Chapter 7- Urgency

Master Sergeant Jerome's voice tore through the artillery line like a gunshot.

"Get ready to fire at their position!" he bellowed, pointing to the twin flares in the sky. "Prepare all mortars—you hear me? I want fire on that zone in sixty seconds!"

The crew scrambled into action, slamming shells into tubes and calibrating targeting plates. The four soldiers moved like parts of a war machine, trained to obey, not question.

But two figures didn't move.

The Haelwyn twins.

Private Haelwyn jumped down from his perch on the tank, boots hitting the ground hard. Dust kicked up around him, but he was already storming toward the command tent.

"No… no, this is all wrong," he muttered, eyes still on the fading glow of the flares. "That was shot from the rooftop of the hotel, not the streets like the signal plan said. And that was two shots, not one."

He shoved through the gathered artillery crew, ignoring the glares, the rank badge flashed in his face.

"Master Sergeant!" he called out, voice sharp and urgent.

Jerome turned on him like a thunderstorm.

"Private Haelwyn, you'd better have a damn good reason for interrupting—"

"You can't fire on that location!" Haelwyn barked, louder than anyone expected from someone his rank. "They didn't signal to begin the strike—they signaled to delay it."

Jerome's eyes narrowed. "You're out of line."

"With respect, sir—no, I'm not!" Haelwyn pointed up at the sky. "The flares were launched from the roof of the hotel. That's Drayke or Grayson. And two shots? That wasn't part of the playbook. That's them improvising. They're trying to buy time."

The silence hit hard.

The artillerymen paused, hands still hovering near triggers. The mortars were locked. Ready.

"How the hell can you tell who shot the flare?" Jerome barked, stepping forward, his presence casting a shadow over the young soldier. "What can your trained eyes see that someone with more experience can't?"

Haelwyn didn't flinch. His voice was calm. Measured.

"I can't see any more than you can, Sergeant."

Jerome scoffed.

"But I can read the situation," Haelwyn continued, eyes sharp, unwavering. "Every battlefield is a schematic—designed, chaotic, but still full of patterns. That flare wasn't just a signal. It was a message."

He pointed toward the sky, where the red trails still hung like scars in the clouds.

"That was two shots, fired from the rooftop of the hotel—not the streets, not the fallback zone. That means someone's still alive in that building. And they're not following protocol because something down there changed. Something that wasn't in the reports."

Jerome's lips curled into a scowl, but Haelwyn pressed on.

"They're improvising. It's a new outcome. One we didn't account for. You fire on that building now, and you're not just risking our team—you're erasing the only lead we have on whatever the hell this really is."

The moment hung in tense silence.

Then Jerome's voice broke through the tension, sharp but restrained:

"Call off the shots."

The order hit like thunder. The tension in the air cracked, loosened. You could almost hear the artillerymen exhale.

He turned, locking eyes with Haelwyn.

"Private Haelwyn… You've got that handheld radio, right? The one you use to keep in touch with your sister?"

"Yes, sir."

"Then get the hell down there," Jerome growled, pointing toward the smoke-draped skyline. "Find out what the actual situation is."

There was a pause.

Jerome added, more quietly:

"Kaldros shouldn't be acting this sloppy."

Jerome raised his canteen for a swig, expecting the familiar burn of cheap alcohol—but got nothing. Bone dry. With a low growl, he hurled it across the dirt, the clang echoing through the still air. They were all running on fumes—sleep-deprived, nerves frayed, and one bad call away from breaking.

~

Drayke opened his eyes.

A minute had passed.

Still no artillery.

Did it work?

He let out a short, dry laugh and tossed the flare gun aside, letting himself smile—just for a second.

Then the wailing from below clawed its way back into his ears, dragging him out of that fleeting relief.

"Shit," he muttered, rising to his feet with a grimace. "It's not even close to over."

Between the goblins, the rune-scarred freaks, and the twisted nightmare this mission had become, Drayke was ready for this hell to end.

