【Soul-Garden】

  The gate of the Soul-Garden parted beneath the weight of runes.

  Silver arrays flared, spilling pale mist across the floor. It drifted outward like liquid light, steeped in a fragrance sharp and clean—medicine woven into the very air.

  The squad paused at the threshold.

  The Cabinet of Judgments lay behind them; now came the final allocation—

  spirit-medicine.

  The garden stretched in three sealed layers, normally opened only to healers of light and high clergy.

  But under Commander Matthew Craen’s writ, they passed unchallenged—

  straight into the heart.

  “This place…” ChengYu whispered, eyes roaming,

  “feels less like storage… more like a shrine.”

  YiChen’s stride slowed, unconsciously softer. His face stayed composed—

  yet his gaze carried weight.

  The spirit-force here was so dense it felt like walking through a sanctuary alive with prayer.

  Seven white-robed archivists awaited them.

  Distribution of basics was swift:

  sacred healing elixirs, spirit crystals, antidote pills, water-substitution tablets.

  Each hunter received a numbered satchel, logged and sealed into their spatial cases.

  Then Craen led them deeper—

  into the Soul-Garden’s core.

  An aged healer waited, solemn, several rune-locked chests before him.

  His voice came clipped, ritualistic, like verses spoken at an altar:

  —“Source of Sacred Healing, eighteen vials. Stabilizes life for ten minutes—severed limbs, soul-wounds, ruptured organs.”

  —“Bloomlight Nectar, twenty vials. Three minutes’ immunity against mid-level toxins and curses.”

  —“Soul-Jade Elixir, three vials. Root marrow steeped in Phoenix’s Tears. Its scent alone sears the lungs, sweet edged with fire. If taken within three quarters of death’s approach, it can wrench a soul back once.”

  The chest shut with a thud.

  “This is all.”

  Craen’s voice cut the chamber like steel across stone:

  “The Sacred Seal Crystals. How many remain?”

  The healer stiffened.

  “Twenty.”

  “All of them. To me.”

  The elder’s brows knotted.

  “Commander, your squad has been allotted. These are held for other units. If you insist—”

  “Enough.” Craen’s tone struck, cold iron on iron.

  “First—my men do not each carry one. Second—must I remind you of my writ? No limits.”

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  The air itself seemed to contract.

  Even the mist stilled midair, as if the Soul-Garden itself flinched beneath his words.

  “If this mission falters for lack of your compliance, I will submit your name myself.”

  The old man’s face darkened, whiskers trembling with fury—

  yet at last he turned, silent, to fetch them.

  YiChen’s eyes moved across the squad.

  Faces shifted.

  They understood.

  These medicines meant only one thing—

  the edge of death.

  Reserves for when the living had already slipped too far.

  ?

  【Battle Mess Hall · Refectory】

  By the time the supplies were tallied, noon had come.

  Craen gave a single order:

  “Eat. Fill yourselves before we march.”

  The mess hall stretched wide, provisioned for exorcists alone.

  Platters of braised venison, saffron rice, roots glazed in spirit-broth—lavish beyond a soldier’s dream.

  Yet every bite tasted like iron.

  Every swallow like silence hammered into the chest.

  No one spoke.

  Every hunter replayed the words from the Soul-Garden:

  Take them all.

  It wasn’t greed.

  It was testament—signed in advance, like a will.

  They all knew.

  These medicines were for the dying.

  No mission carried odds high enough for the Church to bleed such reserves at once.

  This wasn’t assignment.

  It was gamble.

  Still no one defied.

  They only ate, in silence.

  Chewing. Swallowing.

  One bite after another.

  ?

  【Church Special Convoy · Inside the Van】

  After the meal, a black tactical minibus from the Church’s special division slid through the fortress gates, carrying eighteen exorcists toward the rally point.

  The cabin was hushed.

  Outside, light and shadow streaked across the windows.

  The wheels turned steady—like the slow march of a soldier’s soul.

  Gerold leaned close to YiChen and ChengYu.

  He gestured for them to open their satchels, explaining in a low voice:

  “This—Blood-Condensing Pearl. Three charges in three hours.

  This—Sacred Breath Pill. Clears mental taint, especially for your beasts.”

  At last he drew out a deep gray crystal, etched with runes:

  “And this… the Sacred Seal Crystal.”

  ChengYu’s eyes widened.

  “This thing… really cuts cooldown to three minutes?”

  “Yes.” Ruda nodded.

  “Inside is the Church’s newest sealed array. Breaks the soul-core cooldown cycle for a short span. Costly. Rare. Right now, fewer than fifty remain in the entire Church.”

  YiChen’s brow tightened.

  ChengYu sucked in a breath.

  “Then… doesn’t that mean we can fight in fusion… endlessly?”

  Craen’s voice cut across the cabin. Low. Steady.

  “Not endless.”

  His gaze swept the van, pausing on each face.

  “But long enough to carry us through the fight that decides everything.”

  The hum of wheels filled the silence.

  “I know what you’re thinking.”

  No one answered.

  “You’re thinking—

  is this really a battle?

  Or a death march?”

  The air thickened, pressing into every chest.

  Craen’s voice stayed level:

  “I won’t lie. Greenleaf Valley this time—one chance in ten. The enemy is stronger than anything we’ve faced. And among you—”

  his eyes narrowed, “—some will not return.”

  Each word dropped like iron.

  Then his tone shifted—sudden, sharp, like a blade drawn free of its sheath:

  “But we have done everything possible to prepare.”

  “Every piece of armor. Every vial. Every sigil etched into your gear—

  I requested it.

  I signed it.

  I checked it.”

  “Not to send you to die—”

  he looked at them each in turn, gaze unhurried, unwavering—

  “—but to carve out one chance for you to live.”

  The hush deepened.

  No one moved.

  Craen’s gaze swept once more:

  “You are not a band of strays thrown together.”

  “You are a team I chose with my own hands.”

  “From this moment—your lives are bound to each other.”

  “Forget fighting alone.”

  “The operation plan is ready. Intel comes at the forward handoff.”

  “But hear me well: from this instant—

  you are no longer many.

  You are one.”

  The silence remained—

  not oppressive, not slack—

  but the quiet of warriors braced to rise,

  blades already in hand.