Chapter 38
Ethan crouched at the mouth of the cave, the weight of his gear pressing into him like gravity with teeth. Grey dawn light drifted down the jagged stone ramp, touching mana-crystal runes embedded in the walls—some humming, some dead, some half-lit. Already he felt the familiar tang of suppressed power in the air, the hush before ancient magic decided to wake.
He flicked a quick glance at his squad: five Shadow?Initiates moving into their final formations. Two veteran Writ?Bound, their hands glowing with prepared mana seals. In the rear, Ethan watched the newer recruits – three, all pale and determined – sweating under the weight of their packs. He offered them a single nod: It’s real. Not a drill.
He spoke quietly. “No long comms once we’re fully inside. If we see something, flare it. If not—three hours out. It’s enough. My call for pick?up.”
Silence. The words passed, unremarked. That was how orders worked here.
They entered. The ramp slanted down, stone worn smooth, darker with each step. Dust motes danced just beyond torchlight. By the second bend, it felt less like a corridor and more like a maw ready to close behind them.
No enemy yet. No Inquisitors, no guardians, just eerie silence.
Then the traps began.
First—a floor panel disguised as worn stone snapped under Lieutenant Nara’s boot. She vanished in a puff of dust and arc?light. She shouted once—a half?finished warning—then fell.
Ethan lunged, pulling her back by the collar. Her ankle was twisted, crying thin handgun fire at the stone spikes that had shot out from recessed slots. Blades gleamed darkly.
The other Writ?Bound circled, pulling Nara out. Ethan quickly gave her Healing Potion, her bones knitting. Breath returned, ankle intact enough.
But another pair of runners’ eyes caught the overhead slabs shifting. A ceiling trap. Not time?delayed—proximity?triggered. Slabs slammed down, shifting air and chips of stone like gunfire. Ethan whirled a enchanted bracer, readying his broadsword to block.
The others dived.
They pressed forward again, wounded but intact.
Next, the corridor widened into a chamber of reflected darkness. Smooth obsidian walls, jagged fissures in the ceiling showing moving shadows—like tree branches—but heavier. Unnatural.
Ethan waved them forward.
“Stay close,” he warned. “Eyes trained up.”
They moved in pairs. Ethan stayed center, staff held diagonally, ready.
Shadows shifted. Not on walls, but above them. The fissures in ceiling vibrated. A rush of cold air whispered.
Then, ice shards slammed down—hundreds, falling like bleeding stars. One caught a runner, shaving his flesh and pausing his heartbeat. The room filled with the wet whisper of steel against flesh.
Ethan struck his bracer against the ground, and a shimmering shield burst into form. Snow and frost bit at the runes but held. He lifted a wounded Writ-bound , darkness still closing in while the enchanted ice perched above like teeth.
They sprinted out through the corridor and examined the room beyond it. The chamber opened into a vaulted hall. Faint magical runes embedded in the walls glowed pale green — ward lights. Torches, long dormant, sputtered to life as they passed, bathing the hall in warm amber. The mist shivered, trailing across tiles like living lace.
At the far end sat an altar of pale marble, carved with symbols not of any faction or runic system Ethan recognised. Before it, a shallow mist-pooled basin. Its light was soft, steady. Calm.
“This is a chokepoint,” he said to Lieutenant Yirun and two Writ-Bound behind him. “We can’t all go—two teams. You clear left. I’ll take the smaller crew right.”
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Sergeant Yirun swallowed, glancing between the branching passages. “Understood.”
He nodded sharply. “Go.”
Yirun and the Writ-Bound slipped left, bowing their heads to subtle prayer to whatever gods would listen.
Ethan stepped toward the basin, torch raised and sword at the ready. Two Shadow-Initiates flanked him; their hands traced spells in the air as they readied themselves.
“Cloud Ward, engage.” His voice echoed.
A web of bright blue mana spread throughout the chamber and the hallways, glistening against the mist.
Behind him, the Writ-Bound returned. Yirun’s voice was steady. “Left route is clear — no enemies or traps.
He nodded. “Good. That’s hopeful.”
He glanced back to the mist pool. “Side A secured, Report waypoint A to HQ.”
“On it.” They chanted radiant sigils, sending coded distress flares backward through the glyph channels.
Ethan smiled at the crystal walls, the glowing runes, and the two men looking to him with renewed belief.
Hope, however fragile, had soared.
They pressed deeper, through a narrow tunnel thick with mist. Walls shifted, dust floating in humid breaths. At one bend, the air grew heavy, slow. Time pulled.
The ward lights dimmed. Torch flames hissed.
Silence screamed.
“Take point,” he whispered. They obeyed.
A sudden roar, deep as thunder, erupted around them. Footfalls — dozens, approaching fast.
“Shields, now!”
Bright blue shields glistened into existence all around him from the mages’ hands.
Creatures emerged — tall, shambling green creatures with quadruple limbs, eyes like ember ash. They charged, broken steps trying to rotate momentum like predators. Their limbs shuddered with unnatural speed.
Ethan drew a mana sphere in both hands — held it aloft.
He felt lighter than he had in a long time.
He summoned the sphere outward, chanting:
“Sphere of Light — burn hole in dark!”
A crisp blast. The creatures with slammed into the wall with a sick crack
The Initiates were on them in a moment. One down. Another fell moments later.
More came.
He dispelled the remnants of his sphere and rushed forward weaving through the creatures and then slice, his broadsword cut straight through one creature.
He dispelled the fading sphere and surged forward, weaving through the creatures. In one swift motion—slice—his broadsword cleaved clean through a foe.
A shadow whistled past — a Writ-Bound had just taken down another one.
Hope flickered again.
They moved! Possibly alive.
Then: a roar in the ceiling — fissures cracked, dust raining.
“RU-” he began, but ice shards crashed down, splintering ossified columns, splitting stone, men narrowly dodging death.
His shield enchantment reacted too late. A shard struck his left knee. He crumpled in pain. His temple blossomed with warmth, then blackness.
Through a haze, he saw the third Initiate — a boy with a cracked helm — fall.
Pain rolled up his spine. Hot anger, then clarity: No.
He broke the shard with the last remains of his mana, then with the final remains of his stamina, he swept through the battlefield sweeping up the wounded and directing the ones who could move to help their comrades.
A kite of light. His strength — brief but enough.
He turned to his unseen men: “Pull back… now!”
They staggered. Lieutenant Nara dragging a bleeding Initiate. The second Writ-Bound had already disappeared, flares mapping out retreat.
The hall shook — runes cracked. Etched patterns fractured.
He guided them away, dragging injured until they reached the altar hall again.
He sank to one knee, sword pressed to altar floor — the enchantment on his bracer still glowing, serpentine cracks running through it.
“I can still figh-” Pain clawed deeper. His muscles seized.
He glimpsed the altar’s calm light, shadows dancing.
Hope rising again.
Behind him, reinforcements arrived — shin-high torchlight flickering wavelengths through the mist. Sinclair stepped forward, breathing hard, too late to help fight, but not too late.
Ethan rose with trembling strength. Hand on staff. He stared into that light, remembering Ren’s riceball, thinking of Sinclair’s eyes. Please live.
“Sinclair,” he rasped. “Everything hinges on them.”
He wobbled, gathering what remained. “Hold the chamber. Fortify. I’ll…” He pressed his bleeding hand to the mist pool - his legs gave way and darkness pulsed beneath.
He collapsed for the final time—not with regret, but with hope, and the certainty that he had saved his team.
