Hercules felt trapped in a dream, a fog of unreality, until a cool figure in a black robe split the night like torn silk and hauled him out of the dark.

“If you’ve got time to space out, use it to think how we get out!”

Her voice cracked like ice over stone, yanking him back; fear tightened, then breath surged, as Aphelia dragged him toward the cave mouth like a streak of moonlight.

Aphelia moved like a hawk in a gale; even with trial arts, he knew he’d never match that wind.

Only now did he really look at her—familiar features like a face glimpsed in a lake—his mind went white as snow.

“Hey, kid from House Helle—hey! Wake up! Don’t you dare nap now and shame your House!”

She shook him hard, then bit her lip, slung him over her back, and cinched him tight with robe cords, a lifeline knotted in storm, then rushed upward through the earth’s throat.

In his skull, memories began to bubble like fermenting wine, heat rising and smoke curling.

“The First Legion’s engaged! Flank Legion, up the ridge and gut those damned ghouls!”

“Hoo-ha!”

“Hoo-ha!”

The shout rolled like thunder over hills; the whole legion answered, a drumbeat of voices pounding the dust.

Hercules felt hot blood drum in his chest; he raised his sword and joined the quick march, feet striking like flint on stone.

Outside the city, the sight stunned him—a wasteland like a bleeding sea under a red sky; his knees turned to water.

“Tch, pampered rookie. Deputy, you expect him to live?”

“Shut it. Forgot your first time out here?” the blond man said, voice cold as iron, and dropped his visor like a gate.

Hercules forced his breath steady, eyes sweeping; the land was barren as a dead field, no grass, only waves of slope and dust, no shelter for man.

“Contact ahead, ghoul legion. On my mark—ready!”

He copied the veterans, blade at his waist, edge tilted like a crescent moon, legs coiling like springs.

“Charge!”

The roar tore like a storm; the legion smashed into the ghoul flank, steel meeting rot, a ram into a rotten wall.

“Brothers, the flank’s here to back us! Push!”

The front line’s cry rose like a flare; they surged again, two knives stabbing a rotten heart, no room for a reply.

His sword skimmed through several ghouls, a silver fish in a dark stream; a small flame of confidence flickered in his chest.

His heart thudded like a drum, his blood burned like oil, his hands shook like leaves, and he craved it—war and red rain.

“By my command—thrust!”

The order snapped like a whip; shame cooled his fever, and he focused.

The entire flank lifted dragon lances, a silver forest, and stabbed outward like a ring of spears breaking a tide.

They were inside a vast noose; brute force was the commander’s bitter way through, a hammer through a thicket.

Hercules cursed in his head, a spark of doubt—a fatal drift—then paid for it.

He hadn’t thrust with the unit; the ghoul tide smelled of graves and surged at him like foul surf.

His face went bone white; he lifted his blade and chopped, heat in his lungs and ice in his gut.

Boom—

A wave of air punched his chest; explosions bloomed like fire flowers; light soared, flesh sprayed like broken clay.

He couldn’t cloak himself in soulflame; his body took the hit, rolling through dirt like a stone in a flood.

He steadied, breath ragged; he glanced at slashed gaps in his flesh, then cut off hesitation like a rope.

A hulking, bloated ghoul loomed ahead, wreathed in flames like a burning kiln, gripping a warhammer slick with broken men’s blood.

“Roar!” it bellowed, pounding its chest like a drum, then swung that hammer down like a falling mountain.

The hammer hauled a rank wind that blurred vision; the descending shadow swallowed him, scenes flickering like lanterns in a dying fair.

“Rookie! Move!”

The bald brute from earlier lifted a dragonlance, braced like a tree, and caught the hammer, then snapped at Hercules like a thunderclap.

Hercules shook free of the stink and fear; he couldn’t die, not yet—he still owed debts of blood.

He steadied his mind, body feather-light, and slid into the footwork he’d bled to learn, steps quick as rain.

“Speed Secret Art!”

He ran up the warhammer like a gust along a branch, legs hissing with wind, charging for the giant’s skull.

Even half-crippled, monstrous strength and drilled memory sang; he hewed hard, a horizontal cut flashing like a silver arc.

The giant ghoul snarled; its other hand swept at him, a bone claw swelling in his pupils like a pale moon.

His form hadn’t fully unfolded; he couldn’t recover in time; that claw would smear him like pulp.

But not here, not now.

He bit down, fingers crushing the jade pendant from his mother, and committed to the killing stroke even if it killed him.

Whoosh—

A feathered arrow trailing deep green qi struck, deflecting the bone claw’s path like a gust shoving a branch.

He hadn’t expected aid after creating a breach; someone still cast him a rope in a flood.

“Kill! Kill! Kill!”

He laughed like a madman and swung, sword shadows flaring like storm waves, carving through ghouls and churning a bloody gale.

He bled for it; cuts latticed his back like cracked bark, his blood almost drained to dust, his shoulder wound pierced clean by an arrow.

His left arm hung dead as lead, yet he reaped lives like a lone rider, each step dragging him closer to the Abyss.

The bald man swore behind him, misery in his grit; his squad was only five reeds in a raging river.

Push farther and they’d hit the true outer ring of ghoul strength—beyond what those below the First Gate could weather.

He shifted to pure defense, ready to abandon Hercules; an uncontrollable soldier in war was a stone tied to your neck.

Boom—

Multiple green arrow-lights burst ahead like seed pods popping; the energy swept out like a gale, tossing ghouls like straw.

“Baldy, drag that brat back even if you die—Deputy Commander’s orders!”

The elven archer hovered, drawing a fistful of shafts, green wind coiling before his bow like a miniature storm.

“Move! I’ll open the road one last time!”

An archer laying down destruction in the open was a beacon; if they didn’t bolt, the ghoul elites would answer, and he’d be ash on the wind.

“Got it!”

Baldy dropped his dragonlance, took twin hand-axes like wolf teeth, and sprinted through friendly cover toward Hercules.

He split several ghouls along the way, heads flying like tossed gourds, and cut a path like a dark river.

Hercules laughed, tried to step, and found his legs stone-heavy; he couldn’t move.

If he’d been clear, he’d have noticed the hooked barb pinning his thigh—a chain-hook, the nastiest arrow in the quiver.

Once it pierced, it nailed you to earth; struggle, and the shaft sprouted barbs like thorns, each thrash birthing more pain, closer to death.

But reason had drowned; a foreign will rowed his body, and he yanked the arrow free with a howl, tearing out a slab of thigh flesh like ripped clay.

A gaping hole remained, so wide you could see bone, cold white in a red well.

The ice-pick pain rammed his mind awake; the cowardly, arrogant, reality-hating Hercules snapped back, saw his ruined leg, and screamed, dropping to his knees.

Ghouls closed from all sides, blades up like a ring of teeth; they wouldn’t show mercy—this wasn’t a sparring yard, this was war.

“That brat’s curse broke—now what?” the elven archer snarled, voice ragged as torn cloth.

Bombs arced in now and then like black seeds; one had burst at his feet, and if Baldy hadn’t blocked, he’d be down and gutted like a fish on a board.