War horns

Soren's body still felt sluggish, weighed down by the lingering drain of last night's experiment. But before he could fully shake off the haze, a deep, thunderous war horn split through the air.

The camp stirred immediately.

Bodies shot up from their mattresses, the confusion of sleep quickly turning into frantic curiosity. Footsteps shuffled toward the entrance, murmurs swelling in urgency as people pressed against the doorway, desperate to catch a glimpse of what was happening outside.

Then—an explosion.

A deafening boom tore through the silence, the impact shaking the very ground beneath them. A violent ripple cut through the air, as if the sky itself had been ripped apart.

Soren forced himself upright, rubbing a hand over his face, his mind still catching up.

Is it time?

More explosions. The sharp clang of metal meeting metal. The distant, agonized cries of men fighting for their lives.

A battlefield.

The murmurs inside the tent shifted.

At first, they were uncertain whispers. But as the seconds passed, a new emotion crept in.

Hope.

"Are we being saved?"

"We're going to be free."

Soren lowered his gaze, expression unreadable.

The Old Man's words surfaced in his mind.

"A clan will come, veiled in righteousness. Don't be fooled."

His voice dropped to a whisper, barely audible beneath the chaos outside.

"Some are going to be 'free.'"

The tension inside the tent broke.

One by one, the laborers stepped forward. First hesitant, then determined.

And as if watching the first few take the lead granted them permission, the others followed suit.

Soren was the last to leave.

The moment he stepped outside, the sight before him struck like a hammer.

The once-imposing manor—a symbol of their oppression, their suffering—was now a towering inferno.

Flames raged uncontrollably, black smoke curling into the sky like a choking hand. The unshakable structure that had loomed over them for so long collapsed in on itself, piece by piece.

But the destruction wasn't what sent a chill down Soren's spine.

It was the battle.

The ones who had stood at the perimeter—the awakened guards who once barked orders at them—were now locked in a desperate struggle.

They were losing.

Their bodies moved with the speed and power of the awakened, but it was clear—they were outmatched.

Their attacks were sloppy, uncoordinated. They had been given strength but never taught how to use it.

And against these invaders?

They didn't stand a chance.

Soren's newly awakened senses sharpened. His vision was clearer than ever before. He could see the awakened among them, not just through their movements—but through the way essence clung to their bodies, wrapping around them like a second skin.

Then—the air shifted.

A presence inside the manor began to move.

Soren's fingers curled into his palms. His forehead damp with sweat. A pressure—so immense it felt like the sky had grown heavier—pressed down on the battlefield.

Then, the flames parted.

The inferno at the manor's entrance pulled back, splitting down the middle as if making way for royalty.

And from the burning wreckage, she emerged.

A Transcendent.

The moment she stepped forward, the world seemed to hold its breath.

They were humanity's legends. Their strength defied logic. Their beauty surpassed mortals. Their very existence woven into the fabric of history.

The further one ascended, the more their body was refined, purified—made flawless by the process.

To the world, Transcendents were the closest thing to perfection.

And now, one stood before them, draped in fire and blood.

Her armor gleamed, a masterpiece of silver-plating, golden etchings tracing the contours of her muscles—as if the metal itself was a part of her.

Her long, silver hair flowed in the heated air, a vision of untouchable elegance.

Her left hand gripped a flaming sword, its molten edges hissing and crackling with heat.

And in her right hand…

Two round objects dangled from her grasp.

Soren's breath hitched as she raised them high.

Heads.

One belonged to the silver-clad awakened warrior who had stopped the harrowing man before.

The other—a face he didn't recognize. Dark hair. A short beard. Lifeless eyes.

She held them like trophies, her expression unbothered.

Then, she spoke, her voice thundering across the battlefield.

"This battle is our victory. Make sure none of the soldiers live."

Her words were absolute.

A decree of slaughter.

And the battlefield obeyed.

People stood stunned, the Transcendent's words hanging in the air, a cold decree amid the chaos. Then, from the gathered laborers, a voice rose with desperate conviction.

"It's Blade of Midnight! She has come to save us!"

A ripple of relief spread through the crowd. Faces lit up, hands clasped together in whispered prayers.

Soren, of course, had already recognized her.

But he wasn't focused on her.

His attention was on the battlefield.

His eyes followed the invaders, studying the way they moved, the way they fought.

