The monster's tendrils slackened, their writhing slowing as though something deep inside them had grown bored with torment. One by one, they slithered back into the cracked earth, retreating into the abyssal darkness from which they had erupted. The creature itself melted into the shadows, its form dissolving like ink in water, leaving no trace of its grotesque presence.
The silence that followed pressed against the survivors' ears, heavy and suffocating, as if the world held its breath.
Shun's massive draconic body swayed, scales glinting dully under darkness illuminated by runes. Then, with a sound like a mountain collapsing, he fell. His silver wings, vast as storm clouds, folded lifelessly, their membranes torn and glistening with blood that pooled in the dirt. Dust surged across the battlefield, coating the survivors in a pale shroud that clung to their skin like a second death.
Torren's heart clenched, a sharp, visceral pain. He sprinted toward Shun, leaping over craters gouged into the earth and past weapons abandoned in the chaos. He had fought beside Shun for years, seen him endure wounds that would shatter mortal men, seen him face horrors that clawed at the mind and emerge with fire in his eyes. Shun had broken impossible odds with nothing but willpower and steel, his presence a beacon in the wasteland of war.
But never had Torren seen him fall like this.
He dropped to his knees beside the wyvern's head, claws the size of shields lying limp in the blood-soaked dirt. "Shun!" His voice cracked, raw and desperate. For the first time, the man who had stared into the maw of nightmares without flinching felt fear coil around his heart, cold and unyielding.
In Torren's eyes, Shun was more than a commander. He was the flame that burned in the endless cold, the voice in the dark that promised survival against all odds. Torren had followed him across desolate wastelands where hope had withered to dust, through battles where the earth drank rivers of blood. Not for orders. Not for duty. Because Shun led with a heart that refused to break.
Now, that heart seemed to falter, and Torren felt his own chest splinter under the weight.
Behind him, Lira staggered forward, her steps unsteady on the uneven ground. The Jian, its blade buried deep in Shun's draconic skull, glinted faintly in the dying light, its edge slick with blood. Her legs buckled, and she collapsed to her knees, hands pressed over her mouth to stifle a sob. Her voice broke into a whisper, fragile as glass. "Suicide?"
The word struck the survivors like a blade to the gut, sharp and cold.
Habari lowered his battered shield, his face pale, eyes hollowed by exhaustion. His voice, though steady, carried a tremor of disbelief. "No. Look."
He pointed upward, where the golden barrier still shimmered around them, a radiant dome that held back the encroaching darkness. Even with the sword embedded in his skull, even unconscious or worse, Shun's will refused to let it fall.
Lira's eyes blurred with tears. She turned away, unable to bear the sight of Shun's broken form, the weight of his sacrifice crushing her. The man who had carried them through hell had chosen pain over surrender, agony over the madness that threatened to consume them all.
The Black Tower loomed in the distance, its jagged spire piercing the sky like a wound. Its presence pulsed, a low thrum that vibrated in the survivors' bones, whispering promises of despair. The air grew thick, heavy with the stench of decay and something older, something that clawed at the edges of their minds. Shadows writhed at the corners of their vision, forming shapes that were not there, faces that screamed without sound.
Torren's breath hitched as he pressed a hand to Shun's scales, still warm but unnaturally still. The battlefield around them seemed to shift, the ground rippling as if alive. From the cracks in the earth, faint whispers rose, not in words but in sensations, fear, hunger, and endless longing. The Black Tower's influence seeped into their thoughts, planting images of loved ones twisted into monstrosities, their eyes hollow, their mouths stretched into unnatural grins.
Lira clutched her head, her fingers digging into her scalp as the whispers grew louder, a cacophony of voices that were not her own. She saw her brother, long dead, his face half-eaten by shadow, reaching for her with hands that dripped black ichor. She screamed, the sound swallowed by the oppressive silence, and fell to her knees again, clawing at the dirt as if she could dig herself free from the visions.
Habari stood firm, though his shield trembled in his grip. His eyes darted to the horizon, where the tower's silhouette seemed to pulse, its edges blurring as if it were breathing. The air grew colder, the light dimmer, and the golden barrier flickered, its glow weakening under the tower's relentless hunger. He saw his daughter, her small form standing at the edge of the battlefield, but her face was wrong, her eyes too large, her smile too wide, splitting her face into something inhuman.
"Stay focused," Habari growled, his voice cutting through the haze. "It's the tower. It's trying to break us."
Torren barely heard him. His gaze was locked on Shun, whose massive form seemed to shrink under the weight of the tower's malice. The whispers in his mind grew sharper, showing him Shun standing, but not as the commander he knew. In the vision, Shun's eyes were voids, his mouth a jagged tear that laughed without sound, his hands dripping with blood that was not his own. Torren shook his head, forcing the image away, but it lingered, clawing at the edges of his sanity.
Somewhere deep within the haze of blood loss and exhaustion, Shun drifted, suspended in a void where the tower's influence was strongest. The darkness around him pulsed, alive with malevolent intent. Faces formed in the shadows, their features melting and reforming, each one a mockery of someone he had loved. His mother, her eyes sewn shut, reached for him with hands that crumbled to ash. His brother, his throat torn open, whispered his name in a voice that echoed with pain.
And then, beyond the darkness, he saw her.
His wife. Standing in a field of wildflowers untouched by the tower's corruption. The sun bathed her in warmth, and the breeze carried the scent of spring, clean and pure. In her arms, she held a child swaddled in white cloth, the baby's small hand reaching toward him, curling and uncurling in the air. The sight pierced him, deeper than any blade, a reminder of the life he had fought for, the future he refused to let the tower consume.
Her smile was real, not the warped horror the madness had conjured before, but the one he remembered, bright enough to burn away the shadows. The vision anchored him, pulling him back from the edge of oblivion. I can't stop here, he thought, his will igniting like a spark in the dark.
The ground trembled as his draconic body began to shift, the transformation slow and painful. Scales folded inward, merging into skin pale as moonlight. Wings withdrew, their torn membranes shrinking into nothingness. His long tail coiled inward, claws retracting into hands, and his neck shortened, horns curving elegantly as they settled into the crown of his silver hair, now matted with blood.
When the transformation ended, he lay there as a man once more, a figure of haunting beauty, his curved horns blending into his hair, his chest rising faintly with shallow breaths. The Jian fell to the ground, its blade slick with blood, clattering against the stone.
His eyes remained closed, his body unmoving, lost to unconsciousness.
ㄴYou have failed the Act.ㄱ