The two days that followed the first sand worm attack were a study in monotony and mounting tension. The desert was an endless, rippling ocean of gold and white, its beauty a cruel deception masking a core of lethal indifference. The sun was a constant, hammering presence, and the wind a dry, rasping breath that stole moisture from skin and soul alike.
But for Alistar, something had shifted. The battle against the worms had been a transaction, and he had paid in competence to purchase a sliver of trust. He was no longer just "the new fish"; he was the quiet one with the uncanny timing, the one you wanted beside you when the sand began to move.
He used this new standing. He made a point of walking with different soldiers, engaging in the inane, vital chatter that was the lifeblood of any military unit. The conversations were still a foreign language to him, a script he had to consciously follow, but he was becoming a more proficient actor.
On the third morning since the worms, he found himself marching beside Finn and a soldier named Jax, a man whose face was a roadmap of old pox scars.
"—so I told her," Finn was saying, his voice full of theatrical bravado, "that's not a knife! This is a knife!" He mimed drawing a massive, imaginary blade. "She just laughed and said it was a toothpick compared to the one her father kept under the counter."
Jax chuckled, a dry, rattling sound. "You always go for the fiery ones, Finn. They'll burn you sooner or later."
"Ah, but what a way to go!" Finn grinned, then nudged Alistar. "What about you, Al? Still holding out for some perfect, silent type?"
Alistar forced a wry smile, one that was becoming slightly less unnatural with practice. "Silent sounds good. Less complaining." He paused, then added, leaning into the persona he was building, "But a good laugh wouldn't go amiss. Someone who doesn't take it all too seriously."
It was a safe, generic answer, crafted from his observations of what these men valued. It worked.
"See?" Finn crowed to Jax. "He gets it! A sense of humor! That's the key. Life's too short to be spent with someone who scowls all the time."
"Life's too short to be spent listening to you yap," Jax retorted, but there was no malice in it. He turned to Alistar. "He's not wrong, though. A bit of light in the darkness. My Ma, she could make a joke out of a rainstorm in a drought. Made the hard years easier to swallow."
Alistar nodded, filing the information away. Finn sought validation and excitement. Jax was grounded, connected to a past of familial warmth. These were handles, points of leverage he could understand, even if he couldn't truly feel their emotional weight.
"And you, Jax?" Alistar asked, prompting him to continue. "You have someone back home?"
Jax's scarred face softened a fraction. "A wife. Two little ones. A boy and a girl. The boy wants to be a legionnaire, like his Da." He shook his head, but there was pride in his eyes. "The girl… she's sharper than a legion-issue blade. Wants to be an architect. Build things instead of breaking them." He sighed, a sound full of dust and distance. "Just want to get this done, collect my pay, and see them again. That's the dream."
"It's a good one," Alistar said, and the words, while empty of genuine sentiment, were the correct ones for the script. He was learning.
The march continued, the sun climbing. The camaraderie was a fragile shield against the oppressive reality of their mission. Alistar watched the slaves from the corner of his eye. Their simmering tension was a palpable force. He saw them occasionally touch hidden places on their rags, their movements furtive, their eyes holding a new, grim light. The poison was their secret talisman, their key to a different kind of end.
It was mid-morning when the desert stirred once more.
It started as a faint tremor, then another, closer this time. Not the single, bulging threat of before, but a series of smaller, skittering vibrations.
"Worms! Multiple contacts! Skirmish formation!" Kael's voice ripped through the air, weary but instantly authoritative.
This time, the attack was different. They didn't erupt in a single, monstrous gout of sand. Instead, the dunes around them seemed to come alive. A dozen, then two dozen smaller, faster worms—no thicker than a man's thigh but whip-fast and relentless—burst from the sand. They were like pale, fleshy snakes, their circular maws snapping, their bodies coiling and lashing.
The caravan devolved into a swirling melee. The shield wall was useless against this many scattered, agile targets. It was every soldier for himself, small groups forming and breaking as they fought back the onslaught.
Alistar's mind, [Enlightened], became a cold, clear lens. He didn't feel fear; he felt a surge of analytical focus. This was a new data set. These worms were faster, less powerful, but their numbers presented a different kind of problem—attrition.
