Above the bruised, swirling vortex of the Oakhaven Valley, the necrotic purple sky curdled. Large, heavy, charcoal-black storm clouds rolled over the jagged peaks, blotting out the ambient static glow and plunging the chaotic battlefield into a suffocating, dim twilight.
Then came the first drop.
A single cold, heavy droplet hit the dark obsidian carcass of the Dread Stalker beneath Shin'ya's boots. Within seconds, the sky opened up entirely. A torrential downpour descended upon the valley, the heavy rain accelerating into a furious storm that whipped against the stone cliffs. The water droplets splattered violently across the dirt, instantly mixing the leaking, luminescent golden fluid of the Pale Cherubims and the thick, iron-scented crimson blood of the fallen vanguard into a single, sickening mud flowing through the cracks of the earth.
The freezing water soaked directly through Shin'ya's midnight-black Abyssal Silk shirt, plastering the fabric to his skin. He stood atop the dead fifty-foot arachnid, his dark blade held low, steam rising from his overheated, trembling shoulders.
His furious, desperate scream still hung in the heavy air: "ENGAGE! OR AM I SUPPOSED TO FIGHT ALL OF THEM, YOU IDIOTS?!"
"For the Captain! Drive them back!"
Ignited by his raw roar, the Imperial vanguard fought like men possessed. Heavily armored knights locked their tower shields together, groaning as they slammed their weight into the oncoming flood of pristine white mannequins. Fire and lightning magic cut through the heavy rain, flashing brilliantly against the storm as the backline mages unleashed everything they had left to retake the front lines.
But as the soldiers surged past him, the sudden spike of life-or-death adrenaline that had fueled Shin'ya's explosive counterattack abruptly bottomed out.
The drop was brutal.
A sudden, violent wave of nausea hit him so hard his vision spun. The sheer exhaustion didn't hit him like a slow drain—it slammed into him like a physical collapse. His knees violently trembled beneath his trousers, and his grip on the Ketsugai loosened, the hilt nearly slipping from his slick, wet palm.
The Bind... the shadow slash... that wasn't my strength, his mind realized in a sudden, icy wave of clarity. That was just panic. That was just a freak adrenaline rush because I saw someone die.
And now, the adrenaline was completely gone. In his mind, his internal, imaginary stamina bar wasn't just flashing red—it was completely empty, a dead grey void tracking his absolute physical limit. He could barely lift his arm, let alone swing a blade.
Suddenly, a massive obsidian Dread Stalker lunged through the rain, its gaping, needle-toothed maw snapping directly at his torso.
With no stamina left to dodge, Shin'ya thrust the Ketsugai forward in a desperate, trembling block, hoping the dark blade's parasitic durability would hold.
CRUNCH
The beast's heavy jaws clamped violently onto the dagger. The impact rattled through Shin'ya's entire skeletal structure, his teeth grinding together as he held the hilt with both hands, using every ounce of his remaining body weight to keep the snapping jaws away from his neck. The Dread Stalker, frustrated by the stubborn metal, began shaking its massive head aggressively from side to side like a rabid dog, whipping Shin'ya's exhausted body through the mud before finally releasing its grip and flinging him backward.
Shin'ya skidded through the wet dirt. Before he could even push himself up, another white porcelain shadow blurred through the sheet of rain.
SPRECH!
A sharp, lance-like arm of a Pale Cherubim drove directly through his right shoulder, pinning him to the muddy earth.
"AGHH!"
A scream of pure, unadulterated agony ripped from Shin'ya's throat, drowned out only by the roaring thunder.
WHY?! WHY DOES IT HURT SO DAMN BAD?! his inner voice screamed in absolute, frantic panic, his mind completely shattering under the raw intensity of the sensation. THIS IS WHAT PROTAGONISTS ACTUALLY GO THROUGH?! MY NERVES, MY BLOOD VESSELS—THEY ARE LITERALLY TEARING APART! THIS ISN'T A GAME! IT HURTS! IT HURTS! I NEED A HEALER!
The burning, white-hot agony radiating from his shoulder felt like molten lead pouring through his veins. Tears of pain mixed with the freezing rain on his face. Survival instinct—raw and primal—overrode everything else.
ZIIIP!
Using the absolute final drop of his life force, Shin'ya dissolved into the earth, escaping the lance.
