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Nathan's POV
It was my umpteenth time slashing this damned demon—each cut clean, precise, and pointless. Every strike I made only ended in the same result: regeneration, distortion, or the creature vanishing into another veil of darkness. I couldn't tell anymore if I was fighting the beast itself or nothing more than its illusions.
Either way, it didn't matter. Standing still wasn't an option. If I stopped swinging, I'd die.
The rain was gone, but the air still stank of iron and burnt mist. My arm throbbed from the last blow I'd taken. The wound pulsed each time I tightened my grip on the sword hilt. My lungs burned with every breath.
"Hey, you rotten bastard!" I shouted into the empty fog. "Show your true self and stop hiding behind illusions, you coward!"
A violent pressure erupted from behind. Instinct kicked in—I twisted around, sword raised, just in time to block the force. The impact nearly threw me backward. My boots dug into the mud as I held my ground. Sparks crackled across the blade, my body trembling from the force pressing against it.
It was trying to overpower me.
My muscles screamed in pain, the strain biting deep. The demon didn't give me a single breath of space to counter. My arms shook, and I gritted my teeth, trying not to let it push me down.
And then—suddenly—
A blinding light split through the heavens.
It wasn't lightning. It wasn't natural. The light was pure, fierce, and divine—pouring down from above, cutting through the darkness like a blade of the gods themselves. The entire sky cracked open, burning away the fog. The oppressive pressure vanished in an instant.
The demon screamed—a sound that wasn't of this world—and then it was gone.
Just… gone.
The rain stopped. The clouds scattered.
Silence fell.
I stood there, sword lowered, chest rising and falling with shallow breaths. My vision swayed for a second as my brain tried to comprehend what just happened.
"What the hell… was that?" I muttered.
The world was suddenly bright again. The storm had left as if it was never here. The soil beneath me steamed faintly where the divine light had struck.
Then, a familiar voice broke the silence.
"The hell was that?"
I turned my head. A few meters away, Elisha lay sprawled on the ground, bleeding heavily but staring at the sky like it had personally offended him. His expression was a mix of exhaustion and disbelief.
He added in a mutter, "If anyone comes saying 'friendly weather,' I'm not buying it."
Despite myself, I let out a low chuckle. Trust Elisha to complain even when he's half-dead.
I sheathed my sword, walking toward him. As I did, I glanced around—Paige and Xavier sat slumped together, resting back-to-back. Darcelle leaned against a tree, blade at her side, breathing hard but alive. We'd all made it. Somehow.
But still…
If demons like that could appear here—and we weren't even near the temple yet—then no wonder so many who took this route died before making it halfway.
Yet…
No. We were different. We had to be.
A sharp sting in my arm reminded me of the fight. I hissed softly. Blood trickled from a deep cut along my forearm.
Elisha, still on the ground, turned his head toward me, his usual grin returning despite the blood on his lips.
"If I'm seeing your annoying face, then I'm still alive," he said weakly. "Yay."
I couldn't help but snort. "You're lucky I don't stab you for that."
But my amusement faded as I took in the sight of him properly. His wounds were bad—worse than before. Blood soaked through his tunic, the fabric sticking to his side. I crouched beside him, frowning. "Your wounds reopened. You've lost too much blood already. You'll die at this rate."
Before Elisha could respond, someone suddenly ran toward us from the trees—a small figure carrying a folded cloth.
The boy couldn't have been more than fourteen. His hair was damp from the rain, eyes wide but steady. Without hesitation, he pressed the cloth against Elisha's wound.
Elisha gasped, half in pain, half in surprise. "Ow—hey, what the hell—"
"Hold still," the boy said firmly, tightening the cloth. "Mister, can you help me lift him? My brother's waiting with the carriage. We can treat you all properly."
I hesitated. But something in his voice—calm, certain—pushed me to move. I slid my arm under Elisha's shoulder, lifting him up. He leaned against me, grimacing. The boy supported his other side.
As we emerged from the clearing, a small open carriage came into view. Darcelle and the others were already there, huddled inside under a canopy.
The boy climbed up, took the reins, and with a click of his tongue, the horse began to move.
For a while, no one spoke. The rhythmic creak of the wheels and the faint dripping of water were all that filled the silence.
Then Darcelle broke it. "Little boy, where are we going?"
"The motel," he answered simply, glancing back with a soft smile.
Paige, her voice weak but curious, asked, "How did you know we were here?"
"The motel's high," he said, eyes bright. "We saw everything from the window—but all we could really see was darkness and fog. It was raining hard, too. Our patron said you must be raiders and definitely in danger, so we prayed to the mountain god. He answered."
He smiled again, more proudly this time. "Mostly because your intentions are pure."
Elisha scoffed. "So gods do answer prayers, huh? I thought they were too self-righteous for that."
