Date: October 26, 542 years since the Fall of Zanra the Dishonorable.
Rosh greeted the fourth day of his journey warily. From the very morning, something was wrong. The air, usually dry and clear, had become humid and heavy, filled with a strange, cloyingly sweet smell that made his head ache. The sky, already pale, grew even bleaker, and the horizon, once sharp and even, now seemed blurred, like a watercolor painting smeared with a wet brush. Rosh stopped atop a low rock outcropping, peering into the distance. The wind, which usually tugged at his silver hair, had died, and the silence became almost tangible—thick, oppressive, like before a storm.
*A change in the weather?* he thought, narrowing his mismatched eyes—green and brown. *In this world?*
He descended from the outcropping and moved on. His boots sank into the loose sand, and each step was slightly harder than yesterday. The energy control technique he had been honing for the past six months worked smoothly, but his body still felt the fatigue. Three days of fighting, three days without proper sleep, three days on the edge—it couldn't pass without a trace.
He had been walking for several hours without encountering a single guardian. The zones he passed through were empty—no leaves, no enemies, only white sand and rare rocks covered in silvery moss.
*Strange,* Rosh thought. *Very strange.*
He was used to a rhythm: morning—find a zone, fight, gather leaves, move to the next. In three days, he had gathered almost a hundred silver leaves—a good result, but still far from a thousand. And today, everything was off. Too quiet. Too empty.
The mist appeared suddenly. First, a light haze, barely visible on the horizon, like morning evaporation over a lake. Rosh didn't pay it much attention—stranger things happened in the white world. But within minutes, the haze thickened into dense billows that crawled from the crevices between rocks, spread over the ground, rising higher—to his knees, his waist, his chest. The air became cold and damp, and the cloying smell intensified so much that Rosh began to cough.
He stopped, listening. Silence. Only his breathing, only the dull beat of his heart, only the rustle of sand under his boots. No birds, no wind, no distant hum that usually accompanied the appearance of guardians.
*A zone,* he realized. *I've entered a zone.*
He moved forward more slowly, keeping his fingers ready. Vectors—thin, almost invisible—flickered around his hands, ready to strike at any moment. The energy control technique was also activated—energy flowed steadily, smoothly through his legs, allowing him to dash sideways or forward at any instant. He felt every muscle, every joint, every vessel—his whole body was a taut string, ready to sing.
The mist swirled around him, and in its white, milky thickness, Rosh began to notice leaves. They lay on rocks, on pedestals, right on the sand—silver, pulsating, they glowed through the haze like tiny beacons. Rosh bent down, picked up one, then another, then a third. The leaves were warm, alive, radiating a familiar warmth that soothed his tired fingers.
He gathered them carefully, unhurriedly, but every second he expected an attack. His mismatched eyes scanned the space, picking out every movement, every shadow from the mist. His fingers were ready to trace vectors, his legs to dash, his daggers to leap from their sheaths.
*Something's not right here,* he thought, rounding another stone outcropping. *Too quiet. Too empty. Usually, guardians would have appeared by now.*
He wasn't wrong.
---
The screech with which the creatures announced their presence was disgusting. High, piercing, it grated on the ears, made his teeth ache, and sent a throb through his temples. Rosh froze, spun around—and saw them.
They seemed to float through the air, their ethereal, translucent bodies shimmering in the mist like fish scales in sunlight. They didn't touch the ground—they hovered a few inches above the sand, their movement smooth, almost graceful, but in that grace lurked deadly danger. Dozens of thin appendages trailed from each, like jellyfish tentacles, and at the ends of these appendages, where fingers should have been, flickered long, curved blades. The blades moved, clicked, and in that clicking, that rhythmic, mechanical sound, was something that sent a chill down his spine.
There were many of them. Rosh counted fifteen—they emerged from the mist on all sides, surrounding him, and within seconds, he was in a tight ring. Fifteen pairs of black, empty eyes stared at him without fear, without hatred, without pity. Only cold, predatory attention.
*Warriors,* he determined by their auras. *All Warriors. Dangerous, but predictable.*
He didn't wait. His fingers flew, and vectors—thin, fast—shot toward the nearest creature. A vector-blade severed one appendage, then another, then a third, and the creature, losing its balance, collapsed onto the sand, crumbling into white dust.
