At precisely ten o’clock, sunlight pierced the mist at the canyon’s mouth.

  It carved across the valley like a blade tempered a thousand years in fire.

  Fiends and shadow-worms that had prowled the night shriveled like slugs in flame, retreating into nests, smoke trailing faintly from their skins.

  Craen studied the map, his tone clipped:

  “Today we cross the main ravine.

  By two-thirty, we set the next base point at the turn.”

  The squad advanced on schedule.

  For one brief hour, the sun was their ally.

  Then the cliffs rose sheer, choking the sky, swallowing light.

  By the third hour, only fractured rays filtered through the canopy.

  Yin surged back. The spirit-flow grew restless.

  YiChen walked near the front, gaze raking the brush. Something in the ley-lines pulsed wrong.

  “Stay sharp,” ChengYu whispered. Silverwing quivered faintly against his wrist.

  “He says there’s something ahead.”

  YiChen’s hand brushed Shadowfang’s hilt. His body sank low, coiled for the strike.

  At the lead, Herlan Bruce raised a fist. The squad froze.

  A pressure rolled from the trees—strange, suffocating.

  Then, from behind the thorn-brush, a black mass slid out.

  A canine. But tainted. Warped.

  A Soulfang Hound.

  Its hide was bone-plates, cracked like shattered armor.

  Its eyes, hollow pits lit blood-red.

  From its chest dangled a fractured core, pulsing weakly—yet poisoned with abyssal fire.

  Even beneath noon light, shadow clung to it thick as ink. It was less beast than shard of unreality.

  The stench of spiritual rot poured from its breath. Every contract beast recoiled.

  “Damn it,” muttered David Nann. “Soulfang. Just our luck.”

  Craen’s voice cut low, decisive:

  “Melee, fall back. Ranged, form line. Combat state.”

  The Gossamer Cicada unfurled across his wrist, weaving golden thread-shields.

  Above, Elena’s Lyriquill Heron spread his wings, a veil of rose-gold falling like rain, warding against curses.

  Gerold pressed close to the brothers, voice hard:

  “Its shell’s harder than alloy.

  Steel won’t break it—worse, it corrupts the strike.

  Shatter it with pure spirit force—and keep your beasts away.”

  Spirit-bows sang. Arrows streaked.

  But the Soulfang slipped through every line of fire—darting like shadow, as if it foresaw their aim.

  It lunged, tail whipping. Black ichor sprayed, sizzling against Craen’s wards.

  It was probing. Testing.

  “Don’t give it time!” Craen barked. “Overwhelm!”

  Arrows screamed again.

  Silverwing flared through Abyssbane; ChengYu’s shot split the beast’s shoulder—bone and blood detonating in a spray.

  The Soulfang roared, scrambled behind a boulder.

  Help support creative writers by finding and reading their stories on the original site.

  Carapace writhed. Wounds closed.

  Its body shrank—but its aura swelled.

  Twenty seconds gone. No weakness shown.

  Craen’s brow tightened.

  “Spirit restoratives. Shift tactics.

  Encircle. Load the Soul-Bane Pearls!”

  YiChen and ChengYu swallowed pills with the rest. Warmth flooded YiChen’s limbs. Breath steadied.

  The Tawei Reversion Technique honed his aura to ice.

  The Soulfang stalled, licking wounds—waiting for qi to turn.

  But—

  A shriek. Explosives thundered.

  It leapt—straight into their ring.

  Arrows struck. Lock-orbs clamped.

  The beast howled, tore through bindings—and charged the ranged line.

  Rako met it head-on. Thunderhoof Fiend shrieked lightning as his blade cut—

  and sank like steel into tar.

  From the cracked plates, tendrils lashed upward, climbing his sword to his arm.

  “Urghhh—!”

  He roared, dropped the weapon. Too late.

  The tail slammed his waist.

  BANG—!

  He flew, a broken kite. Slammed the rock wall. Blood sprayed.

