The mine walls were breathing.
That's what it felt like—an unnatural pulse echoing through the stones, as if the cavern itself were alive. The six twisted figures stepped forward, weapons scraping the floor, eyes aglow like molten coals. Their bodies were ruined—bent, stretched, burned—and yet they moved with terrifying control.
Ari stood alone in the circle of runes, sword drawn, breath slow.
The masked figure raised a hand.
"Let us see what the ghost soldier can do."
The corrupted soldier charged.
The first came fast, armored shoulder crashing into Ari's side. He rolled with the blow, barely avoiding a blade that hissed past his face. Sparks flew as Ari's sword met a blackened axe, their clash ringing through the cavern like a bell of war.
These things weren't mindless beasts.
They remembered how to fight.
The second soldier—what used to be a girl, her hair matted and eyes weeping blood—darted in with two curved daggers. Ari parried left, ducked right, and drove his elbow into her chest, sending her sprawling—but another took her place.
A man with no jaw swung a hammer like thunder. Ari barely dodged, the head of the weapon slamming into the wall and sending rock fragments into the air.
He couldn't keep this up. Not against six.
He needed space.
Ari leapt onto a broken cart and vaulted back, sliding behind a rusted support beam. The runes behind him pulsed again. He risked a glance at the masked man, who hadn't moved. Just watched.
Like this was all a game.
"Are they still alive?" Ari called.
The masked man's voice echoed: "Alive…? No. But they remember life. That's enough to make them useful."
Ari's jaw clenched. "You turned them into weapons."
"I gave them purpose."
Another rush. Another blade. This one grazed Ari's thigh, drawing blood. He stumbled, but his counter was sharp—his sword cutting through a corrupted arm at the elbow. The creature screamed, but no blood flowed. Only a black, oozing fog.
The others hesitated.
Ari took the chance.
He struck fast—blade flashing, every move purposeful. A diagonal cut to the shoulder. A twist to avoid claws. A sweep of the leg. In two blinks, he felled two more. Their bodies crumbled into ash and bone.
Only three remained.
But they were the worst.
The hammer-wielder. The twin-dagger girl. And one that hadn't moved yet—a knight wrapped in rotted royal garments, with an insignia Ari recognized from the Trial: House Veltrin.
That heir had vanished a month ago.
And now… he stepped forward, unsheathing a massive blade.
The corrupted knight spoke. Not a growl. A word.
"…P…rince…"
Ari's grip faltered for a heartbeat.
"They…left us…"
Then the knight attacked.
This one wasn't slow.
Ari met the strike—barely. The force of it sent tremors through his bones. The blade was black steel, wreathed in whispers. Every swing seemed to grow heavier, faster.
He was being overwhelmed.
Ari backstepped into a side tunnel, drawing the fight away from the summoning circle. His boots slipped on damp stone, but he kept upright. Another swing missed his face by inches, cleaving a support beam clean in half.
He couldn't keep dodging.
So he stopped running.
Ari exhaled.
His sword dropped slightly, and he whispered to himself:
"Remember why you fight."
He stepped in.
This time, his blade wasn't just defense—it was vengeance. He drove it low, feinted left, spun, and sliced into the knight's back. A horrible, broken scream echoed from the hollow helm.
But it didn't fall.
Instead, the knight grabbed his sword's blade, fingers burning on the steel, and lifted Ari into the air with one arm.
Ari struggled.
The knight's mouth opened, voice warped by black magic.
"JOIN… US…"
And then Ari saw it—
A mark on the knight's neck. A sigil. Not of the kingdom. Not of any noble house.
It was a black sun—encircled by runes.
His eyes widened.
Ari grit his teeth—and drove his sword upward into the knight's neck with a primal roar.
The blade pierced through the helm.
The creature spasmed violently, dark energy bursting from the wound like smoke escaping a sealed coffin.
Then—it dropped.
Ari collapsed beside it, coughing, bleeding, but alive.
The final two corrupted soldiers—now hesitant—glanced toward the masked man for orders.
But he was gone.
Only his voice echoed.
"Impressive, Prince. You're farther along than I thought."
Ari stood, sword limp in his hand. "You're part of something. A cult."
"A cause," the voice replied. "One that has waited centuries to burn the kingdom's illusion to ash. We will return what was buried. And you, dear Ari… This kingdom will fall—and it will be your fault."
"I'm going to kill you," Ari growled.
"I look forward to the attempt."
The last two corrupted soldier collapsed where they stood—lifeless, their souls released.
And the runes faded.
---
Ari dragged himself back to Derath just before dawn.
He was limping, clothes torn, blood dried across his temple and chest. Villagers saw him and rushed from their homes.
But none spoke.
They saw the look in his eyes.
The kind that only came from seeing death up close.
The innkeeper met him at the door. "Is it over?"
"For now," Ari muttered.
He collapsed onto the inn's steps, exhaustion finally claiming him.
---
That night, after his wounds were bandaged, Ari sat in the chapel. Alone. Quiet. He held a piece of torn cloth in his hand—the remnant of the corrupted knight's tunic. The black sun was still faintly visible on it.
Maybe, someone from the kingdom had known something like this would happen.
And the kingdom is not aware to any of this.
The other heirs... were they all being sent on similar death missions?
He closed his eyes, resting against the chapel's cold wall.
But sleep wouldn't come.
Because now, he wasn't just fighting for survival.
He was fighting against a storm that had already begun.
And he was certain of only one thing:
This wasn't part of the Trial.
This was war.