Chapter 5- Cheap Tricks

Sergeant Kaldros was losing ground. The relentless wave of creatures hurling themselves at him was too much—his stamina wasn't infinite, and it was running out fast.

Blood Rage—an ability that sent Kaldros' blood to a boil, flooding his body with searing pain in exchange for a surge of adrenaline beyond human limits. It wasn't something he used lightly. This power didn't distinguish between friend or foe—it was meant for moments like this, when he was utterly alone.

Despite no longer deflecting the mages' attacks, their spells barely scorched his skin—marks lost in the blaze of his boiling blood. Filthy, bloodied, his mask clinging to his face by sheer will, Kaldros charged forward, swinging at anything that moved. If it bled, it died.

SLAM.

The true gatekeeper emerged from the casino's shadow—a troll-like monstrosity, forged from mutation and dark sorcery.

ROAR!

Its bellow cracked the air, a concussive shockwave that rippled through the ruined street. Without hesitation, it tore a streetlight from the pavement, swinging it like a club straight toward Kaldros.

In his berserker state, Kaldros didn't dodge. He took the full force of the blow—

The streetlight came crashing down, slamming him into the cracked concrete with a thunderous crack, leaving a crater in the street where his body hit. Dust and debris shot into the air…

His gas mask shattered. The toxins rushed into his lungs, burning like fire—but he wasn't finished.

Kaldros rose from the crater, body trembling, not from pain, but from bloodlust. With no weapon in hand, he launched himself at the towering creature. His fist, encased in crystallized blood, struck like a hammer into the troll's chest.

With a roar, he tore free the beast's mana core, its glow flickering like a dying star. He crushed it in his palm—then fell.

Thud.

Kaldros was down. 

~ 

"What the—"

Drayke froze at the foot of the stairs.

The basement was lined wall-to-wall with cages. Inside, men and women lay sprawled across cold floors, their bodies draped in rags, eyes vacant or fluttering in half-conscious haze. The drugged stench was thick in the air, clinging to his lungs even through the mask.

Drayke ran deeper into the maze of cages, heart pounding in rhythm with his footsteps. Each turn revealed more—dozens, hundreds… thousands. The sheer number of civilians imprisoned here made his breath catch.

The fog thickened, clinging to him like a second skin. It was suffocating now.

Then, through the haze, a silhouette moved.

Someone—or something—was walking between the cages.

"Tssk, another goblin." Drayke sprang forward, blade drawn, fury boiling just beneath the surface.

But then he stopped.

Face to face with a figure—humanoid, eerily so. It stood upright like a man, clothed, calm. Only the pointed ears and pale green skin marked it as kin to the creatures they'd been butchering.

It looked… human enough to speak.

The creature vanished into the mist without a sound.

Drayke tensed, every nerve on edge—but his senses failed him. No sound. No scent. Nothing.

Then—wham.

A sharp kick slammed into his back, sending him stumbling forward. He hit the ground hard, the breath ripped from his lungs as he scrambled to regain balance.

Keeping his gas mask secured, Drayke glanced around, but the creature remained hidden within the dense fog.

"You left your mother behind…"

The voice slithered through the fog like a serpent. Drayke's vision warped—edges of the world bending, swaying. His footing faltered as the weight of the words pressed into his mind. Everything became wobbly, like the ground itself was unsure of its place.

As Drayke collapsed to one knee, he slammed his palm to the ground, forcing a gust of wind to erupt around him. The fog scattered, clearing just enough to reveal the empty cages and rusted bars—no sign of the creature.

"You will never be good enough."

"This world will fall, and you will surmount to nothing."

It felt as if the fates themselves were seated in judgment, weighing his soul in real time—each whisper, each insult, tipping the scales. Drayke wasn't just hearing voices. He was being measured. Stripped bare by unseen hands that knew every weakness he'd buried.

Slice. A dagger whistled through the air, embedding itself deep in Drayke's left shoulder. The sudden impact jolted him from his thoughts, pain searing through muscle and bone like fire licking his nerves.

Thankfully, the pain was exactly what he needed—it cut the voices, anchoring him to reality. He felt the tear in his gas mask's seal and ripped it off, holding his breath. The mission was now a race against time: how fast he could clear the gas, and how long his lungs could hold out.

Instincts kicked in. The sharp whistle of incoming daggers rang clear—dodge, now. He could almost see their trajectory, weaving past two before the third skimmed his already wounded arm. Gritting his teeth, he tore the blade already embedded in his shoulder free, gasping—one heavy breath. It was enough. The gas sank into him like poison, already dulling his senses.

His sword lit the path ahead, a beacon in the mist. Without hesitation, he hurled it—trusting his instincts to follow. It soared toward the source of the daggers. Moments later, a fresh spray of blood splattered across his already stained face. 

He still couldn't see a damn thing, and his lungs screamed for air. Every step felt heavier, every breath a gamble.

Hold it. Just a little longer. You've survived worse than this.

He hurled his sword again, the blade lighting up the mist briefly like a comet through a poisoned sky. He chased it, trusting the motion more than his eyes.

The source has to be close. The generator… or the vents. Wherever this shit's coming from, I'll find it. I have to.

His chest burned. The gas was already clawing at the edges of his mind. But he couldn't afford to fall now.

They're counting on me. If I fail, the entire brigade behind us dies choking on this filth. So move, damn it. Move.

