Hope woke with a jerk cough frantically the moon above him hung fractured and broken, a jagged silhouette against the starless void of the sky. Its shards seemed to glow faintly, casting an eerie, pale light across the barren landscape. The rocky terrain stretched out endlessly, barren mountains looming like ancient guardians, their jagged peaks fractured in ways that seemed unnatural, as though the land had been torn apart by some cosmic force.
Hope felt a deep, hollow weight in the air, a sense of stillness, as though the entire world had stopped breathing. But despite the strange, quiet desolation, there was a strange comfort in the silence—a reprieve from the constant chaos that seemed to consume everything. He could feel it—his body, surprisingly intact, had healed since the fight. The aches were still there, lingering like ghosts in his joints and muscles, but his skin was whole again. It almost felt as though the wounds never existed in the first place, and the overwhelming exhaustion that had gripped him when the devil had fallen now seemed like a distant memory, though the fog in his mind hadn't fully lifted.
He looked around, his eyes falling on Massa and Nefer, still sprawled on the ground, their blood pooling beneath them, soaking into the ground. The lifeblood they had lost was significant, but it seemed like they were hanging on, their chests rising and falling slowly, the only sign that they were still alive. Hope let out a quiet sigh, an emotion he rarely allowed himself. His instincts told him to move, to run, but he couldn't abandon them here. Not when he had come this far.
Hope's gaze lingered on Massa for a moment longer. She had fought beside him, fought for survival, and now she lay here, still breathing, but barely. He squatted down beside them both, looking at their unconscious faces. The moonlight bathed them in a soft, ghostly glow.
His hands were still covered in the devil's black smoke from their last battle—residual traces of the cursed creature that had clung to his skin after its death. Hope wiped his hands on his tattered coak, his mind continuing to race with questions. What had happened to them? Did the spell move them two kilometer backward or forward? He had no answers, but there was one thing he did know. He had to keep moving, keep surviving. That's how things worked here—how they had always worked.
With a grunt, he stood up, lifting Massa and Nefer, one over each shoulder. Despite their injuries, they seemed lighter than he had expected. Hope had thought the weight of their bodies would drag him down, would make his legs buckle beneath the load, but instead, they felt almost weightless. It was strange, as though the very air around him was aiding his movements, helping him to carry the burden.
Hope gritted his teeth as he began walking. His legs trembled beneath him, the exhaustion threatening to overtake him again, but he refused to stop. The ground beneath his boots was uneven, sharp rocks jutting out at random angles, but Hope kept his gaze ahead, focusing on the path before him. The cave was not far now, just a few dozen meters away, but with the weight of his companions on his shoulders, it felt like miles.
When he finally reached the mouth of the cave, Hope carefully laid Massa and Nefer down on the floor, positioning them gently so that they wouldn't roll or shift. His arms burned from the strain, and his back felt like it might snap under the weight of what he had just carried. But he didn't stop. His mind, despite being fogged by exhaustion, was sharp. He needed to make sure they were alright, to assess their wounds.
He crouched down beside them, his fingers trembling as he carefully moved Nefer's hand away from her side to inspect the injury. The wound had stopped bleeding, but it was clear she had lost a lot of blood. Her skin was pale, almost ghostly, and her breathing was shallow, ragged. Hope's heart tightened at the sight. He didn't know much about healing—he had always been a scavenger, a survivor, never a healer—but he knew that if he didn't act soon, there wouldn't be anything left to save.
His eyes shifted to Massa next, and he couldn't help but study her face again. Despite her injuries, she still appeared so old, her once green hair now grey, her wrinkled face was not a sight to be proud of .and now, in this stillness, it was bothering him even more. He had never once seen Massa act like a typical mage. Sure, she was powerful, but every spell she cast had drained her in a way that suggested her magic was tied to her life force, maybe not to her very essence. And yet, despite this, She had always remained youthful. How did she remain youthful despite this.
How? Hope thought, a theory forming in his mind. If casting magic drains her life force, and if she's used powerful spells before, why isn't she older? Why doesn't she show signs of age or fatigue from it?
He looked back at Massa, scrutinizing her again, his mind working through the possibilities, the answers he didn't have. Maybe it wasn't just the magic that kept her young. Maybe it was something else—something deeper. But before he could think any further, a sharp pain shot through the back of his head, his temples throbbing as though a thousand needles were being driven into his skull. He cursed, rubbing his forehead with his palm, trying to steady himself as the pain surged through him. Damn it, I'm thinking too much again...
He sat back on his heels, focusing on the sky outside the cave. The cracked moon loomed overhead, its shattered fragments drifting in the air like forgotten pieces of a once whole world. His mind drifted, his thoughts growing sluggish. The physical exhaustion from the battle, from the weight of his actions, was taking its toll.
Boredom crept in quickly. A deep, oppressive silence filled the cave, pressing in from all sides. With a frustrated sigh, Hope summoned his sword, the familiar weight of the blade settling into his hands as he brought it up. Despite the burning ache in his muscles, he couldn't sit idle. The urge to move, to act, was ingrained deep within him.
With a grimace, he lifted his sword. The pain in his arms flared, but he forced it back. He focused on the movement, focusing on the rhythm of the strikes. His grip was tight, but his hand shook as he brought the blade down, slicing through the air. One. Two. Three. Each strike reverberated through his body, sending tremors through his spine. His arms were growing weaker by the second, but he kept going, one strike after the next, faster, harder.
The pain in his muscles was unbearable, but Hope didn't stop. His eyes were narrowed with determination, each swing pushing him further into exhaustion. Sweat trickled down his brow, stinging his eyes, but he ignored it. The blade bit through the air again, each cut sharper than the last. Four. Five. Six. His breathing was ragged now, each exhale sounding like a struggle, but he pushed forward.
The cave was silent except for the sound of steel clashing against the empty air, the weight of the sword becoming heavier with each passing strike. His arms trembled, each muscle screaming in protest, but Hope gritted his teeth, forcing himself to continue. He couldn't stop. Not now.
His vision blurred, but he didn't slow down. He kept swinging.