Drayke pushed himself up, groaning as the pain pulsed through his shoulder. He staggered to the edge of the rooftop and looked down.

They were surrounded.

It was like the goblins had multiplied—hundreds, maybe thousands now, swarming the building from every angle. Even with only one entrance, they were hammering it relentlessly, bound to break through sooner or later. 

He spotted Grayson near the front, blades flashing in rhythmic arcs, cutting them down with precision. But for every one that fell, two– no three more surged forward.

It was only a matter of time.

Drayke glanced down at his sword, its edge catching the light of the sunrise on the horizon. He tightened his grip, the familiar weight grounding him, steadying the storm in his chest.

He spoke to it like it could hear him—like it always had.

"Are you ready?"

No one answered, but he didn't need one.

Because he was.

Ready to do the unthinkable.

~

Mirelle and Hawkins moved like stone through the dim corridor, their steps slow, reverent, burdened.

The basement stretched endlessly, cage after cage lining the walls—each one packed with people. Dozens. Hundreds. Their hands reached out, clawing at the bars, their cries raw and inhuman, no longer even begging—just wailing.

She could feel it.

The darkness clinging to them like rot, burrowed deep into their souls. Whatever fog had kept them subdued before… it was gone now. And what remained was agony—raw, tainted agony.

Mirelle's heart twisted. She knew the truth.

This wasn't something she could fix. Not alone.

Purifying even one soul this far gone would take everything she had. Two, maybe three on a good day. A dozen at most if she burned herself out completely.

But this? This many?

That would take a saint. Or something higher.

She wasn't that. She was just a support.

And now, all she could do was keep breathing—and choose who she could save.

~ 

Grayson's sweat poured like a river, stinging his eyes as he panted, chest heaving with every breath. His arms burned, muscles trembling with every swing of his blade.

Then a heavy hand rested on his shoulder.

"Take a break," Ironheart said, stepping forward. "It's my turn."

Grayson didn't argue. He stumbled back, breath ragged, watching the obsidian-clad giant wade into the fray. Even cracked and battered, Ironheart moved like a wall of death.

Grayson wiped his face with a bloodstained sleeve, his thoughts drifting—strangely—to Kaldros.

All those hellish training drills. All that screaming. All those impossible endurance tests.

And now? Now it all made sense.

He knelt beside Kaldros' motionless form, gently cleaning the dried blood from the sergeant's face. The man had fought for hours. Hours.

Grayson shook his head. "That kind of strength… it's not human."

But still, the goblins kept coming—like a tide of nightmares that refused to break.

An explosion rattled the street.

For a split second, they feared the worst—artillery.

But the sound was too sharp, too contained. A grenade.

Ironheart turned his head just enough to spot movement through the smoke. "Grayson," he rumbled, "sorry to cut your rest short—but looks like Haelwyn's gonna need your help."

The obsidian giant surged forward, shoving a wave of goblins off the hotel entrance like they were rag dolls.

Through the haze, Grayson spotted him—Private Haelwyn, making his grand entrance with all the flair of someone who should've stayed behind.

Grayson vaulted over Ironheart and into the chaos, every bone in his body screaming, but his heart surging.

"What the hell are you doing here?" he shouted, blade flashing as he landed. "This wasn't part of the plan!"

Haelwyn raised a wrench, of all things, smashing a goblin's skull with a clean swing. "Neither was the flare delay. What's the situation inside?"

Grayson leapt over another attacker, slicing clean through its chest. Blood sprayed, splattering across Haelwyn's coat.

"You'll see when you get in there," Grayson grunted. "Just worry about clearing the path first."

The two moved in perfect unison, instinct taking over as they drew on every drill, every sparring session, every brutal lesson burned into their bodies.

Ironheart roared, sweeping his obsidian shield in a wide arc. Goblins flew like ragdolls, crashing into the street and clearing a path through the chaos.

"Go!" he shouted, planting his feet like a mountain. "Get inside—I'll hold the door as long as possible, you figure out the rest!" 