He moved with a predator's economy. He didn't waste energy on flashy swings or roaring charges. He let the other soldiers engage, watching their styles.
Brant was a bulwark, using his strength to literally grapple with the smaller worms, crushing them in his arms or pinning them for a killing blow. Finn was a dancer, light on his feet, using his spear to feint and jab, leading the creatures into each other's paths. Revik fought with a desperate, furious energy, his earlier conflict channeled into a pure, survivalist violence.
Alistar positioned himself on the periphery of these small battles. He became the finisher. A worm would latch onto Brant's shield, and as the big man strained to hold it, Alistar's spear would dart in, piercing its nerve cluster, causing it to go limp. Finn would expertly trip a worm, sending it tumbling, and before it could right itself, Alistar's blade would find its spine.
He was a ghost, a reaper of momentum. He never took the initial risk, always the final, efficient strike. To the others, it looked like flawless teamwork. To Alistar, it was resource management. He was conserving his strength, studying their techniques, and building his reputation all at once.
"On your left, Al!" Finn yelled, dodging a lashing tail.
Alistar didn't respond with words. He simply pivoted, his spear a grey blur, and impaled the worm Finn had dodged, pinning it to the sand. He placed a boot on its writhing body, yanked the spear free, and moved on.
The fight was a brutal, chaotic slog. The air filled with the hisses of the worms, the grunts of soldiers, the sharp scent of ichor and fear. But slowly, methodically, the legionnaires gained the upper hand. The sand was littered with twitching, pale bodies.
When the last of the skirmishers was slain, the men stood panting, leaning on their spears. They were bruised, spattered with gore, but alive. The cost had been light—a few deep bites and lacerations, but no fatalities.
Finn wiped his brow, grinning wearily at Alistar. "Gods, man. You're like a shadow. I swing, I miss, and then it's just… dead. You there."
"Just cleaning up," Alistar replied, his tone casual. He scanned the dunes, his [Enlightened] perception searching for patterns, for the source of the pack's behavior. "They were more organized this time. Like a hunting pack."
Kael, who had moved through the fray with grim efficiency, grunted in agreement, coming to stand near them. "Aye. They're learning. Or something's driving them." He gave Alistar an appraising look. "You see more than you talk. It's a good trait. Keep it."
It was as close to high praise as Kael was likely to give. Alistar simply nodded. The trust was solidifying. He was one of them.
The caravan pressed on, the mood now a mixture of battle-weariness and grim vigilance. The soldiers cast nervous glances at the seemingly placid dunes, knowing another attack could come at any moment.
It did.
An hour later, the ground shook with a different tenor. This wasn't a skittering or a series of bulges. It was a single, deep, resonant thump that vibrated up through their legs into their chests. Then another. And another. The rhythm of something massive, moving underground, pacing them.
"Hold!" Kael roared, his face etched with a dread that hadn't been there for the smaller worms.
The sand directly in their path, fifty yards ahead, erupted.
It wasn't a burst. It was a slow, terrifying upheaval, as if a small island were being born from the depths. Sand cascaded away in great sheets, revealing a creature of nightmare. It was a worm, but on a scale that defied belief. Its body was the size of a small house, its segments the color of old bone, crusted with rocky growths and scars. Its maw was a yawning pit, large enough to swallow a man whole, and the rows of teeth within were not just sharp; they were jagged, blackened shards of obsidian that rotated slowly, grinding against each other with a sound like grinding mountains.
"Gods of stone and sand," Brant whispered, his face pale. "A Sand Demon."
Kael's voice cut through the stunned silence, sharp and clear. "All hands! This is it! Spears to the front! Archers, aim for the mouth and the scars on its hide! It's wounded, see the weeping gashes? It's old and it's slow, but it will end every one of us if we show fear! For the Legion!"
A ragged cheer went up, fueled more by desperation than courage. The soldiers formed a wide, shallow crescent around the behemoth.
The Sand Demon let out a roar that was less a sound and more a physical pressure, a wave of concussive force that knocked several men to their knees. It surged forward, not with the speed of its smaller kin, but with an inexorable, glacial momentum that was somehow more terrifying.
The battle was joined.