I kicked his leg lightly. He winced and glared at me. "Yes, they answer prayers," I said flatly. "It's not the gods' fault if you've never believed in them."
He rolled his eyes and looked away. I took that as a small victory.
Paige closed her eyes, focusing on her breathing technique to ease the pain. "Have any raiders passed through this route before?"
The boy nodded. "I helped carry about thirty once. No demons attacked them, but they were already wounded when they came. They took a different path from you."
Xavier leaned forward. "Hey kid, how old are you?"
"Seventeen."
"What?!" we all chorused.
He laughed. "What, you thought I was twelve?"
"Thirteen, maybe fourteen at most," I said.
He chuckled, flicking the reins again. "I've got stunted growth. Been that way since I was seven—back when those other raiders passed by."
Elisha gave a low scoff. "You shouldn't have helped them. They didn't deserve it. They died anyway."
The boy's tone softened but held steady. "Maybe. But if we were like you, sir—cold and careless—you'd still be dying in that field. Helping's not about who deserves it."
Elisha sighed—the kind that said, You're right, but I don't care enough to admit it.
I leaned back against the carriage wall, resting my eyes. "How long till the motel?"
"An hour, maybe less," the boy replied.
The sound of the wheels rolling over wet dirt faded into the rhythm of hooves. I watched the sky slowly clear, the clouds parting to reveal faint streaks of gold. Noon sunlight poured across the landscape—bright, but cold.
One by one, everyone drifted off. Paige's breathing evened out, Xavier slumped over, Darcelle leaned her head against the side. Only I stayed awake.
So this route was safer, after all. Safer—yet haunted.
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An hour later, the carriage stopped.
I blinked awake and stepped down, looking up at the towering building before us. The motel.
No wonder they'd seen us from here—it stood higher than any structure in sight, its stone walls damp but strong, the banners on the sides fluttering softly in the wind.
The boy tugged my sleeve. "Please, help me with your friend."
I nodded and helped Elisha down. Paige and Xavier helped each other; Darcelle limped slightly but walked on her own. I could tell everyone was near their limit.
The moment we entered, a middle-aged woman—round-faced, gentle—hurried toward us. "Oh, heavens, look at you lot!" she exclaimed, calling to several others. Two attendants rushed in, guiding us to separate rooms.
They carried Elisha off to another chamber. I was ushered into a smaller one lit by candles. The air smelled faintly of herbs and clean linen.
A young girl came in carrying a basin of warm water, alcohol, clean towels, and bandages. Another servant followed with a cup of steaming herbal tea. The scent was so bitter it made my nose wrinkle.
"Sir," the girl said softly, eyes lowered. "Please remove your shirt."
I sighed and did as told, sitting down. She worked quietly—gentle hands cleaning the blood off my arm and chest, then dabbing the wound with alcohol. The sting made me flinch slightly, but she quickly blew on it, easing the burn. Her face stayed calm, though her cheeks had turned faintly red.
She bandaged my arm, then passed me the tea. "Please drink this. It'll help with the pain."
I took it, grimacing at the taste. "It's bitter," I muttered.
She smiled shyly. "Here," she said, handing me a candy. "To chase the taste away."
Before she could say more, I popped it into my mouth, cutting her off. The sweetness replaced the bitterness instantly.
When she finished, I thanked her and leaned back in the chair. Another servant entered to announce that my bath was ready. I stood, grabbed a towel, and made my way into the adjoining bath chamber.
Warm water. Steam. Silence.
I sank into the tub, letting the heat draw out the ache in my limbs. The reflections of the candles flickered on the surface, shimmering like ghosts.
Fifteen years old—that was when I first learned what admiration felt like. The Duke's daughter had confessed to me back then, five years older, convinced beauty entitled her to love. I turned her down, as I did with the rest. Pretty faces meant nothing when they were attached to hollow hearts.
I leaned back, letting my eyes drift shut. The sound of dripping water echoed faintly.
When I finally climbed out, the fatigue weighed heavier than the wounds. I dressed in the provided robe and sat on the edge of the bed. The mattress was softer than a bedroll, though nowhere near the comfort of home.
Still, I couldn't complain. Not tonight.
So if a battalion leaves that town, only a handful make it here.
And yet, we arrived whole.
Maybe that meant the gods hadn't abandoned us just yet.
Still… my thoughts kept circling back.
To Elisha.
He was reckless, loud, insufferable—but even so, the image of him lying there, bleeding, wouldn't leave my mind. He was alive now, but for how long?
I sighed, rubbing my temple. "Why does this bother me?" I muttered. "Everyone has their own life. Whether he survives or not—it's none of my concern."
But my chest tightened at the thought anyway.
A part of me I didn't want to acknowledge—
A part I'd rather bury—
still whispered quietly:
You'd care if he died.
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