Once again, the main tank stepped up—unmoving, unshaken—to ensure his team's safety.

Haelwyn dropped to his knees beside Kaldros' still form. "What… what happened?"

Grayson didn't even pause, already heading for the stairs.

"There's more."

~

Drayke stood at the edge of the rooftop, one foot planted firmly on the ledge, the other hanging over the abyss. He drew in a slow breath, steadying himself, trying to push past the searing pain burning through his shoulder.

"This won't hurt," he muttered. "This won't hurt…"

His eyes locked onto the Casino across the way—the heart of the enemy's hold. He raised his sword, the blade trembling only slightly in his grip.

It was reckless. Maybe suicidal.

But it had to be done.

Like a streak of light, Drayke shot across the gap and crashed through the casino window in an eruption of glass and force. He landed hard, boots skidding against the floor, sword in hand.

"Oh, it didn't hurt."

The room around him warped unnaturally—walls twisted at impossible angles, shadows shifting without light. Scattered across the floor were the remains of humans… and things that used to be humans. Twisted creatures, half-decayed, half-transformed, left as offerings or warnings.

Drayke straightened, eyes scanning the chaos.

He couldn't make out anything through the twisted shadows—nothing clear, nothing solid. But where his eyes failed, his ears caught something else.

A tune.

Soft. Humming. The kind of lullaby a mother might sing to her child before sleep—but pitched low, too low. Warped.

It echoed through the room like it didn't belong to a single voice, but a dozen mouths all mimicking the same melody, just a half-second off.

Drayke gripped his sword tighter.

Something was here.

Drayke stepped carefully, boots squelching through the gooey mess of spilled intestines and clattering against the rusted shells of old machines. The stench was thick, metallic and rotting.

Then—thump.

A puppet dropped from the ceiling, suspended by strings that hadn't been there a moment before. It swayed gently, lifeless for a breath.

Then its head twitched upright.

It was modeled after a soldier in a gas mask—female, with unsettlingly bright blue eyes staring through glass lenses. Black hair, coarse and tangled, hung from its scalp… not synthetic. Real. Woven in, strand by strand. Human.

The puppet's jaw cracked open.

"Welcome to the puppet show," it said in a voice too human for a thing made of wood and flesh.

Drayke reached out, curiosity edging past his caution. His fingers brushed the puppet's chest.

In a flash, it recoiled—jerking back on invisible strings—and snapped a hand forward, flicking him hard on the forehead.

Thwip!

"No touching!" it scolded in a shrill, scolding tone. "You are a guest here, and you shall not disrespect my creations."

Its head tilted unnaturally, the glassy blue eyes still fixed on him, unblinking.

For a brief moment, Drayke dropped the act.

Something clicked.

This whole place—it relied on illusion. On the haze of dreams. None of it was real in the way the waking world was, but the danger… the danger was very real.

The crystal. That had to be the anchor. Without it, this entire twisted realm would collapse. Even the one pulling the strings—the so-called "boss"—must've been bound to their dream world by something other than the crystal.

That meant he couldn't fight this place head-on.

He had to play along.

So this is what the old stories meant… what they called a dungeon.

And he forced himself right in the middle of one. 

~ 

"This is Private Haelwyn reporting—severity is far worse than expected. We've got over a thousand victims still alive. Kaldros is down bad, and Team Obsidian's running on fumes down here."

Specialist Kaelwyn exhaled in relief at the sound of her brother's voice.

"Master Sergeant! Catch!"

She tossed the handheld radio to Jerome. He caught it, pressing the receiver to his ear.

"Say again, Private."

This time, he heard it straight—every word hitting with the weight of a battlefield truth.

"Specialist Kaelwyn," Jerome said, eyes still locked on the crumbling skyline, "relay the report to brigade. They should be less than an hour out by now."

He didn't believe in God.

But staring out over the ruined city, smoke curling into the broken sky, he prayed anyway—just this once—that they could hold out long enough for reinforcements to make it.