Fog and Steel
The neon-green fog clung to the stone walls like a living mold, turning the familiar, structured corridors of the East Blue Laboratory into a suffocating maze. George and Ren moved with back-to-back precision, their boots scuffing against the floor as they scanned every alcove for the telltale amber glow of a Hunter's mask.
In a recessed alcove near the secondary maintenance hub, a sudden blur of motion made Ren spark a defensive flame in his palm.
"Wait! It's me!" a frantic, high-pitched voice whispered. Faust Fangula emerged from behind a heavy equipment crate, his reddish-blond hair disheveled and his fractured spectacles sliding down the bridge of his nose. He was clutching a strange, whirring mechanical device—a chaotic assembly of copper wires, salvaged air-filtration fans, and a glowing mana-core he must have ripped directly from a wall fixture.
Relief washed over George as the friends shared a brief, tight embrace. "Faust, you're alive. We thought the Hunters had rounded everyone up."
"I managed to hide when the gas hit," Faust panted, his voice a frantic mix of academic pride and sheer terror. "I've been busy. I salvaged parts from the environmental sub-station and built a localized atmospheric purifier. It'll clear the smoke, but the filtration system is manual. I need to get it directly into the main ventilation shaft for it to work on this wing."
"We'll get you there," George promised, his hand tightening on his Tele-stone ring. "Ren and I will clear the path."
The Vent Shift Skirmish
The trio moved toward the central ventilation hub, a massive chamber where the facility's air pipes converged like the iron arteries of a beast. As they reached the threshold, the shadows at the edge of the room detached themselves. Two Hunter guards lunged out of the gloom. They didn't run; they moved with a sickening, feline grace, their matte-black plate armor swallowing what little light remained. George reacted instinctively, throwing a wind blast at the lead Hunter, while Ren unleashed a torrent of fire.
But the Hunters were too quick. They moved like shifting smoke, their weight distribution bypassing the mages' projections with terrifying fluidity. The lead Hunter ducked under George's blast and lashed out with a humming green dagger. George twisted, but the blade caught him across the shoulder. A sharp, stinging heat radiated from the cut.
"George!" Ren shouted, but he was pinned.
The second Hunter had closed the distance, spinning through Ren's defenses and delivering a devastating kick to the fire-mage's chest. Ren was sent reeling back, his breath hitching as he hit the heavy masonry. George tried to stand, but his knees felt like water. The world began to tilt, his vision blurring as the green toxin from the blade entered his system. Through the haze, he saw the Hunter standing over him, the avian mask cold and expressionless. The amber lenses glowed as the assassin raised his dagger, aiming for George's heart.
Thwip—CRACK!
A streak of orange light cut through the fog. Ren, leaning against the wall for support, had manifested a condensed fire arrow. With a final surge of focus, he let it fly. The arrow punched straight through the Hunter's metallic mask, leaving a charred hole in the center of the visor. The Hunter collapsed, his body twitching once before going still. The remaining Hunter hissed, turning his attention to Ren. George, fighting back the nausea and the creeping blur in his eyes, forced himself up. He launched a wind blast to support his friend, but his depth perception was gone—the blast smashed into a nearby pipe instead. However, the distraction was enough. Outnumbered and realizing the mages were more resilient than expected, the final Hunter retreated, vanishing into the shadows of the hallway like a ghost.
The Armory Infiltration
"Faust, the shaft! Quickly!" George wheezed, clutching his throbbing shoulder.
They reached the ventilation shift, and Faust jammed the device into the intake. With a groan of grinding gears, the machine hummed to life. Slowly, the thick green clouds began to swirl, sucked into the filtration unit and replaced by the faint, recycled scent of clean air.
"The main hallway to the armory is crawling with them," Faust said, peering through his fractured spectacles at a high-set ventilation grate. "But look—that shaft leads directly over the weapons room. We go over them, not through them."
The trio scrambled up a maintenance ladder and into the cramped, metallic belly of the facility. They crawled through the dust-choked vents until they reached a grate overlooking the vault. Dropping down, George landed amidst rows of ancient steel and experimental prototypes.
"What are we looking for?" Faust asked, his voice echoing in the quiet vault.
"Standard spells aren't cutting it," George replied, scanning the racks. "We need weapons that can hold their own against that green energy."
George's eyes landed on an ancient longsword, its crossguard etched with faded runes. As he gripped the hilt, he felt a faint, residual thrum of magic—a low hum that resonated with his own aura. It wasn't a powerhouse, but it was real steel. After gathering a spear for Nana and a jagged, heavy dagger for Kayn, they climbed back into the vents, using the facility's underbelly to make their way toward the West Wing control room.
The Control Room Reunion
As they emerged from a vent in the hallway across from the control room, they froze. A group of Hunters was patrolling the far end of the corridor. Moving with held breath, the trio crept through the shadows, ducking behind heavy equipment crates until they reached the final stretch.
The sight that met them was startling. The floor outside the control room was littered with the bodies of Hunter guards. Their black armor was scorched with unmistakable, jagged lightning marks that smelled of ozone. George, Ren, and Faust looked at the carnage, then at each other, speaking the name in a single breath:
"Nana."
They burst into the control room. Nana and Kayn were standing guard at the heavy doors, their faces smeared with soot but their eyes burning with defiance. Behind them, Rimona was hunched over the main console, while Professor Log sat slumped in a corner. His face was a sickly grey, the wound on his abdomen was pulsating with a nasty, green rash that looked like it was trying to eat into his very veins.
"They cornered us near the elevators," Nana explained, her voice tight as she caught the spear George threw to her. George slightly lost his balance as he landed, the toxic haze creeping in behind his eyes. "We barely made it in here."
George handed the ancient dagger to Kayn, who tested the weight with a grim nod.
"What now, George?" Kayn asked.
George looked at the monitors. The facility was a war zone, but the smoke was almost gone. "Now," George said, his voice hardening despite his injury, "we take the fight to them. We don't wait for them to find us again."
Rimona's hands flew across the glass interface. "I'm bypassing their locks... now. Security protocols are back online. I can see every heat signature in the building."
George clapped Faust on the shoulder. "Nice work, Faust. Your machine cleared the way. We'd be blind without it."
The group tightened their grips on their new weapons. George turned to the others, his leadership fueled by a desperate necessity. "Ren, you're the fastest and your fire can cauterize if needed. You and I need to get to the infirmary and find an antitoxin for that rot on Log's shoulder. Faust, stay with Rimona. Help her man the monitors and coordinate the security gates. Nana, Kayn... I need you to roam the halls. Find anyone who can help us—a third-year, a teacher, whoever is still standing."
They shared one final, heavy look—a silent vow of survival—before stepping out of the control room to venture back into the fray.