It was chaos. Spears glanced off its rocky hide. Arrows peppered its flanks, seeming to do little more than annoy it. Its tail, a massive, bludgeoning log of flesh and chitin, swept across the front line, sending three men flying through the air like ragdolls. They did not get up.
Alistar's [Enlightened] mind worked furiously, discarding a dozen strategies a second. A direct assault was suicide. He saw Brant and a group of others try to hold the line, only to be scattered by another tail swipe. He saw archers firing into its mouth, only for the creature to snap its maw shut, shattering the arrows.
"Flanks!" Kael bellowed. "Go for the old wounds! The soft tissue!"
It was the only way. Soldiers scrambled to the sides, jabbing their spears into the deep, weeping gashes that marred the creature's body. The Demon bellowed in pain and rage, thrashing wildly. It focused its attention on one flank, its maw diving down like a striking serpent.
It caught a soldier—Jax—who was too slow to retreat. The man had just enough time for a single, truncated scream before the obsidian teeth met, and he was gone.
Alistar felt nothing. He saw the data point: Jax - eliminated. Cause: insufficient mobility. He was already moving, using the distraction. While the Demon was focused on consuming Jax, Alistar sprinted along its opposite flank. He saw a deep gash, wider than the others, pulsing with a faint, sickly light. A major artery, perhaps.
He didn't have a spear long enough to reach it from a safe distance. He needed to get closer. Much closer.
"Revik! Finn! Draw its eye!" he yelled, the first time he had raised his voice in true command.
To their credit, they didn't hesitate. Revik screamed a raw, wordless challenge, throwing a javelin that stuck in the creature's lip. Finn launched a flaming arrow from a nearby brazier, which sizzled against its hide near its eye.
The Demon turned its massive head, annoyed.
This was his chance. Alistar ran straight at the creature's side, a tiny figure against a moving mountain. He leaped, using a smaller, bony plate as a foothold, and scrambled upwards, his fingers finding purchase in the cracks and scars of its hide. The stench was overwhelming—ozone, rot, and ancient dust.
The Demon felt him. It began to buck and twist, trying to dislodge him. Alistar clung on, his [Super Regeneration] already working to soothe the muscles screaming in protest. He was ten feet up, then fifteen. The gash was just above him.
A lashing tail whipped past, missing him by inches but tearing a soldier below in half.
He reached the gash. It was a trench in the creature's flesh, wide enough for him to stand in, dripping with clear, hot fluid. He ignored the burning sensation on his legs. He raised his spear, took aim at the pulsing, vital core deep within the wound, and drove it home with all his strength.
The Sand Demon screamed. It was a sound of pure, unadulterated agony that shook the very sky. It reared up, its front half lifting completely off the ground, trying to throw him. Alistar held on, driving the spear deeper, twisting it.
He saw Brant, below, see his chance. The big man roared, hefting a heavy legion axe, and charged forward, burying it deep into the soft tissue under the creature's jaw.
The Demon thrashed one last time, its movements becoming erratic, uncoordinated. Then, with a final, ground-shaking tremor, it collapsed. Its massive head hit the sand with a sound like a fortress wall falling, and did not move again.
Silence.
It was broken by the moans of the wounded and the ragged, disbelieving cheers of the survivors. They had done it. They had killed a Sand Demon.
Alistar pulled his spear from the gore and slid down the creature's side, landing lightly in the sand. He was covered head to toe in ichor and grime, his heart beating a steady, controlled rhythm.
Finn stumbled over to him, his face a mask of awe and exhaustion. "You… you climbed it. You mad bastard, you climbed it!"
Brant clapped him on the back, a blow that would have staggered a normal man. "The kill is yours, Alistar. By rights and by madness, it's yours."
Alistar just nodded, wiping his face with a clean part of his sleeve. He looked around. The cost had been high. Sixteen men lay dead in the sand, their bodies broken and mangled. Among them was Jax, the man who had dreamed of his sharp-witted daughter becoming an architect.
The victory felt hollow, even to the other soldiers. The cheers died quickly, replaced by the grim work of triage and body recovery.