But the others didn't retreat. They attacked all at once, their blades whistling through the air, aiming for his head, his chest, his legs. Rosh dodged, and the blades sliced through empty space where he had stood a second before.
---
The battle was brutal but short. Rosh moved fast, and the energy control technique allowed him to evade strikes that would have given him trouble a month ago. He sidestepped, ducked, jumped, and his vectors worked without pause, slicing through ethereal bodies, severing appendages, turning enemies into white dust.
One. Three. Five. Seven.
He didn't count. He just moved, and every movement was precise, deadly. His daggers—artifact weapons, a gift from his mentor long ago—also came in handy. He didn't like using them in close combat, preferring to keep enemies at a distance, but now, with creatures pressing from all sides, steel in hand was more reliable than vectors.
He plunged a dagger into the chest of the eighth creature, and it crumbled. The ninth tried to attack from behind, but Rosh, without turning, threw a vector over his shoulder—and the blade severed the appendages already reaching for his neck.
The tenth, eleventh, twelfth fell one after another, and Rosh felt his strength beginning to wane. Not because the enemies were strong. Because there were too many of them. Every movement demanded energy, and energy was not infinite.
The thirteenth and fourteenth fell simultaneously. Only the fifteenth, the last Warrior, remained. Rosh was already raising his dagger for the strike when new creatures emerged from the mist.
---
They were different. Larger, more massive, and their ethereal bodies shimmered not with silver, but with a dull crimson, like blood mixed with milk. They had fewer appendages—only six or eight—but each ended not in a single blade, but in three, and those blades, curved, serrated, flickered in the mist like the claws of an ancient predator. They moved faster. Smarter. Fiercer.
*Pillars,* Rosh realized, and his heart skipped a beat. *Four Pillars.*
They didn't attack immediately—they waited for the remaining Warrior to fall. The fifteenth, the last, charged Rosh with a desperate screech, and Rosh, killing it with a single dagger stroke, turned to face the new threat.
Four Pillars surrounded him. Their black eyes, empty and cold, stared at him with hatred—or whatever these creatures used in place of hatred. They were in no hurry. They studied him. Waited for him to make the first move.
The first Pillar attacked from behind. Rosh felt its approach—his vectors caught the vibration in the air—and, spinning around, met it with his dagger. Blades clashed, sparks flew, and the Pillar, not expecting such force, stepped back. But the second was already there.
Its appendages, tipped with triple blades, traced a deadly arc. Rosh dodged, but left himself open to the third. A blade grazed his left side, and blood—hot, red—spattered onto the white sand.
The pain was sharp but brief. Rosh snarled—not from pain, from fury—and, spinning, struck the attacker in the chest with a vector. The Pillar grunted, stumbled back, but didn't crumble. Only white dust gushed from the wound.
The fourth Pillar attacked from the flank, and Rosh, unable to dodge, raised his forearm. The blades raked across his arm, leaving deep scratches. Blood soaked his fingers, but he didn't drop his dagger.
He stepped back, breathing heavily. Four Pillars surrounded him, their black, empty eyes watching with cold, predatory attention.
*If this keeps up, I'll lose,* Rosh thought.
He gripped his daggers tighter. Vectors flickered around his fingers. The energy control technique pulsed in his legs, ready to launch him forward or sideways at any moment.
*But I won't lose. Not today.*
He stepped toward the enemy. The battle continued. Blades whistled through the air, vectors sliced through space, and white dust billowed underfoot, mingling with his blood. Rosh fought like a beast—reckless, furious, but every movement was precise, measured, deadly.
He didn't know how this fight would end. But he knew he would fight to the end. For himself. For those waiting for him in the tower.
The first Pillar fell, pierced by a vector. The second retreated, bleeding white dust. The third and fourth pressed on, their blades, serrated, deadly, finding new targets with each strike.
Rosh took wounds but didn't stop. He struck, dodged, struck again. His world shrank to a narrow circle of light where only he and his enemies existed. And in that circle, in that struggle, he felt alive. Truly alive.
Somewhere out there, beyond the mist, the tower waited. His friends waited. Victory waited.
But he had to survive to reach it.