Random Soldier POV:
Finally, a real mission. A chance to fight alongside a Lance.
Pride swelled in my chest, drumming against my ribs like a war song. I ran a hand through my wavy golden hair, smoothing it back before adjusting the straps of my armor. Today, Lance Varay would lead the operation to save the expedition team, and I would be a part of it.
My gaze flickered to the wounded soldier beside me—Arjan, as he had introduced himself. His fists clenched tight, knuckles white beneath the dried blood coating his hands. His uniform was torn and stained crimson, gashes littering his arms and torso, but he refused further medical attention.
Fifteen minutes ago, he had stumbled back to base with a chilling report.
A dungeon. A teleportation gate. An Alacryan foothold on our soil.
The expedition team had been discovered before they could relay their findings. In the chaos, they had sent him—just one man—out to call for backup while the rest stayed behind to hold their ground.
The likelihood of them still being alive?
Five percent, at best.
I exhaled, watching Arjan from the corner of my eye. Dark-skinned with piercing yellow eyes, he held himself with a rigid tension, his body trembling ever so slightly. Was it fear? Or was it the unbearable weight of knowing his comrades might already be dead?
A sudden thud pulled me from my thoughts.
"They're here!" someone called.
I turned just in time to see the approaching squad. Lance Varay's team.
She led them at the front, a vision of calm authority. Her long, silvery-white hair cascaded down her back, a stark contrast to her cold, unreadable expression. Even with her face void of emotion, she was breathtaking—a true warrior.
Don't think about that. You are a soldier.
I forced myself to look away as she approached Arjan. No questions. No hesitation. Just a single glance at the report before she turned on her heel.
"Move out."
I fell in line with the rest, my thoughts racing as we pressed forward.
But no matter how hard I tried to focus, one thing gnawed at me—Arjan's grip on that first aid box.
Why was he carrying it so tightly?
.
.
.
.
We reached the dungeon in just twenty minutes.
The chances of the expedition team still being alive? One percent.
Tension clung to us like a thick fog, suffocating and silent. No one spoke, no one dared to. The rhythmic march of boots against dirt was the only sound accompanying us, each step laced with a growing sense of unease.
Lance Varay led the way, her white hair barely shifting in the wind, her pace steady and unwavering. She was composed as always, but even she couldn't ignore the suffocating weight of uncertainty pressing down on us.
Finally, we arrived at a narrow passageway carved into the rocky terrain. The air was heavy with the scent of damp stone and something else—something metallic and bitter.
"Is this the place?" Varay asked.
Arjan nodded. Just a nod. No words.
Such a fool.
His team had likely perished, yet he gave nothing—no desperation, no sorrow, no plea for haste. Instead, he clung to that damn first aid box like it was the last tether to his sanity.
Pathetic.
At least pretend to care about their fate. At least try to ingratiate yourself with the Lance—you might find yourself in a better situation than the one you crawled out of.
Without another word, Varay stepped forward. The entrance swallowed her in an instant, her figure vanishing into the dimly lit corridor beyond.
And then, one by one, we followed.
.
.
.
.
The first thing that hit me as I stepped into the cavernous hall was the overwhelming stench of burning flesh. It clung to my lungs, thick and acrid, forcing bile to rise in my throat. The air was dense with smoke, curling from the scattered flames licking hungrily at the bodies strewn across the blood-soaked floor.
The scene before me was nothing short of a massacre.
Corpses, some barely recognizable as human, lay twisted and broken, their faces frozen in silent screams. Blood pooled in thick, glistening puddles, darkening the stone floor. Entrails spilled like ruptured sacks of meat, steaming in the cold air. Severed limbs lay discarded, fingers still twitching in the throes of death. Some bodies were pinned against the jagged walls, spears of ice and stone impaling them like grotesque trophies. Others had been bisected cleanly, their halves separated by feet of smeared viscera.
And yet, among the slaughter, there were some still alive.
They lay among the dead, their weapons lodged into the black-armored soldiers around them, breaths coming in ragged gasps. Some of them were missing limbs, their wounds so grievous that survival was an impossibility. Their eyes, wide and glassy, darted to us as if pleading for salvation that would never come.
