[Thud... Thud... Thud... Thud...]
The rhythmic, heavy strike of military boots echoed through the vaulted chamber. Every eye followed Captain Mordant as he ascended the dais once more, clutching the same mission dossiers as before.
But the man had changed. His face was cast in the same oppressive gloom that haunted the demon hunters. The blustering confidence of the first briefing had vanished; he no longer possessed the gall to weave illusions of a radiant future. It was as if the collective trauma of the Darkwood had become a contagion, infecting every soul aboard the airship with a singular, rhythmic dread.
"Ahem!" Captain Mordant cleared his throat, the sound rasping in the silence before he began the formal decree.
"I am... gratified to see us gathered once more," he began, his voice strained, stripped of its former steel.
"Before I issue the decree for the second phase," Mordant began, his tone striving for a note of commendation, "I offer my congratulations to those who have endured the first chain-mission of this Bloody Hunting. I am well aware that the horrors you encountered within the Darkwood were of a most savage and unyielding nature. I wish to state, for the record—you are all warriors of true valour!"
He paused, a heavy silence hanging in the air, before continuing.
"As for the pre-eminent victor of our first trial... though I suspect the fact has already woven itself into the awareness of every soul here... that honour belongs to the magis, Seraph, of the Sanctus Sanctum!" Dant's voice boomed, echoing against the cold metal bulkheads of the Great Hall.
At the sound of his name, the gaze of every survivor pivoted toward the deepest, most lightless corner of the chamber. There stood the young man, a solitary figure draped in a white-and-gold mageia cloak, shrouded in a gloom that no one dared breach.
The white hood was drawn low, a veil that obscured his visage entirely. Even his hands and lips were sequestered beneath the heavy folds of the garment, leaving the assembly blind to his temper. None could discern if he tasted the sweetness of triumph or remained unmoved by the accolade.
[Hummm... Vurrr...]
The hall remained plunged in a silence so profound that only the rhythmic thrum of the energia engines, vibrating through the hull, dared disturb it. Within the chamber, the atmosphere was that of a frost-bitten sepulchre.
Not a single soul offered a clap of respect.
Not a single soul raised a cry of vitality.
Not a single soul shared in his glory.
Not a single soul betrayed a flicker of envy.
Not a single soul showed the slightest surprise.
Not a single soul descended into the murmur of gossip.
Each remained hollowed out, consumed by the gnawing dread of their own survival. Every corner of the Great Hall was occupied only by eyes that looked toward the future with a cold, shuddering trepidation.
After the crucible of the first phase, the demon hunters within the hall understood with bitter clarity that they were merely minor cogs in a savage, grinding war. Though a handful still harboured the arrogance to believe they could wrest the ultimate rank from Seraph's grasp, none possessed the delusion that the path ahead would be anything less than a slaughter.
Minutes bled away, yet the suffocating silence remained unbroken. Not a single soul dared to fracture the stillness. Several contenders cast furtive glances toward the heavy bulkhead doors, their minds already tracing the geometry of an impossible escape from this flying cage.
"Very well! I am aware you are all eager for the intelligence regarding our next theatre of war. I will waste no more of your time," Mordant proceeded, his voice lacking its earlier bravado.
"From an initial muster of ten thousand—only the nine hundred and fourteen most formidable hunters remain!"
His words were low, yet they carried a rhythmic, leaden weight. Every syllable was etched with a sharp, clinical finality.
"Every soul in this hall possesses a rare affinity and undeniable strength! You are the vanguard, the very spark of hope for all Laurasia!" Mordant proclaimed, attempting to stoke the dying embers of their morale.
He spoke as if trying to resuscitate the shattered spirits of the assembly, yet his polished flatteries failed to take root.
A few curled their lips in a sneer of self-loathing at his hollow praise.
A few whitened their knuckles in a silent, vengeful fury for the comrades left in the Darkwood.
A few swallowed hard, the bile of rising dread coating their throats as they anticipated the next trial.
A few averted their gaze entirely, unable to stomach the sight of their peers or the shadow of their own history.
Captain Mordant let the silence hang for a heartbeat before his tone shifted, sharpening into something far more jagged and urgent.
"The second phase of the Bloody Hunting... we have just received a priority transmission," Mordant stated, reaching out to manipulate the observation crystal upon the dais.
A spectral map ignited within the heart of the massive observation crystal atop the dais. The translucent facets rippled, manifesting the jagged topography of the Northwest Marches. A colossal expanse of masonry—a Great Wall—veined across the crystal's surface; a final bulwark severing the Northwest frontier of Arkflame from the boundless, suffocating sprawl of the demon territories.
Nested behind this monolith of stone stood towers of obsidian height. The mageia projection locked its focus onto the border fortress, where a feverish cluster of crimson runes began to strobe across the city's sector.
This bastion of the Northwest was known as the Ragguard Fortress—a massive military encampment charged with the absolute defence of the Arkflame frontier.
In the wake of the Demon Legion's relentless crusade, hundreds of human settlements had been devoured, their borders receding as the demonic blight gorged itself upon the world. Now, the Ragguard Fortress stood flush against the very maw of the demon lands; a solitary tooth set against the dark.
For a millennium, Ragguard's purpose had been the containment of rival kingdoms; now, it stood as a lonely sentinel, leagues from the Capital of Arkflame, anchored in the dirt to ensure the Demon Legion could not breach the realm with ease.
The burden of the frontier guard was never light. It was a vocation of unparalleled lethality, perhaps the most perilous post within all Arkflame. Each year, the Ragguard ranks were thinned by a staggering mortality rate, necessitating the conscription of tens of thousands to fill the voids left by the fallen.
As the human armies lacked the potency to achieve a definitive conquest over the Demon Legion, they resorted to the brutal arithmetic of attrition—hurling vast numbers into the meat-grinder to stall the encroaching tide and prevent the demonic swarm from deeper incursions into human soil.
It was not merely during the season of the hunt that the slaughter commenced; throughout the turning of the year, the Demon Legion besieged the frontier without respite. Yet, during the Bloody Hunting, the tides of the abyss surged with a singular, rhythmic ferocity—as they did this very day.
"Two days ago, the frontier garrisons transmitted urgent dispatches to the Arkflame High Command. They are under a sustained, heavy assault," Mordant explained, the pressure in his voice mounting with every syllable. "A combined force of nearly ten million demons has been unleashed against the eight cardinal bastions of Arkflame! While the other fortresss hold the line, the Ragguard Fortress has borne the brunt of the onslaught. Their defences are frayed; the bastion teeters on the precipice of a total breach."