The White Ash Battlefield: Day 4
It was dawn on the fourth day of the White Ash Battlefield. The wasteland before Nova's gates was split into two colors. The water closer to Nova was black and murky—a sluggish river mingled with blood, rot, and plague. Farther out, across the battlefield, blue and white waters stretched wide. A flood of holy water poured by the heavens. The two met at one point. But they didn't mix. Like a black river and a blue sea, they flowed side by side, separated by a thin boundary line. Along that boundary stood walls of corpses and mounds of plague. A rotting foundation. Walls that seemed ready to crumble at any moment. Demons atop them searched for footing once more. Here, we had to string together another day.
"The sound..."
In the command room, Navriel frowned, her hand on the map. From beyond Nova's ceiling, very far away, a faint song leaked in. The angels' hymn.
"The prayer line..."
A faint gold light flickered from Navriel's fingertips.
"It's changing form."
"They're not letting it pass today. They're rewriting it."
Nas quickly scanned the recon report.
"Front lines: plague density decreasing."
"The stench is fading."
I looked out beyond the gates. Over the blue sea of holy water, a white-glowing mist descended. That mist rode the water, drifting toward us.
The mist reached the boundary. At first, nothing seemed to happen. Then, one corpse mound quietly began to discolor. Layer upon layer of flesh and bone atop it lost their hue. The red of rotting meat, the black stains of plague, the brown of congealed blood—all slowly turned to a parched white crust.
"......Purification."
Someone on the wall muttered low.
Wherever the mist passed, septic flowers embedded in the corpse walls withered to gray powder and scattered. Rotting fat didn't melt and flow; it hardened like plaster. The piles of bodies turned not to flesh, but solid white lumps.
Atop one mound, a demon who'd held position since yesterday. The mist brushed his boots. The leather paled first. Then, from where it touched his skin, fine cracks spread. Scars visible through armor gaps—wounds, burns, hellish tattoos—faded first. Not healed. The moment the skin smoothed, the whole body began crumbling to powder.
"Ugh, ahh—"
A scream rose from his throat. The instant his mouth opened, white powder sprayed before blood. The mist had seeped into his lungs. He tried to speak, but his throat hollowed first. His body split from the waist down. No bone or flesh exposed. Just like limestone shattering, chunks broke off. His upper body slid down the corpse wall like slipping, then shattered to white fragments. No wind blew, yet what scattered was neither blood nor pus—but powder.
Far off, over the blue water, angels appeared. With each step, holy water welled like springs beneath their feet. As those springs flowed into the black river, the dark water lightened, plague bubbles vanishing. The purification vanguard.
"Frontline corpse walls, three sectors."
"Purification confirmed."
Nas's voice cut across the command room.
"Astamar's plague spores: most upper layers neutralized."
"Lower layers... still remain."
On the map, faint white marks overlaid several corpse wall flanks. I muttered low, staring.
"Leave the bottom, strip the top..."
"Clearing just the surface. Makes it easy to tread."
Navriel nodded.
"Tidying the exterior, paving a path."
I flipped another recon page. Behind the purification vanguard, angels hovered without descending. They didn't fight. They just looked down. Like counters tallying something. Not measuring the ground. Gauging our attrition rate. How many more holds until which wall empties first. Their gaze felt not on the frontline, but on our remaining numbers. How many more breaths we could take.
Atop the gates, Zan caught her breath. Red Breakage slowly seeped from her fingertips. Down the wall, across corpse walls and black river, her line extended.
"Zan."
I called from behind. She answered without turning.
"...Yes."
"Don't let that purification line reach Nova."
"I know."
Zan exhaled shortly.
"I'll cut it here."
Her hand thrust forward. The red line thickened. Below the wall, between Nova's front corpse wall and black water, red Breakage slashed horizontally. Midway to the incoming purification line, they clashed. White and red lines locked at the battlefield's center. The boundary thrummed. Black water splashed. Blue water surged back. Somewhere between, a colorless gray zone shaved thin.
Zan's shoulders trembled.
"You alright?"
"Just a bit..."
Zan breathed raggedly.
"Just a bit heavy."
Dark shadows bruised under her eyes. The arm holding Breakage shook. Muscles and joints bearing the battlefield's full weight. Still, she didn't lower her hand. The red line held firm against the purification mist, guarding Nova's front.
"Ah, really..."
Astamar yawned atop a corpse mound. At her feet, mist rose from the black river. Plague mist. Heavy, sticky fog laced with rotting flower spores and pus. It crawled toward the holy flood. Clashed with the purification mist over blue water. Holy water tried swallowing plague. Plague tried gnawing holy water's innards. Blue and black swirled in the fog. But neither fully cleansed nor fully fouled. An ambiguous hue. Murky gray.
"Places that should rot drying white."
Astamar glanced toward the hymn's source, lips curling.
"No manners."
She flicked her hand once. Black mist thickened, seeping deeper over blue water. Some purified sectors clouded again. Holy water's glow trembled, veined with plague patterns. Springs rising at the vanguard's feet faltered in spots.
"Still..."
Astamar murmured.
"These mingled spots? They rot the most spectacularly later."
Evening. Where the purification vanguard retreated, white scars remained. Corpse wall flanks, several sectors. What was flesh clung like shells, hollow chalk layers that would powder under a fingernail. Balrag tested a foot atop one, hearing the faint crumble. Even bearing weight, the ground didn't yield.
"...Empty."
He said low.
"Weight's gone."
Now his power wouldn't root here properly. Balrag ground his teeth. Someday, angels would tread these white scars. By then, this land would belong wholly to them.
Command room. Nas spread the map.
"Day four. No frontline shift by surface measure."
His finger tapped Nova's gates.
"Still this line."
His fingertip slid sideways. Corpse wall flanks, several sectors.
"Instead, three corpse wall sectors purified."
"Lower plague lingers somewhat... but the surface is mostly wiped clean."
Navriel added.
"Without Zan's Breakage and Astamar's plague, the purification line would've reached Nova's gates."
I nodded. Zan was probably still recovering atop the wall. Legs and arms trembling from the strain. Astamar grinned at the map.
"Holy water eats plague, plague fouls holy water in turn."
She said.
"After this round, far more spots ripe for rot."
I traced the white scars on the map with a finger. Not cleaned spaces—but our land erased. Spots angels would later tread casually, calling them their sanctuary. Today, we'd stacked more stairs beneath their feet.
The sound shifted again. The hymn deepened. The prayer line's shallow echo dropped lower, heavier, traversing the battlefield. Navriel's face hardened.
"......All of them. Now."
She said.
"Different from day one."
Above the sky, unseen lines converged. Gold dots on the map naturally formed a circle. Not over Nova—but higher in the firmament. Light shadows embedded along its rim. Ones with multiple wing pairs. Spear-bearers, hymn-chanters, purifiers, judges. All gazing down. Above their heads loomed one shadow. Light's core. Gabriel.
Navriel whispered low.
"Full army. Stand by."
Air pressure sank. The air itself grew heavy. Above, the light sharpened. Night over Nova hung quietly heavier. The fifth day approached.