Aurealis trembled under the weight of uncertainty. The fog had grown denser, moving with a rhythm that seemed almost deliberate. Lysandre walked the streets alongside Elira and Maël, scanning for patterns, searching for the logic hidden within the chaos.
— It's not random anymore, Lysandre said, analyzing the readings. Every strike, every wave… it's testing us, learning from our defenses.
— How do we fight something that adapts faster than we can react? Elira asked, adjusting her runes.
— We predict, Lysandre replied. Intelligence requires a pattern, and patterns can be deciphered.
They arrived at a cluster of buildings recently evacuated. The fog lingered at the edges, almost pausing, observing. Lysandre crouched beside a tablet displaying respiratory graphs from the last fifty patients. The readings were consistent: the fog adapted its attack based on the weakest targets and avoided areas where stabilizations were strongest.
— It's like a predator, he muttered. Every patient we stabilize, every rune we place… it calculates the next move.
Maël pointed to a narrow alley:
— Look, the fog is retreating in that direction. It's baiting us.
— Exactly, Lysandre said. We set up the bait, then we control the flow.
He arranged a series of runes in concentric circles around the narrow alley, connecting them to portable stabilizers that amplified their effect. Each device pulsed in synchronization with Lysandre's calculated respiratory sequences.
The fog approached cautiously. It probed, tested, recoiled—then advanced again, now faster, more precise. Lysandre adjusted his instruments in real time, each movement a surgical strike against the intelligent mist.
— Hold your positions! he commanded. Every second counts!
The first wave broke against the runes. The stabilizers hummed, creating zones of pure air, purging the mist. Lysandre observed carefully, noting every reaction, every hesitation, every adaptation.
— It's learning faster than anticipated, Elira whispered.
— Then we must act faster than it can calculate, Lysandre said grimly. This is more than treatment—it's strategy, coordination, and anticipation all at once.
The alley cleared momentarily. The fog paused, then retreated in a swirl, almost as if acknowledging its temporary defeat. But Lysandre knew better: it was retreating only to gather data, to adapt further.
— This is a war of intelligence as much as it is of medicine, he murmured, watching the fog dissipate. And we're just beginning to understand its mind.
The city held its breath, waiting for the next wave, and Lysandre knew that every decision he made from now on would carry life-or-death consequences.
— Prepare for the next strike, he said quietly. The real battle is only starting.