Muck squelched under each step.
Herpo slogged forward, his boots sinking ankle-deep in brackish, stinking water. Roots twisted beneath the surface like sleeping serpents, and every few paces a slick bubble of gas erupted beside him with a soft blorp. The moon was a half-thing above the swamp, casting weak, indifferent light across the gnarled silhouettes of skeletal trees.
A soft glow pulsed from the center of Herpo's left palm a flickering sphere of dark green flame that hissed softly as it floated just above his skin. It lit the reeds and fog ahead of him in sickly hues, giving everything a faint, unnatural gleam.
He muttered as he went.
"Find the energy source, he says…" Herpo swatted at something buzzing near his ear. "Only you can do it, he says…"
His voice pitched up mockingly. "'Your expertise in corrupted ley lines is unparalleled, Herpo.'"
He stepped into a deeper section, grumbling as the water surged over the tops of his boots. "Bastard just didn't want to come himself. Knew exactly what was here."
A long, rattling exhale escaped him, half laugh, half sigh. "Of course he did."
The swamp grew thicker ahead, the trees pulling close like crooked sentinels. Herpo pushed past a curtain of moss, and suddenly the canopy above broke open.
He emerged into a small alcove, a natural clearing where the trees bent outward in reverence or fear. At the center, half-submerged in black water, a stone jutted upward like a broken tooth. It pulsed with a slow, steady glow: dull red at the edges, white-hot at the core.
Ley magic. Corrupted. Old.
Herpo paused at the edge of the clearing, the light in his palm dimming slightly as he stared at it.
"Well," he muttered. "Let's get on with it, then."
The surface of the water rippled.
Then it churned.
All around the alcove, the stagnant bog erupted in motion as dozens of small, misshapen creatures slithered up from beneath the sludge. Mottled green skin hung loosely from their bones, and their eyes glowed with fungal yellow light. They had claws too long for their limbs, and teeth that looked better suited for grinding rot than biting flesh.
They hissed and chattered, dozens of them encircling the stone—and him.
Herpo grinned.
There was no fear in it.
"You little shits picked the wrong wizard."
His flesh began to twist.
Bones cracked, expanding with hideous fluidity as his body elongated. Skin hardened into pale, scaled armor, and his mouth tore open into a maw that split the world with silence.
One blink and both his eyes burned gold.
The basilisk unfurled.
Where once stood Herpo, now coiled a massive, fanged serpent, larger than any natural creature could be, its head rising slowly above the ring of swamp monsters. Its breath steamed in the cold air, and its tongue flicked once, tasting the fear.
The creatures hesitated.
Too late.
With a single, monstrous lunge, Herpo struck.
***
The shields rippled as another barrage struck them, light flaring against the protective dome in jagged sheets of white and gold.
Morpheus stood motionless on one of the stone balconies that jutted out from the shrine's highest tower, his cloak whipping gently in the mountain wind. His eyes followed the trails of the attacks, burning lances of angelic and demonic magic arcing down from the ridge beyond.
He didn't flinch.
Below him, the wizards answered.
Cries of command echoed through the valley as transfiguration teams moved in seamless rhythm. Stone became iron-tipped spears, and spears became missiles in midair, hurtling back across the snowy sky with concussive force.
A few struck.
Most did not.
Their enemies had already begun to retreat, just as they had during every strike this past week quick, precise, frustrating. Probing. Never overcommitting. Never staying long enough for a counteroffensive to properly land.
Morpheus's fingers flexed at his side, and the faintest glimmer of dark energy coiled along his wrist like smoke curling in reverse.
"Too coordinated," he muttered to himself. "Too patient for demons. And even angels don't normally strike and vanish like this, they fancy themselves as flies now it seems."
Down below, squad leaders barked orders. Defensive enchantments re-stabilized with a pulse, reweaving where the shield had wavered. A runner sprinted up toward the tower to report Morpheus waved him away without turning.
His gaze stayed fixed on the far ridge.
"They're waiting for something," he said softly. "Or someone."
A gust of wind swept over the shrine.
Then mountain winds howled as the last shimmer of hostile magic faded into the clouds. For a moment, the shrine was quiet again if only on the surface.
Footsteps echoed up the stone stairway behind him, light but assured.
Kazuki stepped onto the balcony, his long dark coat dusted with snow, his hands tucked calmly behind his back as he joined Morpheus at the ledge. He looked out across the valley, his sharp eyes scanning the horizon.
