Amara's spirit-like form stopped beside the woman survivor. The woman's calm voice cut through the chaos, sharp and steady. With every command she gave, the two warriors moved in sync, their blades rising and falling as if her words pulled them like strings. Amara's eyes widened. She isn't fighting herself… she's guiding them. Every strike, every step, it's all because of her.
Then Amara finally looked at their enemy—
The monster.
It was huge, taller than a house, its body a twisted mix of muscle and tree bark. In its hands it held a massive log, swinging it like a weapon. But this was no wild beast. Its movements were clean, precise, like a martial expert who had trained for years. Every attack was aimed to kill, every swing forcing the warriors to dodge by a hair's breadth.
The two men fought back with everything they had. Their sword and spear glowed faint green each time they struck, cutting deep into the monster's hide. Thick black liquid spilled out, burning like poison. But before hope could rise, the wounds sealed themselves—bark-like flesh growing back in seconds.
Amara shivered. This thing can't be stopped… it heals as fast as it bleeds.
She could feel the woman's fear through her strange sight. The warriors were getting tired. Their strikes grew weaker, their movements less sharp.
And then disaster hit.
The monster's log slammed into the swordsman. He raised his blade with both hands to block, but the force threw him into a stone wall. His hand split open, blood spraying—only to vanish at once, eaten by the black miasma around them.
"—Tch!" He bit his lip, quickly grabbing a pouch. He poured powder onto the wound, stopping the blood in seconds. Then, without hesitation, he charged back in.
But the woman wasn't relying only on them. From the start, she had already sent out her companion—a rittle. Small, rat-like, with ears too big for its body, it moved so fast it was almost invisible. Amara barely noticed it, only sensing its presence racing away. It was a message, a cry for help.
Because deep down, the woman knew. They cannot kill this Hasura. At best, they could stall it, stop it from reaching the survivors. If the monster's corpse fell inside the sanctuary, its body would poison everything with miasma. Children, families—everyone would die.
The battle dragged on. The two men staggered back toward the woman, exhausted and bleeding, but still standing. The monster didn't slow. Every wound they gave it closed up. It advanced step by step, unstoppable.
Amara's heart sank. They're going to die… this fight can't be won.
Then suddenly—hope.
The rittle returned, landing on the woman's shoulder. At that same moment, the air shifted.
Someone arrived.
An old man floated down from above. His clothes were plain and worn, yet over his shoulders lay a white robe that glowed faintly. He didn't carry weapons, nor did he seem fierce. But his presence was heavy, so heavy it felt like the world itself bent around him.
The Hasura froze. Its burning eyes locked on him.
The old man looked back, his ancient gaze calm and sharp.
The air grew still. Even the ground seemed to stop trembling. Shadows pulled back.
Man and monster stared at each other. The clash between them was inevitable.
This was no longer just a fight for survival. This was the start of the first true battle of the new era.