He materialized thirty yards away, crashing heavily onto the wet grass behind the defensive perimeter, right in front of a startled group of backline support mages. He collapsed on his side, his left hand desperately clutching his bleeding, mangled shoulder as he groaned in agony.
"P-please..." Shin'ya wheezed, his voice trembling, stripped of all its cool, fake dominance. "Heal me... Groan... be quick..."
The backline mages, seeing the legendary Shadow Master suddenly appear before them drenched in blood and pale from pain, panicked.
"He's injured! The Sovereign's vanguard pierced his defense!"
"Quickly! Focus all recovery mana on Lord Arata!"
A barrage of soothing, pure-white healing magic washed over Shin'ya's shoulder. The torn muscle fibers began to knit back together, the shattered blood vessels sealing, but the mental trauma of the sheer, raw physical pain lingered like a dark stain on his psyche.
Before the mages could even finish their incantations, the defensive line groaned again. A massive shockwave rattled the earth. The vanguard was buckling under the sheer volume of the S-rank flood.
Shin'ya forced himself back up. His newly knitted shoulder throbbed with a dull, sickening ache, but the primal fear of being overrun kept him on his feet. He staggered back toward the front line, desperately holding the Ketsugai in his hand. He had to look like he was in control. He had to keep playing the backseat support meta, or the entire line would dissolve, and he would be cornered with nowhere left to run.
Just ten feet in front of him, a young vanguard recruit—a boy who couldn't have been older than seventeen, clad in mismatched, dented iron armor—was screaming as he frantically thrust his spear into a surging white mannequin. The recruit was breathing heavily, his boots slipping in the deep, waterlogged clay. He was terrified, his knuckles white, but he was standing his ground because his "Shadow Master" was supposedly watching his back.
"Keep pushing!" the recruit yelled, his voice cracking as he looked back toward Shin'ya's direction, seeking even a shred of reassurance. "We can hold them! Lord Arata is right behind—"
The words never finished.
Out of the pouring rain, a massive obsidian leg of a hidden Dread Stalker thrust forward like a ballista bolt, bypassing the defensive shield wall entirely.
The jagged, razor-sharp obsidian limb struck the young recruit dead-center in the chest.
SPRECH-CRACK
The sheer, overwhelming kinetic force of the impact didn't just pierce him; it completely ruptured his torso, shattering his iron chestplate into a flurry of jagged, flying shrapnel. The boy's body was instantly torn wide open, his eyes widening in a brief, agonizing instant of silent shock as the life vanished from his pupils.
Because of how close Shin'ya was standing—barely a few feet behind him—there was no time to react. There was no screen to filter the horror.
The violent, high-pressure spurt of warm, dark crimson human blood erupted from the boy's mangled chest like a geyser.
SPLASHED
The blood sprayed directly across the air, pelting Shin'ya's face, neck, and chest in a hot, sickening wave. The iron-scented, metallic heat of it hit his skin, instantly contrasting with the freezing, icy rain washing over him. A thick glob of the warm crimson ran down his cheek, dripping onto his lips. He could taste the heavy, unmistakable iron of real, fresh human life ending right in front of his eyes.
The recruit's shattered body was violently tossed aside like a broken ragdoll, splashing lifelessly into the muddy, waterlogged earth.
Shin'ya froze. The entire battlefield seemed to fall completely silent, the roaring thunder and the desperate screams of dying men fading into a muffled, ringing buzz inside his ears. He stared blankly at the muddy ground, his hands trembling as he slowly raised his fingers to touch his face.
His fingers came away drenched in a thick, dark red.
He looked down at himself. His Abyssal Silk shirt, his hands, his boots—everything was completely covered in a heavy, steaming layer of blood.
Fortunately, as his trembling fingers traced the skin of his face and chest, he realized there were no new wounds. It was not his own blood.
But unfortunately, it was the blood of his own kind. It was the warm, literal life force of a boy who had just looked at him with hope, now completely reduced to a cold, faceless corpse dissolving into the mud under the merciless torrent of the rain.
Shin'ya's stomach violently convulsed. He wanted to vomit, he wanted to scream, he wanted to run away and wake up in his comfortable tavern bed. But as the freezing rain beat down on his blood-soaked skin, washing the crimson down his chest in dark, swirling patterns, a cold, empty numbness began to settle deep within his chest.
The reality of this world had finally, permanently stained him.