The fall had nearly taken Aldric's breath away, but thanks to Clet's quick thinking, he was still alive. Water spheres had softened their descent, and though his limbs ached and his body felt heavy, Aldric had no time to think about pain.
From the moment he had seen that horrifying creature in the sky—the black moth with a woman's stitched face—only one thought had filled his mind.
Run.
Run fast.
Run far.
Run and don't look back.
But strangely, Aldric wasn't panicking. His body trembled from the adrenaline, yet his mind remained clear, frighteningly so. It wasn't the blind fear that made one sprint in random directions. It was the cold, sharp fear that forced a person to think carefully, to calculate their next move with precision.
He knew that if he ran the wrong way, he could end up deeper in the Blood Fang Mountains. That would mean running from one death into another. So instead of bolting immediately, Aldric assessed everything around him in an instant.
The location of the corrupted moth and its vile spawns.
The remaining arcanists still fighting.
The state of the terrain and where the explosions had hit hardest.
His own condition—tired, low on mana, but still functional.
Countless thoughts flashed through his mind in the span of a single heartbeat.
Then, he made his choice.
He saw a narrow clearing that stretched between two small ridges to the west—it looked like the most viable path to escape.
He bent his knees, tensed his muscles, and prepared to sprint with everything he had—
—but just as he pushed off the ground, something grabbed his ankle.
The grip was strong and desperate. Aldric stumbled and fell face-first into the dirt, his heart lurching as he twisted around.
It was Lionel.
The illusion path arcanist lay sprawled on the ground, his golden robes drenched in blood. His breathing was shallow, and his eyes were dim. His throat looked torn, blood gurgling from the wound.
Aldric froze for a moment, staring at him.
He wasn't happy that Lionel was dying, but he also didn't feel sorrow. In this situation, survival was all that mattered. Lionel, as talented as he was in mental and illusion arts, had no place in Aldric's escape plan. Carrying him would only slow him down, and Aldric knew that sentimentality had no value in a battlefield filled with corrupted abominations.
He had already made up his mind—he would leave Lionel behind.
But Lionel's hand tightened around his ankle. The strength of that grip was unnatural for someone that wounded. Aldric frowned, his irritation growing.
"Let go," he muttered.
Lionel didn't respond. Instead, Aldric's gaze was drawn to his eyes—bloodshot, wild, and burning. They weren't the eyes of a man begging to be saved. There was no fear, no despair. Only hatred.
That kind of hatred was raw and consuming, the kind that burned everything else away. It was the hatred of someone who had lost everything but refused to die quietly.
Aldric understood that look. It was the gaze of a person who wanted revenge so badly that even death seemed like an acceptable price.
And yet, Aldric also sensed that Lionel's hatred wasn't directed at him. It was aimed at the monster that had destroyed their caravan—the abomination that had reduced hundreds of lives to ashes.
Lionel opened his mouth, trying to speak. But only a strangled wheeze came out. His windpipe was damaged, likely crushed by the explosion. His face twisted with pain and frustration. He tried again, forcing air through his ruined throat, but no words came.
Blood dripped down his chin, and his eyes flashed with a strange resolve.
Then, Lionel did something that made Aldric's blood run cold.
He bit down hard on his own hand.
His teeth sank deep, piercing flesh and bone, and blood spilled freely. Instead of crying out, Lionel brought the bleeding hand to his lips and drank from it.
Aldric's eyes widened in disbelief. "What the hell—"
Before he could finish, a sharp whistle cut through the air.
A blur of motion followed.
A long, jagged spike tore through the night sky, moving faster than any arrow. It pierced Lionel's chest with a sickening crack, nailing him to the ground like a broken doll.
The light in Lionel's eyes dimmed instantly. His body twitched once, then went still.
Aldric froze, his body numb. Slowly, he turned his head in the direction the spike had come from.
And there it was.
A figure emerged from the smoke and fire—a humanoid creature, about two meters tall, its skin slick and patchy, shifting between black and white like rotting marble. Slime oozed down its limbs, hissing as it hit the ground.
Its arms were grotesquely long, ending in sharp, bone-like claws that gleamed in the faint light. The creature's chest heaved with strange, uneven breaths, and its body moved in twitching, unnatural motions, as though it wasn't used to its own form.
Then Aldric saw its face—or what passed for one.
There were no eyes. No nose. No ears.
Only a massive mouth that split across the entire face, curving upward like a grotesque smile. Rows of thin, needle-like teeth filled it completely, and as the creature's mouth opened, a low, wet hiss escaped.
The sound crawled into Aldric's bones.
And even though the thing had no eyes, Aldric felt its attention lock onto him.
The air between them seemed to twist, thick with killing intent. The monster's head tilted, twitching unnaturally as if it were sniffing the air. Then its long claws dug into the ground.
Aldric's heart pounded in his chest.
He didn't move. Couldn't move.
The creature let out a distorted screech that rattled the air and launched forward—its movements jerky, yet blindingly fast.
The ground cracked beneath its feet as it charged straight toward him.
And in that instant, Aldric knew—
this was no ordinary monster.
This was corruption incarnate.