The doors of the main building hang broken—half torn from their hinges, tilting to one side.
Cracks spread across the scorched stone walls like veins, and holes gape open where the fire has eaten through the structure.
We step inside.
The first thing that hits me is the smell.
Iron. Smoke. Decay.
The air isn't just thick—it's a brutal paste on my tongue, sharp and metallic.
Blood coats the floor—some still wet, some dried into dark crusts.
With every step, the sound beneath our boots is a sickening crunch.
Flesh. Bone.
Human and monster alike.
No one speaks.
The silence is heavier than the air itself—a suffocating truth we don't dare disturb.
The torchlight flickers against the walls and reveals the aftermath of a battle that should never have happened here.
Broken weapons. Shattered armor.
Limbs lying in twisted angles that no body should ever make.
Daren's voice trembles as he mutters under his breath, "This… this isn't a fight. It's a slaughter."
John clenches his jaw but says nothing.
Nicholas keeps his spear raised, though his hands are shaking.
We plunge deeper into the corridor.
The air grows colder, heavier.
The darkness swallows the firelight—a thick curtain of smoke we struggle to pierce.
After a few minutes of walking, we find him.
A man sits slumped against the wall, his back pressed to the scorched stone.
There's a gaping hole in his stomach—his left arm missing entirely.
Blood trickles from the corner of his mouth, pooling beneath him.
His chest rises and falls in shallow, ragged breaths.
His eyes are open, unfocused, staring at nothing.
John steps forward first, his boots crunch softly on the blood-slick floor.
He kneels in front of the dying man, his voice barely above a whisper.
"Hey… are you okay?"
No answer.
Only the faint sound of breath—
Then nothing.
The man's chest stills. His gaze freezes.
And just like that… he's gone.
John lowers his head. His hands curl into fists.
I feel the blow in my own chest, a hollow echo of the final breath.
For a moment, no one moves.
The only sound is the fire cracking in the distance and the quiet drip of blood from the corpse.
John stays there for a few seconds longer, staring at the lifeless face before him.
Then, slowly, he shakes his head.
"Damn it…" he mutters under his breath.
None of us reply.
We have no words left.
Our faces are grim—tired shadows of what we once were.
Each death we pass presses down, a fresh weight on the soul.
And yet, we drive ourselves forward.
We have no other choice.
Because somewhere deeper in this ruin… Mia must still be alive.
Gareth looks toward us and says,
"Stay sharp. There might still be monsters nearby."
As if summoned by his words—
A sound.
Wet footsteps echo from deeper within the hall.
Low growls.
The shuffle of claws scraping against stone.
"Positions!" Gareth commands.
We move automatically—John and Gareth in front, Daren and Nicholas flanking, me at the rear.
My hand grips the katana hilt.
From the smoke ahead, shadows emerge.
Three C-rank—maybe B-rank—monsters appear.
Wolf-like horrors—twisted horns, scales where fur should be, and faintly glowing red eyes.
Thick saliva drips from their fanged maws.
The first one lunges.
Gareth's spear flashes, impales its skull mid-air.
The beast jerks once, then collapses and twitches.
The second and third rush from our flanks.
John parries one with his greatsword—sparks fly as metal clashes against hardened bone.
Daren intercepts the other.
His sword bites deep into its neck—but the creature doesn't die easily.
It thrashes—claws tear across his arm.
I see the spray of blood.
"Daren!" Nicholas shouts, thrusting his spear into the monster's flank.
Together, they bring it down—its screech echoing through the burning corridor.
The last one blasts past John, a red-eyed blur charging straight at me.
Instinct takes over.
I pivot, sidestepping the lunge, and my katana slices upward in a sharp arc—snapping through the creature's throat.
Hot blood sprays across my face.
The monster gurgles and collapses, clawing weakly at the air before going still.
For a few seconds, only our ragged breathing remains.
The smell of iron doubles.
Then Gareth lowers his weapon. "Regroup. Move."
We press onward.
Deeper into the fortress.
The fires are dimmer here, the walls black with soot.
And then—voices.
Faint. Weak.
Human.
"Over here!" Nicholas rushes ahead, kicking aside debris.
Under a half-collapsed section of the ceiling, we find them—two workers, bruised, terrified, but alive.
They flinch when they see us, then cry in relief.
John helps pull them free.
"You're safe now," he says, though his tone carries little conviction.
One of them grabs his arm, trembling.
"There were more… deeper inside. They ran toward the inner chamber—before the ceiling fell."
My heart skips.
The world narrows.
Mia.
Without a word, I turn and run.
I hear Gareth call my name, but it's already too far away—drowned beneath the deafening rush of blood in my ears.
Please… let her be alive.
Please.
I sprint.
Past burning pillars.
Past walls slathered with blood and ash.
The cries of the dying claw at my ears—ghosts begging to be remembered—but I don't slow down.
"Mia!" I shout, my voice tearing through the smoke-choked air.
"MIA!"
No response.
The echo fades into silence—only the crackle of fire answers me.
My lungs burn, my vision blurs, but I don't stop. I can't.
The inner chamber lies ahead—its door half-melted, half-crushed.
Molten metal glints like frozen tears in the flickering light.
I shove the debris aside, forcing my way through.
And stop.
The chamber… is a grave.
The faint glow of the fires outside barely reaches here—just enough to paint the room in flickers of orange and shadow.
Bodies lie scattered—knights, workers, people I knew by name.
Their armor torn.
Their faces locked in terror.
Blood trails stain the stone like cursed art, dripping down in streaks that refuse to dry.
The air is thick—iron, smoke, decay.
It's the same brutal paste from outside, only heavier, deeper.
Every breath chokes on the taste of death.
Among the ruin, I hear faint voices—weak, trembling.
"Help… please… help us…"
They reach toward me, eyes filled with fragile hope.
But my heart's not with them.
My gaze sweeps frantically across the room, desperate.
I'm searching.
Every flicker of shadow is her.
I pray for a flash of her red cloak.
"Mia!"
I tear through bodies, overturned tables, broken shields—anything that might hide her.
She isn't here. Not here. Not safe.
Desperation claws at me.
"Has anyone seen Mia?" I shout, my voice cracking.
"Mia, the daughter of the head chef—where is she!?"
They flinch at my tone, but no one answers.
Only groans and coughs echo back.
The pressure inside me spikes—rage, fear, pure mana—a hot wave bleeding out into the room.
The air grows heavy, suffocating.
The survivors gasp, their eyes widening at the invisible force pressing them down.
I look toward a young knight pinned beneath a slab of stone—his leg crushed, but he's still conscious. Barely.
I walk to him, kneel, my voice low but sharp.
"Have you seen her?"
He hesitates—my presence pressing down like a blade against his throat.
Then, trembling, he points toward the far corner of the chamber.
Where the largest heap of debris lies—massive stone blocks and twisted beams piled together, unmoving.
For a moment, I forget how to breathe.
No one could survive that.
The world narrows—everything else fades.
My legs feel heavy.
My feet refuse to move.
Then someone calls weakly, "Please… save us first…"
The voice shatters whatever control I have left.
I turn my gaze toward him—cold, void of mercy.
The man's words die in his throat.
He looks away, trembling.
Silence again.
I step forward—slowly.
Each movement echoes in the hollow room.
My hands tremble as I reach the debris.
And then I start clearing it.
Block by block.
Beam by twisting beam.
Dust chokes the air, coating my hands in blood—scrapes I don't feel, scrapes I ignore.
My breaths are ragged, shallow.
Every sound—the crumble of rock, the crack of falling wood—feels louder than my heartbeat.
I whisper her name once more.
"Mia."