I swallowed hard, my fingers tightening around my weapon. My instincts screamed at me to run, to turn away from this waking nightmare, but I forced my legs forward, following behind Lance Varay. We had to understand what happened here.
And then I saw it.
A lone figure sat atop a mountain of corpses, a throne of mutilated flesh. The bodies beneath him were still bleeding, still twitching, their fluids seeping down the sides of the grotesque mound.
Ribbons of blood curled from his fingertips, the silver armor painted red clung to his frame like a second skin. His broken helmet couldnt hold, His hair which were slick with crimson blood, strands sticking to his forehead. He held a severed head in one hand, its face twisted in an expression of terror, mouth open in a silent scream. Slowly, he raised it, examining it as if it were some kind of morbid prize.
My breath hitched. My body went cold.
"Took you long enough," he murmured, voice hoarse yet laced with amusement.
The air around us seemed to still as he finally acknowledged our presence. His lips curled into a slow, sickening smile, a glimmer of madness dancing in his dull, bloodshot eyes. His gaze locked onto mine, and a shiver ran down my spine.
Was he a Scythe? A Retainer?
I didn't know. And at that moment, I didn't care.
Varay stepped forward, her blade humming with chilling energy. The others readied their weapons, tension thick in the air. My own hands clenched tightly around my rapier, my heartbeat hammering in my ears.
"Took you long enough," he murmured, his voice hoarse yet laced with amusement. We all tensed, our weapons raised in silent defiance, prepared for whatever abomination had emerged from overseas.
Before any further action could be taken, Arjan—his face streaked with tears and desperation—burst into the hall, clutching his battered first aid box. With a guttural cry of "BOSS!!" that echoed off the stone walls, he sprinted toward the figure, his eyes pleading and full of anguish.
In that moment, as Arjan's desperate shout reverberated through the chamber, the unthinkable happened: from the blood-soaked floor, about eight of the already-mangled bodies began to twitch. Their limbs jerked in unnatural spasms, as if animated by a force beyond death. And then, emerging from the periphery of my vision, two figures appeared.
To the left of the central figure—a hulking mass of chaos—stood a giant of a man. His massive form was accentuated by a spear planted near his stomach, and in his other hand, an axe was impaled deep into the skull of a black-armored soldier. His laughter was a low, feral rumble that seemed to merge with the echoes of carnage around him.
On the right, a shorter, equally grotesque figure came into view. His body was marred by three cruelly embedded spears: one protruding from his shoulder, another from his leg, and a third serving as a macabre accessory. In one hand, he clutched a severed head—crushed and contorted beyond recognition—as though it were nothing more than a discarded toy. His laughter, high and unhinged, cut through the heavy air.
My mind reeled. This was no ordinary battlefield massacre. My heart pounded like a war drum, each beat a call to arms, a surge of raw determination amid the overwhelming horror.
I could feel the heat of the flames licking the edges of dismembered limbs, the metallic tang of blood and burning flesh searing my nostrils.
Then came the maddening moment of clarity—Arjan's cry had roused these abominations. The two figures, those grotesque, began laughing in unison.
My grip on my weapon tightened, knuckles whitening as I struggled to contain the storm of emotions within me.
And then the seated figure—the one who had spoken first—collapsed back onto his throne of corpses, limbs sprawled out as if he were merely resting. Blood soaked every inch of his tattered clothes, his pale hair darkened with grime, his metallic arm glinting dully under the flickering torchlight. His grip on the severed head still tight.
This wasn't possible.
No one should have survived this.
No one should have been able to stand, let alone laugh, after enduring such carnage.
I swallowed hard, my fingers tightening around the hilt of my rapier.
Just what kind of monsters were these men?
.
.
.
.
.
.
.
.
.
...
Powerstonessss!!!
Patreon link:-
patreon.com/RoyanTheGreat
Discord link:-
https://discord.gg/vgDzJEjH
Be sure to comment it Motivates me most of the time.