Taking note of Akno's final, hoarse whisper (empty though it may have been), an unpleasant residue still lingered in Saigo's soul... He exited the cell with a cold, almost predatory expression.
"Sir, you..." Mona began, but he sharply cut her off with a gesture.
"One moment." He turned to the guard who was lazily picking his nose, leaning against the wall. "Are you aware that you have ghosts here?"
"Huh? Where?" The guard pulled his finger from his nose, his eyes wide with genuine surprise and mild superstitious fear.
Saigo silently pointed a finger upwards, towards the ceiling, from where that soul-chilling coldness emanated. "And how do you know that, are you some kind of warlock?" the guard hissed, turning his head upwards.
"That's not important..." Saigo had already turned to his two "statues" – the dummies, as he mentally called them. 'I hope the Empress didn't skimp and gave you proper blades.'
On the move, with one smooth, practiced motion, he drew the heavy longsword from the scabbard of the nearest guard. The blade, drawn from the darkness of its sheath, illuminated the corridor's gloom with a dim but steady shimmer – a cold, bluish light.
Saigo was pleased - a Force Blade, named not for physical strength but for the high mana-ore content in its steel, capable of absorbing and conducting magical energy.
The perfect weapon against the undead and other abominations. He raised the sword, scrutinized the blade, and then whistled approvingly through his teeth.
'The runes are in place... And the workmanship is quality.' The familiar offensive and enhancing symbols, etched along the spine and base of the blade, glowed more evenly than even those on their own specialized weapons.
"Alright. Wait here."
"Sir, where are you going?!" Mona took a step forward, her green eyes flashing with alarm.
"I want to stretch my legs," he tossed over his shoulder, already heading towards the narrow, dusty staircase leading to the attic. Akno's words, even if the bleating of a madman, had soured his mood. Anger – cold as the steel of the blade – demanded an outlet, and ghosts... they were the perfect target.
Without a word, the guard-dummies exchanged a glance (if their empty stares could be called that) and, clicking their heels, followed him like shadows. Mona, gritting her teeth, followed suit.
…
The attic was a vast, abandoned space under the very roof. High, soot-blackened rafters were lost in the darkness. The air was thick with the dust of centuries, smelling of dry wood rot, old iron, and something... dead. Countless boxes, chests, cobweb-covered barrels, broken furniture – the junk of decades, if not centuries – were piled everywhere.
Saigo stepped onto the creaky floorboards. The threat washed over him in a wave. It hung in the air, thick and tangible, like the dust.
And he also felt... the guards. They stood behind him, insensate to the danger, whether due to magical control or simply being as dumb as posts, they hadn't even bothered to light a torch or a lantern, relying, it seemed, on the remaining glow of the sword and their own inhuman reflexes.
'Idiots.'
Pushing them from his mind, Saigo tightened his grip on the Force Blade's hilt. He desperately wanted to unleash a furious assault, to slash left and right, letting off steam.
But caution was an important – no, a key – part of his job. He moved forward slowly, placing his feet as silently as a cat. His eyes, accustomed to the dark, scanned the space: shadows between boxes, gaps under beams, dark corners under the roof itself. His ears caught every rustle – the creak of wood, the scuttling of a mouse (or not a mouse?), the whisper of invisible movement in the dust.
Ghosts... Treacherous opponents, he coldly analyzed as he moved. Without the right tools – almost insurmountable, as they are invulnerable to steel, and their frosty touches burn the very soul.
'But if you have the tools...' His gaze slid over the shimmering blade. '...then they are pitiful beyond belief.' There was a grain of truth in his assessment: he couldn't be frightened by wails or half-decayed bodies.
He was fast and agile enough to dodge their icy touches, and with a magical weapon in his hands... their "lives" literally hung by a thread. One precise strike – and a ghost would dissipate like smoke.
A chill hit the skin of his back, sharp and close. 'So, it's near.' "Well... come closer!"
He shouted, took another step forward, deeper into the attic labyrinth.
And hell broke loose.
The attic was illuminated, not by light, but by a scream. A soul-rending, multi-layered shriek, in which dozens, hundreds of voices merged: female shrieks, children's cries, the death rattles of men, insane laughter.
The sound assaulted the ears, the mind, trying to scorch reason itself.
From all the shadows, from behind every box, from under rotten beams, from the very air – they rushed forth. Semi-transparent, shimmering with an eerie pale green or blue light.
Dressed in tattered rags that were once prison robes or the clothes of the poor. Faces – masks of eternal terror, pain, or madness. Empty eye sockets or points burning with hatred.
They floated, not touching the floor, with inhuman speed, stretching out bony, phantom hands. Their movement was unnaturally synchronized, as if commanded by an invisible puppeteer.
Saigo... smiled. A wide, almost joyous smile bared his teeth in the semi-darkness. This was exactly what he had been waiting for. Adrenaline surged in his blood, his anger found an outlet. The shimmering Force Blade swept upwards, ready to meet the first wave of shadows.
The battle began.