.
"Heh..."
"Prayer or not, who cares."
"Blocks the rot from us—that's enough."
I looked at my palm. Light remnants still drifted faintly between fingers.
Not prayer, not blessing. A shattered curse to anyone. Maybe fitting for hell.
Outside, battle raged on. But sounds shifted—the base's growing louder. Gart's shield holding, Morcan stabbing gaps, bones crunching under Balrag's weight.
Blood pools before the gate widened outward, not in.
Astamar laughed quietly below the wall.
"This much... they'll all die."
Her venom-green eyes swept inside.
"Something fun appeared."
Her gaze flicked briefly toward the treatment area.
"Saint who breaks prayers to use."
"Someday, wanna rot her up close."
Fog at her feet receded slightly. No further push.
"That's enough for today."
"Got Bell's turf scent plenty."
Astamar dropped the rotten bouquet to the field. Plague bloomed briefly where it hit, then dispersed in hell's wind.
When battle eased, I still stood at the treatment entrance. Light nearly gone from my hands. But my body knew remnants lingered unseen.
No prayers.
That resolve unchanged. Instead, where shattered prayer shards flew—that was mine to decide.
At prayer's end, something else was birthing. I stood atop the fissure.
Hell's sky stayed red, base held. And Raksha hadn't returned.