With each passing day, Ashen noticed the morale at Ashbastion sinking lower.
It wasn't only the soldiers. Civilians were suffocating under the siege. Each day brought new deaths, fresh injuries, and the same wails of pain and loss.
The dwindling food supply didn't help, nor did the occasional corpses found in ditches bearing suicide marks.
If Ashen had to point to a single bright spot, it was the growing Hourvault.
As time dragged forward, it kept expanding. The reserve of mana followed suit, and so did the overflow of vitality from Vital Drift.
Ashen reckoned he had around forty times his full capacity stored in that vault. More than that, the expansion made his Blindstep more effective… as if the Hourvault also stored stolen time for the skill to use. He didn't have the perception to confirm the theory, but the results spoke for themselves.
This was also why he was grateful the assumed cult assassinations hadn't materialized. Otherwise, he'd have wasted all the accumulation he'd gathered.
The one to thank for that was the newly infamous cultist culler—his partner, Lucia.
Despite his worry for her, he couldn't be more grateful for the assist.
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Wrath Domain, Ashbastion Headquarters, May 22, 2026
The command room was austere. Stone walls lined with maps, a heavy oak table scarred from years of use, and dim mana-lamps casting long shadows.
Sabrina Chase stepped through the doorway, her boots tracking dust across the floor. Blood spattered her coat, but none of it was hers.
The vacant, somewhat cute maid expression was gone. Now, only a cold killer existed.
Three figures waited inside.
Viktor Wiseman slouched against the table, looking half-asleep despite the late hour. His wavy black hair was more disheveled than usual, and he rubbed his neck with all the enthusiasm of a man who'd rather be anywhere else.
Anna McClintock stood by the window, green robes pulled tight around her considerable frame. Her eyes tracked Sabrina's entrance with obvious concern.
Mona Prescott sat primly at the head of the table, fingers steepled, glasses catching the lamplight. Her expression was thoughtful.
Wiseman was the first to speak, his lazy drawl halting the silence. "Took you a while this time. Hard one?"
Sabrina gave a single nod. "Third step."
"...Third step?" Wiseman's drowsy eyes widened for a fraction of a second before he let out a low whistle. "Well, damn. How scary." He yawned, stretching his arms overhead. "Guess that's why you're the boss's right hand. Killing a third step that fast, that cleanly… most of us would alert half the citadel for that."
"Sabrina, dear, are you hurt?" McClintock bustled forward, already fishing a small pill bottle from her robes. "Here, take this. It'll soothe your overheated circuits. You've been pushing yourself too hard."
Sabrina accepted the pill without protest, dry-swallowing it with practiced ease. "I'm fine."
"That's what you always say," McClintock muttered, stepping back.
Prescott leaned forward, her tone light. "What I'm more curious about is how Miss Evernight keeps identifying these cultists in the first place." She adjusted her glasses, glancing between the others. "The precision is remarkable. Almost too convenient. What kind of power allows for that level of accuracy?"
Sabrina's expression didn't change. "Nothing is convenient. And every power has its price."
The room fell quiet.
Wiseman nodded slowly, his lazy facade slipping just enough to reveal something solemn underneath. "Yeah… if you haven't noticed, the lass is aging a bit too fast."
McClintock's hand flew to her mouth. "What?"
"Outwardly, she still looks young enough," Wiseman continued, waving a hand dismissively. "Just… I have a feeling she's aged by way more than a few years." He paused, then added in his usual drawl, "Only she knows how much, though."
Prescott's fingers tightened against the table. "So whatever skill she's using is burning her lifespan."
"Probably," Wiseman said. "Can't say for sure, but that's the most obvious conclusion anyway."
McClintock's concern deepened. "We should tell her to stop—"
"She won't." Sabrina's voice was flat. "She's hunting them for a reason."
"And what reason would that be?" Prescott asked, her tone casual.
Sabrina met her gaze evenly. "That's between her and the cultists. All we have to do is clean up the scum."
Wiseman let out a long, suffering sigh. "Well, whatever her reasons, I'm not complaining. Those bastards have been a thorn in our side since day one." He rubbed his face. "Still… burning your life away for revenge—or whatever this is—seems like a bad trade."
"Unless there's something more than revenge involved," Prescott murmured.
The three of them looked at Sabrina, but she said nothing.
McClintock broke the silence first, her tone softer. "Well, at the very least, we should keep an eye on her. If she collapses from overexertion, that helps no one."
"Good luck with that," Wiseman muttered. "Girl's more stubborn than a mule."
Prescott stood, smoothing her skirt. "Regardless, the cultist threat has diminished significantly thanks to her efforts. That's one less problem for us to manage." She glanced at Sabrina. "Tell her we're grateful. And that if she needs support, we're here."
Sabrina inclined her head slightly. "I'll pass it along."
"Good." Prescott turned toward the door, pausing at the threshold. "And Sabrina? Don't let her burn herself out. We can't afford to lose such a talent."
With that, she left.
McClintock lingered a moment longer, wringing her hands. "Please, dear… try to get some rest. You look exhausted."
"I will."
McClintock didn't look convinced, but she left anyway.
Wiseman remained, still slouched against the table. He watched Sabrina with half-lidded eyes, then let out another long sigh. "You know, for someone who doesn't talk much, you sure say a lot."
Sabrina's lips twitched. "You're one to talk."
"Fair." He pushed off the table, stretching lazily. "Well, I'm going to bed. Try not to die before morning, yeah?"
"I'll do my best."
Wiseman waved a hand over his shoulder as he shuffled toward the exit. "Yeah, yeah. Everyone says that."
And then she was alone.
Sabrina stood in the empty command room, blood still drying on her coat, and stared at the maps on the wall.
Her mistress, along with the rest of the third-step combatants, still hadn't returned even after months. They must have been fighting ever since—so how could she afford to take it easy?
She was ordered to stay and protect the rear, and she would do her best to accomplish that order.
Rest? What rest.
Here, in the Wrath Domain, there was no respite for the likes of them.
That was a luxury survivors had no business partaking in.
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Wrath Domain, The Ashbastion, May 23, 2026
GONG—
GONNNNG—
It was another depressing day, and Ashen thought it would be the same as the one before it, and the one before that.
How wrong he was.
It started with the frenzied attacks of the Narkals. Contrary to their usual routine, they came during the day, throwing themselves into battle with a ferocity that nearly overwhelmed the defenders.
Ashen, like any other soldier, had to take up his post and defend the walls.
A couple of hours in, the monster wave didn't abate. On the contrary, it grew fiercer.
When the sun dipped and they still attacked unrelentingly, Ashen started getting a bad feeling. When night deepened until the moon hung high, the bad premonition only strengthened.
At dawn, everyone could see red flashes on the horizon. With that phenomenon, the Narkals temporarily ceased their attack.
But no one rejoiced.
Not when everything pointed to this being merely the calm before the storm.
"Ashen!!!"
Ashen, however, had to put a halt to his inner thoughts when he heard someone call out from behind. It was a voice he was deeply familiar with at this point, one he could recognize among countless others.
'Lucia! What is she doing here…?'
When he turned around and saw her, that thought flew out of his mind in favor of another, more startled one.
'When did she age so much…?'
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Ashbastion's interior look (pic)