He caught the hilt mid-spin and threw it again, each toss faster, sharper, more desperate than the last. Blood mixed with sweat, and still, he kept going.

He might've passed a few goblins on the way—he didn't care. Nothing else mattered now. His vision tunneled, fixated on the end of the hallway where the fog thickened like a living wall.

With a final burst of strength, Drayke hurled his sword, the blade piercing straight through a rusted metal door, slamming into the far wall behind it. He barreled through after it, kicking the door off its bent hinges.

Inside, a strange device pulsed with a sickly glow. A purple crystal—alien and wrong—was suspended in the center by twisted machinery. It churned with energy, pumping the foul mist into the vents like poison into veins.

This is it. The heart of it all.

Without hesitation, Drayke lunged and drove his blade through the crystal. A crack echoed like thunder, followed by a sharp whine as the structure splintered. The crystal fractured, falling to the ground in shards. The machine sparked and died.

The fog didn't stop immediately. But it slowed. Weakened. Dying.

Drayke collapsed beside the remains, gasping for what he hoped would be clean air—but it wasn't. His lungs pulled in fog. Thinner now, but still laced with whatever drug clawed at his mind.

Too much… still too much…

His vision swam. Limbs heavy. The taste of iron in his throat. The mission wasn't over. But the world was slipping again—just out of reach.

~

"Mirelle! The fog is stopping!" Grayson called out, eyes scanning the shifting haze.

The mist began to thin on the higher floors, drifting out through shattered windows and bullet-pocked walls. A collective gasp filled the room as the team broke protocol, tearing off their gas masks to gulp in the cleaner air. 

"Damn, that was suffocating," Grayson muttered between deep breaths, wiping sweat and grime from his brow.

Hawkins stood still for a moment, her gaze thoughtful. "That means the boy did it," she said softly, a note of genuine admiration in her voice.

Mirelle didn't look up afterwards. Her hands glowed faintly as she remained crouched beside the wounded. She whispered incantations, focused entirely on healing the women's bodies—and trying to ease the corruption festering in their souls.

Grayson nodded to himself and gestured down the corridor. "I'll go catch up with him. You guys keep doing what you're doing here."

He turned and sprinted down the stairwell, boots pounding against concrete. As he reached the basement, the fog had almost completely lifted.

"What the hell—" he whispered, freezing in place.

Now exposed without the haze, the sight hit him harder than he expected. Cages lined every wall, each one crammed with lifeless bodies or barely-conscious prisoners. The stench of blood, death, and suffering clung to the air like rot. His stomach twisted violently.

Grayson kept moving, boots crunching over broken tile and bloodied debris. He stepped over the corpse of a humanoid goblin but didn't spare it a second glance. His focus was on Drayke.

He sliced down a few straggling goblins that lurked in the corners, their weakened minds still bound to whatever magic had once filled the air.

Then he saw it—the room at the end of the hall. Shards of a shattered purple crystal littered the floor, pulsing faintly with dying energy. Machinery sparked and hissed around it like the last breath of something unnatural.

In the middle of it all sat Drayke, slumped against the wall. Motionless. Eyes rolled back into his head, like his mind had checked out and left his body behind.

"Shit—Drayke!" Grayson rushed forward, dropping to his knees.

Grayson slapped Drayke's cheek—lightly at first, then with more urgency. "C'mon, man. Wake the hell up."

Drayke's pupils flickered back into place, his eyes darting into focus. He blinked slowly, and a crooked grin tugged at the corner of his mouth.

"Woah... you found yourself a friend, four-eyes?" he muttered, eyes fixed on something just over Grayson's shoulder.

Grayson froze, the hairs on the back of his neck rising. "What are you looking at?" he asked, slowly reaching for his blade.

~

Ironheart moved outside, drawn by the thunderous impact from Kaldros' earlier clash. The chaos hadn't subsided—if anything, it had grown. From the look of things, his presence was about to become very necessary.

"Shit. Guess I'll have to do my job." Ironheart muttered, lifting his shield—the only weapon he ever needed. A strong defense didn't need offense. That was his motto, and he was ready to prove it again.

He stepped forward, shield raised, shoving aside goblins as he made his way to Kaldros' body. If the sergeant was still alive, it was by mere moments. Kaldros didn't know how to hold back in a fight. 

That's why Ironheart was part of the squad—to pull the hotheaded berserker out when he'd gone too far.

Ironheart grabbed Kaldros by the arm and catapulted him toward the entrance of the hotel, backing up step by step until he, too, reached the threshold. His instincts screamed at him to run.

Something was off.

A battlefield should've meant piles of dead goblins, broken bodies, and blood-soaked concrete. Instead, there wasn't a single corpse in sight.

They weren't retreating—they were gathered. Carving strange runes into Kaldros' body. His torso was drenched in blood, lines drawn in it like ink on parchment.

They weren't trying to finish him off.

No—this was something else.

A different motive. One Ironheart couldn't quite pin down. But whatever it was, it was dark. Ritualistic.

He needed to fall back, quickly. His only advantage now was terrain.

The narrow doorway—his only option for a defensible position.

He took it.

Activating his ability—Obelisk—Ironheart transformed into an obsidian golem, an impenetrable barrier of stone and will. The namesake of Team Obsidian, he stood as their final shield when all else failed.