The Fog at the Threshold of Rotten Flowers
The moment several presences inside the fog at the entrance to the rotten flowers all turned their heads at once, Rak inhaled deeply first. The power he'd activated countless times in the training grounds. Now, deeper. Farther. Outwardly, nothing seemed different. His body hadn't grown larger, nor did his eyes flash. But.
At Rak's feet, the dust and fog between the cracked ground settled all at once—then were pushed outward again. The fog flinched as if suffocating, surging forward before clinging back immediately.
Rak stepped forward.
The first to charge was a half-remaining demon. One arm was rotting, impaled in a rock, while the other half was a mass of flesh steeped in plague fog. It spewed fog from its mouth and wounds, mimicking a charge. Not running, but dragged forward. Rak drew his dagger from his waist. The blade slashed forward once. A single line. In the path of the sword, the first demon's neck, the second's chest, the third's shoulder and arm—without order, they all twisted and fell away simultaneously.
It didn't end there. Fog and rotten blood split along the blade's trail. Several behind cracked deeply through their torsos before they could even approach. The moment Rak took another step, the cracks exploded. Red chunks and black fog erupted together. The scattered debris floated briefly like pollen, then fell like ashen rain.
Two crawling up from the side exploited the gap. Rak twisted his body. Left hand. Knee. Each struck a face and solar plexus.
—Boom!
A dull sound came with the sensation of bones bursting inward, traveling up his hand and leg. The fog shook from the impact, clearing the path momentarily. Rak didn't stop. He slashed low with the dagger. Knee. Thigh. Spine twisting sideways. The charging ones slid and collapsed in a line. Over them, two latecomers dove from above, aiming for his back. Rak spun half a turn. His wrist flicked short. The dagger traced a semicircle, and a red-and-black line appeared in the fog—then vanished.
The next instant, only ash and rotten flesh powder fell lightly, like snow.
El followed in their wake. El pouted.
"What am I even supposed to do with this?"
Where Rak had swept through, there was no "front" left. Halved necks, bisected torsos still twitching. Only the blind spots slightly off Rak's trajectory protruded here and there. El reversed her grip on the dagger. Slightly to the side and behind Rak's path. The blind zones. Her body slipped into each gap. Once, she emerged from behind Rak's shoulder, smashing upward into a still-open jaw. Bones clicked together, then the neck snapped back and caved in. Another time, she stepped on a half-buried back, cleanly separating head from torso.
El muttered in complaint.
"This is all the 'blind spots' you left for me?"
Her words grumbled, but her hands never tangled with Rak's trajectory once. Rak's dagger path and El's finishing strokes layered seamlessly, widening the road. As El stabbed the eyes of the last crawling one, she said,
"If we take this to a real battlefield, we should put the front-liners right here."
Zan realized a beat late how much her own hands were trembling, from a bit behind the two.
'......This is the battlefield Rak survived.'
The battlefield she'd prayed over from afar had been summarized data, a safe distance. But now.
The smell clawed at her skin, the sounds rattled her bones, the breath pressed her lungs. Every time Rak's foot hit the ground, the fog tore once. Every time El stitched those gaps, the path ahead lengthened a bit more. Zan raised her hand. Her role now.
'Nothing crosses this line.'
The phrase she'd drawn countless times inside the base. This time, a semicircle ahead, centered on the four. Red fragments rose from Zan's feet. Cracks in the floor, boundaries of corpses and rocks, holes spewing fog. Thin red light coated each fissure. Whenever plague fog tried to cross the line, its speed visibly slowed. The spread of decay, the rotting of flesh. Like crawling through mud, it clung sluggishly. Zan inhaled deeply. No prayer recited. No sensation of being pulled upward. Just the power pushing outward from where she stood. The feeling of holding it back.
'I block from behind.'
Zan repeated the sentence, engraving it into her bones.
