Inside the shield of light, time dragged like an endless nightmare. The soldiers kept their rhythm, fighting in cycles—step out, one group after the other, when they bled, they retreat to the shield for treatment, repeat. Every breath filled their lungs with smoke and iron. Every strike was accompanied by the trembling of Nick Fletcher's shield as it shuddered beneath devil blows.
But after some time, Mia's sharp eyes caught something.
The devils weren't just throwing themselves at the barrier anymore. Their movements had shifted. Their chaos began to carry patterns. Lines of lesser devils hurled themselves forward to wear down stamina and courage, while human-like devils—taller, faster, cruelly intelligent—waited for moments when a rotation group stepped out. They struck then, piercing gaps, forcing casualties, and retreating before they could be countered.
The humans had fallen into a rhythm, and the devils had learned it.
