The first day after the attack passed in tense calm.
The caravan advanced without stopping more than necessary. They only made brief halts so the horses could rest and the men could eat something quickly before resuming the march. No one wanted to spend another night in the Misty Mountains. No one wanted to be there when the mist thickened again.
Ash walked in silence, the sword always within reach. During the daylight hours, the mist was more benign, almost harmless. But he couldn't forget that sensation. That invisible gaze that followed him from somewhere within the haze.
Sometimes he would turn abruptly, hoping to find something. There was never anything there.
But the sensation persisted.
The second day dawned the same as the first: gray sky, thin mist, silence.
Ash was beginning to think that maybe they could reach the main camp without further incidents. Maybe the creatures had been sated with the eight lives from the first night. Maybe—
"Halt!" the leader shouted from the front. "Something's coming!"
Ash didn't hesitate. His hand went to his sword and his eyes scrutinized the mist.
At first he saw nothing. Only the gray haze, moving lazily.
Then, the forms began to emerge.
But they weren't like those from the first night.
Those had been vaguely humanoid figures, formless bodies of mist with cold eyes. These were... different. They were specific.
A man a few meters from Ash let out a gut-wrenching scream. He had fallen to his knees, staring fixedly ahead, at something Ash couldn't see.
"No, no, it can't be! You're dead! I killed you!"
Another mercenary began to tremble, backing away while shaking his head.
"Mom... mom, I'm sorry, I'm so sorry, I didn't mean to..."
And then Ash saw it.
In front of him, emerging from the mist, there was a figure. A woman. She wore a white robe stained with blood. Her face was beautiful, but her eyes... her eyes were two bottomless black pits, and on the side of her head, her blonde hair was stained with dried blood.
And she was smiling.
"Son," said the figure, with a voice Ash knew. A voice he hadn't heard in years. His mother's voice. "Why didn't you come to see me? I was waiting. I waited for you so long."
Ash felt the world stop for him and his body go numb.
His mother. It was his mother. The same clothes she had worn the day of the accident. The same blood. The same empty smile.
"Come with me," the figure whispered, extending a pale hand. "Come with me and everything will be fine. We can be together again. Like before."
Ash took a step forward.
His mind, somewhere very deep, told him this wasn't real. That his mother had died years ago. That this was a trap.
But his heart...
His heart wanted to believe. He wanted to believe that his mother was still alive.
"KID!"
Dren's voice jolted him like a whip crack.
"DON'T LOOK AT THOSE THINGS! THEY'RE ILLUSIONS! THEY JUST WANT YOU TO LET YOUR GUARD DOWN!" the veteran shouted forcefully, apparently having snapped out of his own trance.
Ash blinked. The image of his mother was still there, extending her hand, smiling.
But he no longer felt anything.
'Why?' he thought. 'Why don't I feel anything?'
The answer came immediately, cold and clear as mountain water.
His attribute. [Soul]. Your soul is strong and difficult to destroy. Possesses high resistance to mental attacks.
The illusions didn't work on him.
Ash raised his sword.
The figure of his mother tilted her head, confused. The smile faded.
"Don't you want to be with me?" she asked, and for an instant, Ash almost felt pity.
"My mother died years ago," Ash said, in a voice that didn't tremble. "You're just a monster in disguise." Ash said it in a low voice, barely audible. Ash took a breath.
And then he charged forward.
The figure dissolved into mist before his sword could reach it, and from the haze emerged the true form: a Mist Spawn, just like those from the first night, but larger and much more tangible.
Behind him, chaos erupted.
The mercenaries fought against forms that only they could see. Some attacked empty air, shouting insults at nonexistent enemies. Others were paralyzed, trapped in their worst memories. The knights, the most experienced, had managed to overcome the initial impact and now fought against the true creatures, their swords dancing in the mist.
"THEY'RE NOT REAL!" one of them shouted. "THE ILLUSIONS CAN'T HURT YOU, BUT THE REAL ONES CAN! FIGHT!"
Ash had no time to look. The Spawn in front of him was already attacking.
He remembered the first night. He remembered the clumsiness of his movements, the fear that paralyzed him, Kael's death.
Not this time.
He dodged the first blow. The mist arm grazed his side. He counterattacked with a horizontal slash, but the creature moved with surprising agility, stepping back.
Ash didn't stop. He advanced, sword raised, seeking the weak point he had discovered in his first battle.
The Spawn had neither flesh nor muscles. They were beings of mist given form. Their "body" was an unstable structure held together by something Ash didn't quite understand. But when he cut them...
His sword met resistance. A deep gash in the creature's torso. From the wound flowed a thick, grayish liquid that dripped down the Spawn's body before evaporating into the air.
The creature shrieked. A sharp, piercing sound that made Ash grit his teeth.
But he didn't stop.
He struck again. And again. And again.
Each cut released more of that gray liquid. The Spawn moved slower, its arms losing consistency, its form becoming blurry.
Finally, with a last slash that pierced its core, the creature dissolved into swirling mist.
The voice of the spell whispered in his mind again.
[You have killed an awakened beast: Mist Spawn]
[You have obtained a Memory]
Ash froze.
A Memory?
His mind reeled. A Memory. A weapon, an object, something he could use. Something that could make the difference between life and death in this hell.
But the emotion lasted only a second.
Something struck his side with the force of a battering ram.
Ash flew several meters through the air. The world spun around him: the gray sky, the mist, the dirt ground, the sky again. His back hit something hard —a rock, perhaps, or the side of a wagon— and all the air left his lungs.
He lay sprawled on the ground, dazed, pain radiating from his ribs. For a moment, the world became blurry.
He heard footsteps approaching. Quick footsteps. Hungry.
He looked up.
