Departure of the Four
Five days after the plague fog from the four directions had receded, in the evening. Rak stood by the window of the command room, pieced together from part of the surviving tower, gazing down below. For the past four, now five days, the base had moved according to plan—not toward reconstruction, but something closer to repositioning.
The section of the wall under Balrag's command had grown noticeably heavier. From deep beneath the ground under the wall, a sensation spread with every breath the earth took—a slow sinking. At first, even the soldiers struggled just to lift their heels. But after two days, they learned not how to bear the weight, but how to drive themselves into it. As Balrag swept his gaze along the front line, he said,
"You lot hold here."
The demons heaved rough breaths, but at his words—like a mark drawn in the dirt—they planted their legs even deeper into the ground.
In the middle section, El screamed herself hoarse every day.
"There. Don't lift your head first."
Behind the line holding with shields, El rolled the soldiers herself. Not pulling them back from the brink of death with recovery, but plotting paths so they never reached it in the first place. Where to pull a foot back to survive, how far to throw your body so the guy next to you lives. She forced into their arms, legs, and pounding heartbeats everything she'd learned fighting Rak.
"One more step here, and I can't save you. Then you die, and the guy next to you goes down too."
Her tone bordered on cursing, but the soldiers felt their positions sharpen into focus.
At the base's center, where the treatment area met the warehouse. Zan practiced there, widening the line of her power's reach. First half the training ground. Then the entire treatment area. Now even partway inside the walls. No clasped hands, no recited prayers. She inhaled, repeating one sentence in her mind.
Nothing crosses beyond this line.
Then red fragments rose from her fingertips and the ground beneath her feet. Red light slowly swept through cracks in pillars still holding plague remnants, dark crevices in passage corners. The rotting stench that stung the nose grew just a fraction less acrid. On the second day, one demon in charge of treatment murmured softly,
"Up to here... it's fine. Easier to breathe."
Zan exhaled quietly. Not a sensation of being pulled upward from above her head, but something pushing outward from where she stood. Not lifting... blocking. She repeated it to herself, etching it into her body.
Rak overlaid it all onto lines on the map and the battlefield image in his head. Not a base holding a wall, but one reshaping the field. Now all that remained was choosing the "hand" to send outward.
A knock came from the door.
"Come in."
The door opened, and El, Navriel, and Zan entered. Balrag was already standing in the corner, Nas by the map holding notes. El shook out her arms once.
"Everyone here?"
Rak swept his gaze over them and nodded.
"Just the ones heading out tomorrow."
Rak continued. "Me, El, Zan, Navriel. The four of us head for Astamar."
Balrag asked, "When do we depart?"
"Tomorrow. Before the fog remnants fully settle."
Navriel stepped forward.
"First, we settle the route."
Navriel approached the map and pointed to the red zone marked Astamar.
"Three main paths to Astamar."
"First. Fastest. Cut north from Bell's sector, two turns, and you're there."
"But the plague fog lingers thickest, and prayer lines are tightest woven."
El raised an eyebrow.
"Plenty of eyes watching from above there, then."
"Yes."
Navriel moved her finger.
"Second. Big loop east, following a thinner fog band."
"Longer distance, but looser prayer lines. Surveillance lags."
"Third is middle. Fog and lines at 'average' density."
"Safest bet... but most visible."
Rak asked without lifting his eyes from the map.
"Loosest prayer lines is the second, right?"
"Yes. Though from Astamar's view, it's a path that screams 'hand-delivered intruder'."
El grinned.
"We're going to them anyway."
Rak let out a short chuckle.
"Yeah."
Rak placed his finger on the second path.
"We take the detour. We're sneaking in, not marching to die as lab rats."
Navriel nodded.
"Then I'll track prayer line shifts along this route."
Rak lifted his hand from the map.
"Roles, one more time."
His gaze lingered on Zan.
"Zan."
She straightened.
"Astamar sector's baseline is plague fog."
"Anything pushing our way—plague, prayers, curses—slow it with your hands. Push back if you can."
Zan drew even breaths.
"......Yes."
Rak added, "This time, whether we live to return hinges on the line you draw."
Zan bowed her head.
"I'll keep it in mind."
Rak's gaze shifted to El.
"El."
"Yeah."
"I open the front, you cover flanks and rear."
"Keep us going as long as possible."
El's lips curved up.
"Leave it to me."
Rak replied curtly.
"And if I break, grab me first."
El just nodded, silently. That brief motion compressed years of unspoken words.
Rak looked last to Navriel.
"Navriel."
"Yes."
"You read the prayer lines. Up to heaven, down to hell. Both."
"If anyone above ramps surveillance, warn us ASAP."