Navriel scanned the battlefield quietly from a little farther back. Her eyes faced forward, but her ears and one corner of her mind listened upward. The sound of invisible threads brushing through the air. Prayer lines. Navriel said curtly,
"For now, the sensitivity is still low."
"Just a bit of commotion from below."
Rak didn't reply. He simply tore open another demon's chest. Navriel continued,
"But if we keep fighting at this pace, soon eyes from above will lock on."
El laughed.
"Then let's make it flashy while they're watching."
Navriel's voice lowered.
"It's not about looking cool."
"Hold out too long, and the prayer lines will elevate this zone to 'observation target.'"
Navriel took a breath and added,
"Then it won't just be a fight against Astamar."
"......It becomes a testing ground under heaven's direct gaze."
Only then did Rak speak shortly.
"Won't drag it out."
The dagger slashed once more.
Time lost count in the endless slashing and smashing. The presences charging from around slowly dwindled. At some point, no new ones rushed in. Even the ones just breathing stopped moving one by one. The plague fog rippled like an exhalation, then thinned slightly. Rak shook off his dagger and exhaled shortly. His breathing was a bit ragged, but his body still had margin.
El looked around.
"This is just the entrance?"
Shattered things. Rotting debris. Rocks melted only on the surface by brushing fog. El curled her lip.
"The real one's still to come."
Only then did Zan bend slightly at the waist, gasping. Red fragments settled slowly from her fingertips. Each exhale brought a stinging inside her chest. Like thin paper tearing bit by bit from within. El approached and tapped Zan's shoulder.
"Holding up better than expected."
Zan looked up, and El smirked.
"At this rate, you could stand behind the kids later and be pretty useful."
Grumbling tone, but the recognition mixed in was clear even to Zan. Zan bowed her head briefly.
"......I'll train to block wider."
El added lightly.
"Don't get greedy and collapse first."
The four moved forward again. The fog regained density bit by bit. A little farther on.
A line where the ground's color changed noticeably stretched ahead. Beyond that boundary, the dust's texture differed. This side: familiar hell of red ash and blood scent. That side: not ash, but dried rotten flesh powdered into an alien floor. Rak halted. Beyond the boundary, something carpeted the entire ground. Petals. Once flowers. Now colorless, brown-rotted, crumbling leaves. Mold sprouted between them, wilted grass and stems tangled. Rak stepped over one footprint. Beneath his foot, squelching wetness and rustling mixed in discordant sounds. The sensation wasn't "ground," but overturning a wet heap.
The air differed too. Inhaling once, sweetness, blood-iron, rotten flower scent—all stabbed into his throat. Gray sweetness pricked the tongue, dried blood scraped the nose. Over it, sticky rot clung. Zan furrowed her brow slightly.
'...Here, every breath feels like it tears off a little piece.'
Navriel said softly,
"This is Astamar's territory from here."
Movements appeared in the distance. Beyond fog and rotten petal carpet. First, black dots. Closer, shapes emerged. Bouquets. Held in hands, walking. Once bundled for blessings and comfort. Now petals fully rotted and crumbling, stems moldy, blood crusted in spots. The beings holding them. Tall, gaunt bodies. Coffin-shaped head ornaments. Demons with rotten flowers blooming at elbows and knees. Astamar's subordinates. Navriel pressed her lips and released.
"From here, we're entering the 'test site' too."
Rak inhaled once more. Taking the air's weight into his chest again. He said shortly,
"Good."
His hand gripped the dagger hilt at his waist once.
"Then let's be the ones tearing the test site apart."
El lifted her lip. Zan prepared to gather red fragments at her fingertips again. Navriel attuned her ears to the resonance of lines connecting above and below. Far off. Amid the rotten bouquets, from a slightly higher spot. Another silhouette slowly raised its head. Holding more flowers than the others, faint prayer-line-like patterns flickered around it. Astamar. Rak's gaze reached it. The air and fog between them quieted briefly, then rippled slowly again.
And the battlefield quietly unfurled another test site.