Another Spawn lunged at him, larger than the first, its cold eyes fixed on his throat.
Ash tried to move, but his body wouldn't respond. The pain was too intense. The impact had robbed him of breath, of strength, of everything.
No, he thought. Not again. I can't die like this. I can't—
A figure stepped between him and the creature.
Dren.
The scarred mercenary charged the Spawn with his axe, the metal sinking into the misty body. The creature shrieked and turned toward him, forgetting Ash for a moment.
"GET UP!" Dren shouted while dodging a blow. "GET UP OR I'M LEAVING YOU HERE!"
Ash clenched his teeth. The pain was still there, but adrenaline was beginning to take effect. He moved one arm, then the other. He fumbled for his sword, which had fallen a couple of meters away.
He found it.
He stood up with effort, his ribs protesting, the world still spinning. But he was on his feet.
Dren was still fighting the Spawn. It wasn't going well. The mercenary was skilled, but the creature was fast, and its blows were beginning to open gaps in his defense.
Ash didn't hesitate.
He ran toward them, ignoring the pain, ignoring the fear, ignoring everything except the need to kill that thing before it killed Dren.
The Spawn didn't see him coming.
Ash leaped, the sword raised with both hands, and drove it with all his strength into the creature's back.
The impact made it stumble. Dren seized the moment to sink his axe into its chest.
The Spawn dissolved into mist.
The two men stood panting, looking at each other. Dren had a cut on his arm and his breath was ragged. Ash probably had a cracked rib or two and a bruise the size of a fist on his side.
But they were alive.
"Good... good one, kid," Dren said between gasps. "But don't stand still after killing one again, understood?"
Ash nodded, too breathless to respond.
Regaining his breath, he could hear the sounds of the battle.
Dren, after resting a moment, stood up gripping the handle of his weapon.
"We need to rejoin the battle," the veteran said.
Ash, who had regained a bit of his breath, nodded, gripping the handle of his sword.
...
Ash nodded, gripping his sword's handle tightly. The pain in his ribs was still there, sharp, but he could bear it. He had to bear it.
Dren had already thrown himself back into the fray, his axe tracing deadly arcs against another Spawn that stalked a fallen mercenary. Ash followed him, his legs moving with a determination he didn't know he possessed.
Around him, the battle was a nightmare chaos.
The knights had formed a defensive circle around the wagons, their swords dancing in the mist. But they weren't only fighting the visible creatures. Ash saw one of them thrust at empty air, shouting someone's name, his face contorted by fury and pain. The illusions still attacked their minds, even as their bodies fought.
The mercenaries were scattered. Some fought shoulder to shoulder with the knights, their weapons bloodied with that grayish liquid that slowly evaporated. Others lay on the ground, motionless. Dead or simply paralyzed by terror, Ash couldn't tell.
And then there were those who had fallen prey to the illusions.
A man, the same one he'd seen before, remained on his knees, crying, embracing the void as if holding someone. A female mercenary laughed hysterically while stabbing the ground over and over, shouting something about "demons" and "guilt."
Ash looked away. He couldn't afford distractions.
A Spawn lunged at him from the left. Ash dodged it by inches, rolling on the ground and rising just in time to block the next attack. The impact reverberated through his arm, but he didn't yield.
He remembered what he'd learned in his first battle. The weak points. The unstable structure.
He counterattacked.
His sword found the creature's side, opening a deep wound. The gray liquid gushed out, and the Spawn shrieked, staggering. Ash didn't give it time to recover. He struck again and again, until the creature dissolved into swirling mist.
Without stopping, he looked for Dren. He found him a few meters away, fighting two Spawn at once. The veteran was holding his own, but he was retreating, outnumbered.
Ash ran toward him.
The first Spawn didn't even see him coming. Ash's sword pierced its back, and it vanished before hitting the ground. The second turned, its cold eyes fixed on the new enemy, but Dren used the distraction to sink his axe into its head.
The two men stood panting, back to back.
"How many more?" Ash asked, his voice hoarse.
"Too many," Dren replied. "But they're retreating. Look."
Ash looked. He was right. The remaining Spawn were slowly withdrawing into the mist, their forms fading into the haze. The knights pursued them a few steps, but the leader shouted the order to stop.
"Let them go! Regroup! Tend to the wounded!"
The battle was over.
Ash let himself fall to his knees, his sword resting on the ground, gasping. The pain in his ribs was unbearable now that the adrenaline was wearing off. But he was alive. Still alive.
Around him, the survivors began to move. Some tended to the wounded. Others searched among the fallen, hoping to find someone they knew. Wails and crying filled the air.
Dren dropped down beside him, releasing his axe and massaging his injured arm.
"Damned creatures," he muttered. "Smarter every time. More... human."
Ash didn't respond. He just nodded, looking at the mist.
The sensation was still there. That invisible gaze. That something watching him.
But now, after the battle, after having killed two Spawn and obtained his first Memory, the fear was different.
It was no longer a paralyzing fear.
It was a fear that kept him alert. A fear that kept him alive.
"Dren," Ash said, his voice barely a whisper. "Thank you. For saving me. Again."
The veteran looked at him for a moment. Then he let out a dry, humorless laugh.
"Don't thank me, kid. You saved me too. Twice. We're even."
Ash nodded slowly.
"But don't get used to it," Dren continued. "In the Misty Mountains, blood debts are paid quickly. Very quickly. Tomorrow you could be dead, and me too. And then it won't matter who saved who."
"I know," Ash said.
And he meant it.
He knew it because he had seen it. Eight dead the first night. God knows how many today. Death was a constant companion in this place. A shadow that walked beside him, waiting for the right moment to claim him.
But not today.
And not tomorrow. He would survive. It was a promise.