"I'll report any fluctuations or resolve shifts as fast as possible."
Those staying to defend. Rak turned to Nas by the map.
"Nas."
"Yes."
"While we're out, base combat assignments are yours."
Nas steadied her breath.
"Outer perimeter: Balrag and mid-tier fighters to delay wall collapse as long as possible."
"Inner: Front-line shields El trained, fallback to treatment area."
Rak nodded.
"The base isn't for holding. It's for surviving to strike back. Don't forget that."
"I'll keep it in mind."
Balrag rumbled low.
"Outer's mine."
"I'll pile more weight under the wall. Legs snap, chests rip—anything climbing over will have burned every ounce of strength."
Rak's lip twitched faintly upward.
"That'll leave some fun chasing down the runners when we get back."
Balrag nodded in reply. That quiet dip felt like the stones under the wall sinking once more.
The meeting ended, demons filing out one by one. El grabbed Nas on the way.
"C'mon. One more check on the kids' moves before tomorrow."
Balrag headed for the walls, Navriel double-checked the map before saying,
"See you at the gate tomorrow morning."
Zan bowed last.
"I'll drill the inner line more tonight."
Rak said curtly,
"Just etch what you're doing now into your body. Prayers are cut—now it's just your lines."
Zan nodded quietly.
Alone in the command room, Rak entered the small inner chamber. Among battered weapons leaned against the wall, his hand familiarly picked one. A single dagger. The weapon he'd gripped for nearly a decade since first standing properly after falling to hell. No frills, blade scarred from honing and etched with indelible nicks. Still, whenever he'd first endured, this dagger was always in his hand. The moment he grasped it, the weight felt precisely right. Rak raised the dagger. It had been his constant on every battlefield, but lately he'd fought more with fists and body. The unremarkable blade caught the red sky in a thin gleam.
"Survive."
He murmured words for no one, sheathing the dagger at his waist. The motion was familiar, natural. Like slipping back a decade.
The next day. Hell's sky was red as ever, but the base air tangled with tension unlike before. Near the gate, off-duty demons gathered at a distance, watching. Rak, El, Zan, Navriel. Four. A small expedition. Balrag overlooked from the wall top, Nas passed final word by the gate.
"We'll hold the base while you're gone, Rak."
Rak replied shortly.
"Walls to Balrag. Inside, trust El's front-liners."
Nas smiled faintly.
"They've been dying out there since two days ago. Won't break easy."
El cut in from behind.
"Told 'em if they do, I'll kill 'em myself when I get back."
A few front-liners laughed awkwardly. Tension and anticipation mixed in it. Zan glanced briefly at the red-black wasteland beyond the gate. Not a battlefield viewed from prayer above, but one to tread on foot. Rak said,
"Let's go."
The four shadows stretched long through red dust and ash.
The farther from base, the terrain shifted. At first, like battlefield ruins. Shattered wall chunks, charred corpse piles. Rocks melted only on surfaces by brushing plague fog. Farther, the line between rock and flesh blurred. Things once demons tangled with stone, formless, stuck to the ground. Some, trunks only, couldn't even breathe, exhaling fog from mouths and wounds. Navriel slowed.
"Prayer lines tighten from here."
She stared into empty air. As if alone hearing invisible lines scrape through it.
"Eyes from above sharpen. Every move gets recorded now."
El sniffed.
"Gotta walk cool, then."
Rak eyed ahead.
"Any more detours?"
"Yes."
Navriel said, "One more east bend loosens the lines. But plague fog lingers longer."
Rak nodded.
"Better lagged surveillance. Can't hide what we're doing anyway."
He veered east. Zan spoke from beside.
"...I'll blur what we leave behind."
Rak gave only a glance. Zan raised her hand. Red fragments bloomed between fingers. This time, not forward, but quietly backward. Over their path. Red light settled thin over footprints and faint plague scent. Loosening presence, fading traces. Navriel narrowed her eyes.
"Prayer resonance warps a bit."
"Like someone tugs the line, but the tip dulls..."
El laughed.
"Like swapping the prayer script."
Rak walked on ahead, wordless.
How much farther? A point where ground color shifted sharply appeared. Dust density differed across the boundary. This side: hell of red ash and blood reek. That: ash turned to dried, powdered rotting flesh. Fog rose from ground cracks. Not falling from above, but seeping from below. Navriel said,
"Astamar's 'test site' starts here."
El curled her lip.
"Stinks worse already."
Rak halted at the line. Plague fog seeped quietly from splits right at his toes.
"We go in."
That instant, presences inside the fog turned toward them all at once. The stubborn breath-stink of things neither dead nor alive seeped slowly through fog gaps toward them.