  Thunderhoof Fiend convulsed, limbs seizing under corruption’s backlash.

  “Rako!” someone shouted.

  ?

  YiChen moved.

  Fusion—Shadowfang.

  Darkness surged skyward. He vaulted five meters high.

  A conical spear blazed in his grip—

  Winterfall Star-Piercer.

  An obsidian lance, rimmed with frostlight, burning like the cold fire of the cosmos.

  “Xiao Yu!”

  “Got it!”

  Silverwing unfurled into a full snare, and it cinched the hound’s throat.

  It thrashed—shadows writhing—too late.

  YiChen’s spear plunged.

  Shhhhk—!

  Straight through its back.

  The hound screamed—and ChengYu loosed Abyssbane.

  The arrow struck its brow.

  CRACK.

  The core shattered.

  The beast convulsed, twice—and lay still.

  The battlefield hushed.

  Not a breath. Not a sound.

  Only the stench of corruption, thinning into the cold ravine air.

  Rako Vonn sprawled on the ground, blood bubbling at his lips, breath hanging by a thread.

  Beside him, the Thunderhoof Fiend curled inward, spirit-flux broken, hide scorched in black corrosion.

  “—Healers! Now!”

  Hidaea and Aeloryn were already at his side.

  “Lock the soul-meridians—suppress the corrosion!”

  “I’ll seal the internal wounds—set the fractures!”

  They worked without pause. Soulleaf and the Lumina Dove wheeled above, scattering golden threads that wrapped Rako head to toe.

  Hidaea’s glow of Pure-Source Breath sank into the Thunderhoof Fiend, steadying its broken aura beat by beat.

  Craen stood over them in silence. Only when the soul-channels stabilized did he speak, voice low:

  “…He’ll live.”

  He checked the watch.

  14:24.

  “Camp here.”

  ?

  The canyon’s bend gave natural cover, cliffs closing on both sides like a ribcage.

  The Gossamer Cicada beat its wings, threads burrowing into stone, unfurling layered wards.

  Overhead, the Lyriquill Heron swept a second veil of radiance down.

  Tents rose. Smokeless furnaces glowed.

  Rako was carried to the innermost shelter, breath even once more.

  The Thunderhoof Fiend lay on its mat, chest soothed with holy-liquid cloth.

  Quiet returned to camp—still tense, yet carrying a trace of warmth.

  ?

  ChengYu crouched in a corner, polishing Abyssbane, cheeks still flushed from battle.

  A small packet of dried meat dropped at his feet.

  Ian Brighton.

  “That shot of yours…” Ian grinned, teeth flashing.

  “Brutal. If I were that beast, I’d have dropped dead before the arrow hit.”

  ChengYu laughed, accepting it.

  “Don’t flatter me. My brother’s the real killer—I only finished the job.”

  Ian snorted, ready to retort—but Herlan’s voice cut in, low but weighted:

  “…Your style. It isn’t ours. But it works. Well.”

  A rare admission.

  Others drifted closer—passing water, a nod, a brief gesture.

  Even Reinhardt, silent as stone, offered a steaming cup. His way of respect.

  YiChen said nothing—only watched.

  And in that moment, he understood:

  The squad had accepted them.

  ?

  “YiChen. Inside.”

  Craen’s voice came from the command tent.

  The map was spread wide across the table. His tone was steady—yet heavier than before.

  “Starting tomorrow—you and your brother move into the first defense ring.”

  YiChen bowed slightly. “Understood.”

  Craen hesitated, then said:

  “That strike you made… Equivalent to a Seventh-Tier Piercing Spell.

  …If I hadn’t seen it myself, I would not believe it.”

  A single sentence. Worth more than any medal.

  “I’ll put Ruda at your backs,” he added.

  YiChen inclined his head, then left.

  ?

  Outside, dusk had fallen. Mist curled thick along the valley floor.

  And above the haze—a few faint stars broke through.

  The stars still burned.

  Step by step, they walked deeper into the abyss of fate.