They were awakened. But they were different.

Their attacks were too clean, too efficient—not just powered by strength, but by skill. These were not ordinary warriors.

Their movements were precise, rehearsed, refined.

A strike team.

Nothing about this resembles a rescue mission.

Soren's thoughts raced.

Can I win against one of them in a one-on-one?

Before he could analyze further, a soft yet commanding voice broke through his focus.

"Laborers, gather up."

The voice was close.

Too close.

Soren's breath hitched slightly.

The Transcendent had moved.

In an instant, she was no longer standing before the burning manor.

She was right in front of them.

The people flinched in awe, stepping back instinctively as if afraid to stand too close. A figure like hers was meant to be seen from afar, not up close—like a goddess who had stepped down from the heavens.

She stood unshaken, untouched by the battle still raging behind her. The flames, the blood, the dying men at the perimeter—none of it mattered to her.

Only the laborers did.

The crowd had swelled to nearly three hundred people, all of them staring, hanging onto her every word.

Then, she spoke again.

"You have all endured much. But it is not over yet."

Her voice was gentle, yet unquestionably firm.

"The Havens have already begun their work on you. Each of you will awaken—but only if your soul is formed."

A wave of murmurs spread through the group.

"Form a soul?" someone whispered.

Another voice—young, hopeful.

"Does that mean we'll become awakened?"

The Transcendent nodded.

"If you do not form a soul before awakening, the imbalance will cause you to lose your mind. I have seen it before."

A hush fell over the group.

The words settled deep, taking root in their minds.

Losing their minds?

That meant death.

True death.

The Transcendent lifted a hand—a slow, deliberate motion that commanded complete attention.

"But I will not let that happen to you."

A breath of relief passed through the crowd.

She continued, her tone soft but undeniable in its authority.

"I will guide you through the process. I will help you form your soul. And when the trial comes, I will ensure that you succeed."

The murmurs grew excited.

"She's going to help us!"

"A Transcendent guiding us… does that mean we can join the clan?"

Soren's lips pressed into a thin line.

There it was.

She never said it outright—but the message was clear.

She would help them… if they joined her.

There was no true choice.

Soren stayed quiet, watching.

"I will first help those who are on the brink of awakening," she continued, her golden eyes scanning the crowd. "Then, one by one, the rest of you will follow."

She extended a hand, her palm facing the laborers.

"This is a rare opportunity. The path ahead is not easy—but if you walk it with us, you will never be weak again."

Soren barely suppressed a scoff.

And if they don't?

He already knew the answer.

Those who refused would never leave this place alive.

Soren, standing at the back of the crowd, studied the Transcendent's face for a second too long.

And in that moment—her gaze found his.

Blade of Midnight's golden eyes locked onto him.

It wasn't for long—just a second.

But it was enough.

The air seemed to press down on him, like an unseen force settling onto his shoulders. His breath hitched, his body tensed—then, as quickly as it came, the pressure lifted.

Her eyes moved on.

She turned back to the gathered laborers and spoke.

"I will see to it that we—Clan Aurora—cleanse this place. Rest easy until I return."

Without another word, she turned on her heel.

A sharp whistle sliced through the air.

And then—she was gone.

The battlefield stirred with murmurs.

"When this is over, I'm getting the biggest drink I can find."

"Are you thinking of joining them?"

"Hell no. I want no part of this world."

Soren forced his shoulders to relax, blending into the crowd as he headed back to his tent.

His thoughts churned—had she truly looked at him? Or was he imagining it?

No. He wasn't.

That moment had been real.

And if she noticed him… then time was running out.

He slipped inside the tent, letting the flap shut behind him. The air inside was cooler, quieter.

But something felt… wrong.

Just as he stepped toward his mattress—

A sound.

A whistle.

Low, quiet, yet sharp—just enough to ring subtly in the air.

A cold weight settled in his chest.

The air inside the tent had shifted.

He wasn't alone.

A presence loomed behind him.

The pressure was palpable, suffocating.

Slowly, Soren turned around.

Standing in the center of the tent, bathed in shadows yet utterly unshaken, was Selene—the Blade of Midnight.

Her golden eyes watched him carefully, unreadable yet focused.

Then, she spoke.

"You don't belong here."

A pause.

Then, sharper—

"So tell me—where exactly do you belong?"