"So," he said dryly, "is that the fifth barrage since we attacked them?"
Morpheus nodded slowly, eyes still fixed on the ridgeline. "They've become rather insistent on annoying us, haven't they?"
Kazuki chuckled, his breath curling in the cold air. "Yes, yes, they have, haven't they?" He tilted his head slightly. "Do you have a plan to respond?"
Morpheus exhaled quietly, his expression unreadable. "Not yet. I'm more worried about what happens when they finally stop testing us and actually decide to attack in full."
He turned to Kazuki. "What are your thoughts?"
Kazuki didn't answer right away. His gaze lingered on the broken trees at the edge of the blast radius, on the squad of wizards below inspecting the wards for stress fractures. Then he gave a thoughtful hum.
"I think we should remind them that we're not here to be toyed with," he said. "We already launched one strike. Why not another? Show them we're not weak. Let them know we're watching just as much as they are."
Morpheus tilted his head slightly, considering.
"It could work," he admitted. "But it has to be something different this time. They're expecting a response now—waiting for it. If we repeat ourselves, they'll be ready."
He shrugged faintly. "We need a different way in. Something unexpected."
Kazuki grinned. "Unexpected is always more fun."
Morpheus gave a quiet laugh under his breath. "Then let's give them something to think about."
They turned back into the room behind them a massive central a three-dimensional map of the valley alit with magic.
Tiny golden threads marked ward boundaries. Glowing red and white marks blinked intermittently at various points along the shrine's perimeter, locations of recent attacks.
Morpheus stood at the far edge of the table, arms folded, his expression unreadable but attentive. Beside him, Kazuki leaned in over the glowing projection, fingers moving swiftly to cycle through the last five days' worth of strike data. The other regional leaders were already assembled—diverse in background, demeanor, and dress. Some wore heavy cloaks embroidered with clan sigils. Others donned practical field armor. One woman wore no shoes at all.
Kazuki tapped the map, expanding the radius of one blinking red mark on the western quadrant.
"That's the fourth strike on this ridge in six days," he said. "All of them lasted less than three minutes."
"Same spot," grunted Commander Tenko, a grizzled Korean witch whose deep-set eyes hadn't blinked in minutes. "Exactly same? Or just close?"
"Within twenty meters," Kazuki replied. "Close enough."
"It's not just there," added another. "Look at the southern bend—under the second ravine shelf. They've hit that twice, and both times they used blinding light first."
"They don't know we're mapping this in detail," said a tall man from Bhutan, his hands clasped behind his back. "They're trying to be unpredictable. But they're creatures of instinct. Even if they think they're being random… they're still making choices."
Morpheus nodded. "And choices mean patterns. Even subconscious ones."
Another leader, a younger wizard from the Philippines named Arlo, leaned forward and pointed. "Then we should exploit that. These ridgelines—here and here," he gestured, "they're the two most frequently hit. If they come again, they'll assume we're still on the defensive."
Kazuki glanced up. "Trap them?"
Arlo nodded. "Yes. Set magical snares along the most struck edges. Curse anchors beneath the surface. Wards that detonate only when triggered by divine or demonic signatures."
A murmuring of agreement circled the room.
"We could also feign a shield collapse," offered Tenko. "Make it look like the western edge is faltering maybe even drop the outermost layer for a few seconds. Make them greedy. Get them to come closer."
"Lure them in," said Kazuki, eyes narrowing in approval. "Draw them just past the tree line."
"And when they step into the killing zone," Arlo added, "we barrage them. Hit hard. Fast. Transfigured spears, cursed glyphs, maybe even lightning nets."
"I can arrange a thunderstorm if we want to go loud," another witch offered with a wry smile.
Kazuki looked to Morpheus. "Thoughts?"
Morpheus tilted his head as the map zoomed in around the points of interest. His gaze moved from the attack markers to the wards, then to the topography beneath them.
"It has merit," he said slowly. "But we must be subtle with it. If the trap is too obvious, they'll sense it. They've pulled back every time we've even begun a response. They're disciplined."
He circled a section of the map with two fingers. "Here. Set the feint. But the true snares should be farther in, where they'll already think they're safe."
The room fell quiet for a beat.
Then Kazuki smiled.
"Then let's prepare our stage."
Morpheus gave the faintest of nods. "And give them a show they won't forget."