That night, the camp was a somber place. The bonfire felt more like a pyre. The soldiers drank their wine, but the toast was to the fallen, not to future comforts. The names were spoken into the flames—Jax, Dorian, and the others.
Later, as Alistar sat cleaning his gear, Revik found him. The young soldier's face was drawn, his eyes haunted.
"Sixteen," Revik whispered, sitting heavily beside him. "We lost sixteen good men. Jax… he had a family."
"I know," Alistar said, his focus on the whetstone moving along his spearhead. "He told me."
Revik stared at him, searching his face for any sign of grief, any crack in the calm facade. There was none. "Do you feel anything, Alistar? Anything at all? They fought beside us. They died beside us."
Alistar stopped his work and looked at Revik. The firelight reflected in his pale, luminous eyes, making them look like chips of ice.
"No," he said, and his voice was quiet, but absolute. "I don't."
The honesty was more shocking than any lie could have been. Revik flinched as if struck. A strange, conflicted expression twisted his features—part horror, part fascination. He opened his mouth to speak, then closed it again. He simply shook his head, stood up, and walked away into the darkness without another word.
Alistar watched him go. He felt no remorse for his answer. It was the truth. This was a nightmare. The men who died today were phantoms, their lives and loves intricate details in a simulation designed to test his will. Mourning them would be like mourning the deletion of a line of code. It was illogical. It was a leak in the hull.
He stood and walked over to where a group of soldiers was digging a mass grave in the sand. He picked up a shovel and began to help. He didn't do it out of respect for the dead, or out of camaraderie for the living. He did it because it was the next logical task to be completed. It maintained his cover. It was efficient.
He worked in silence, the dry, shifting sand giving way with a soft hiss. Each shovelful was a reminder of the impermanence of this world. Each body rolled into the pit was a data point concluded. He was a machine, performing maintenance.
As he worked, his mind was already on the horizon, on the Altar of the Fallen Sun, on the catalyst waiting to be unleashed. The deaths of these sixteen soldiers had simplified the equation. The opposition was weaker. The plan's probability of success had just increased.
The grinding stone of the desert had taken its tribute. And Alistar, untouched and unmoved, was ready to use the resulting powder to forge his own destiny.
The dawn of the fourth day was a muted affair. The sky was a sheet of dull, beaten brass, the sun a sullen orange eye opening on a world of grief and duty. The camp stirred with none of the usual morning banter. The air was thick with the memory of the dead.
The mass grave was a raw, dark scar on the landscape, hastily covered and marked with a simple cairn of stones. Kael stood before it as the men assembled, his face more weathered than ever.
"We burn their names in our minds, not in the sand," he said, his voice a low gravel-roll that carried over the silent company. "They died as Legionnaires. They did their duty. The best honor we can give them now is to finish the mission. Their families will get the death-pay. That's the contract. That's the only comfort there is out here. Now, form up. We move."
There were no cheers, no shouts of affirmation. Just a grim, collective exhalation, and the slow, deliberate process of breaking camp. The slaves were unchained from their nightly post and re-shackled into the marching line. Alistar saw their eyes, flickering with a nervous, desperate energy. The Altar was close. Their moment was approaching.
The march resumed, the caravan a wounded beast limping towards its destination. The soldiers' trust in Alistar remained, but it was now tinged with a certain wariness. They had seen his courage, his effectiveness, but they had also sensed the void where his empathy should have been. He was a weapon, and they were grateful for it, but they did not seek him out for conversation.
Alistar was content with this. The social experiment was largely over. He had the data he needed. Now, it was about execution.
His [Enlightened] mind turned over the plan once more, examining it for flaws. The poison. The chaos at the altar. His and Revik's roles. The variables had been reduced. The system was primed.
He looked out at the endless dunes, at the soldiers marching with their heads down, at the slaves shuffling towards their doom. All of it—the heat, the sand, the blood, the bonds of fellowship, the pangs of conscience—was a complex illusion. A beautiful, brutal, and utterly temporary dream.
Soon, he would wake up. And all of this would fade, like a ghost at sunrise. All that would remain was the power he wrested from it.
The grinding stone turned, and Alistar, a stark silhouette against the bleeding sky, marched on, a smudge of calculated purpose in a panorama of fading colour.