The Vyaghruga chief, Macos, moved like a shadow through the dense, light-devouring woods.
His tribe followed, their feline senses piercing the unnatural gloom that seemed to thicken with each step.
Lash and Cloe walked at the head of the group—the former tense, coiled like a spring ready to release; the latter lost in a troubled daze, her green eyes unfocused.
Without warning, arrows hissed from the darkness.
"Watch out!" Lash's shout split the air.
Cloe snapped back to reality.
Her claws moved on instinct, deflecting a projectile that would have taken her in the throat.
The tribe reacted with feral grace—bodies twisting, claws swatting, teeth snapping at wooden shafts. Macos didn't even flinch. An arrow streaked toward his face, and he simply wasn't there when it arrived.
Then came the elemental bolts.
Streaks of fire, ice, and earth tore through the trees—the Order's traps, triggered by their passage.
A Vyaghruga too slow to react was vaporised, his body erased from existence.
Another fell with a charred hole in his chest, his fur smoking, his eyes wide with shock.
"Fuck!"
Lash cursed, swiping his claws to dissipate a fiery bolt.
The impact shook the air, rattling his teeth. "Move forward!" he roared, casting a furious glance at his father.
Macos remained an island of calm amid the slaughter.
He walked steadily, unhurried, as if the death raining from all sides was merely weather to be endured.
Cloe watched with wide, worried eyes as her kin fought desperately.
A bolt of crackling energy shot towards the chief.
He flicked a single claw, and the bolt split in half, passing harmlessly on either side.
He didn't even break stride.
The Vrkuka tribe pushed deeper into the altar grounds, their fur matted with blood and scorch marks from the traps they'd already survived.
Damn the Order and their tricks.
Chief Serge's thoughts seethed as he led his pack through the killing field.
But these Ganshka make acceptable shields.
He noted with cold satisfaction that the number of their green-skinned allies had quietly dwindled.
Each trap, each ambush, and each hidden danger thinned their ranks—and left his true warriors untouched.
He stopped abruptly.
The air had changed.
It had grown thicker, tainted with a profane, metallic taste that coated the tongue and burnt the nostrils.
Before them stood an archway formed by two grotesquely twisted trees, their branches writhing without any wind to move them.
Serge traced the scar on his snout—a gift from Macos, years ago. A reminder of unfinished business.
It ends here. The thought was cold and satisfying. You wanted a war, Macos. You'll get one.
I'll tear the keys from your corpse and let the altar's light be the last thing you ever see.
He snorted. "War!"
"WAR!" "WAR!"
"Woff!" "Woof!"
"Gnash! Gnash!"
The chants swelled into a primal roar as his forces poured through the dark archway.
On the other side of the clearing, emerging from an identical arch, stood Macos.
Between them lay the altar.
It was massive—a five-sided slab of obsidian stone raised on a dais supported by five dark columns that seemed to drink the light.
Staircases ascended from the front and back, each step worn smooth by countless sacrifices. The air around it shimmered with latent power.
The two leaders locked eyes.
"Serge." Macos's voice echoed across the clearing, the blood-red inverse pentagram on his chest pulsing faintly with each word.
"You bring shame upon our race, consorting with these green vermin. You lower yourself to their level."
Serge snorted, a puff of vapour in the cool air. "Don't preach to me about shame, you damned cat!"
His claws extended. "I'll take your keys and your life, and the altar will be mine."
For a few heartbeats, there was only silence—broken by the drip of saliva from hungry maws and the tense swishing of tails.
Claws extended. Muzzles twitched. Eyes locked.
Three.
Two.
One.
The horde of Ganshka surged forward.
Both sides lunged.
The Vyaghruga met them, claws shearing through wood and flesh alike.
Fangs tore out green-tinged throats. Dark blood fountained, painting the earth in crimson and green.
The Vrkuka used the Ganshka as a living screen, attacking the Vyaghruga as they were occupied with the slaughter.
This was not a battle of technique but of pure, primal instinct—a whirlwind of claws, tails, and teeth, all fuelled by surging prana and ancient hatred.
Lash carved a path through the Ganshka, a whirlwind of destruction.
His claws found throats, his tail swept legs, and and his teeth tore flesh.
Two Vrkukas charged him, unleashing a deafening screech that vibrated in his skull.
The sound wave dazed him for a second—but only a second.
"Let's practise this." He shook off the effect with a smirk. He focused his prana, channelling it into his claws, and unleashed two swift, successive slashes.
Two fiery, three-clawed projectiles ripped through the air, striking his attackers square in the chests.
They fell.
He licked a drop of blood from his palm, the metallic scent intoxicating him further. Then he plunged back into the fray.
Cloe fought desperately, gutting a Ganshka and shaking its blood from her claws.
Her breath came in ragged gasps. Her arms trembled with exhaustion.
How many are left? The thought was frantic and desperate.
The ground was a carpet of corpses—green, brown, gold, red.
More Ganshka surged toward her, their yellow eyes gleaming with mindless fury.
She bared her fangs and snarled.
On the sidelines, Macos and Serge watched. Their personal war had not yet begun.
Ashan's group moved like ghosts through the chaos, trailing the Vrkuka and Ganshka forces. His eyes swirled with greyish-white light.
[Viksana: Foresee].
The future unspooled before him—five seconds, no more. He saw arrows arcing from hidden positions. Saw his people falling.
He halted.
"Arrows are incoming!"
The group tensed, weapons drawn, scanning the empty trees.
"Where—" Dris began.
Swish!
A volley of arrows materialised from the shadows.
"Oh, fuck!" Dris dived aside.
Forewarned, they dodged with practised efficiency—rolling, ducking, and deflecting.
Only a few found marks, shallow wounds that barely slowed them.
Ashan darted forward. "Elemental bolts next! Open fire on the enemy, now!"
Confused but trusting, the group charged.
Archers loosed their shafts into the Vrkuka rearguard, taking down three before they could react.
"Humans!" a Vrkuka snarled, spinning to face this new threat.
"Cast now!" Ashan commanded.
A chorus of Asurain mantras rose as forty-seven humans unleashed their [Elemental Bolts].
Dark energy streaked through the air—brown, blue, green, black—converging on the Vrkuka position.
At the same moment, a storm of enemy bolts erupted from the trees—the Vrkuka's own casters, responding in kind.
The two volleys collided mid-air, creating a cascade of explosions that engulfed both humans and Manuga.
The Vrkuka and Ganshka were caught in the crossfire, overwhelmed by the sudden, coordinated assault.
"Run straight through!" Ashan yelled, slicing a bolt of ice with his sword.
His eyes never stopped swirling, the present and future overlapping in his vision as he led the desperate sprint.
The three Vrkuka guards, enraged by the attack, grabbed nearby Ganshka and used them as living shields against the magical onslaught.
he green-skinned creatures cried out in betrayal as they were shoved into the path of incoming bolts.
Gnash! Gnash! The betrayed Ganshka turned their crude weapons on their treacherous allies, their simple minds unable to process the complexity of the situation.
"Stupid midgets!" a Vrkuka snarled, swatting one away with a clawed hand.
The humans ran. The elemental assault subsided.
They collapsed in a panting, ragged group at the edge of the tree line.
"They're not following." Helma gasped, leaning on her knees. "They're too busy killing each other."
"Shit!" Dris clicked his tongue in frustration. "We lost all those vestiges. All those bodies, and we couldn't harvest a single one."
Roderic jerked a thumb back the way they came. "By all means, go back for them. I'm sure the Vrkuka would love to add you to their collection."
Dris smirked. "On second thought, not that important."
"You're not thick-skinned." Roderic shook his head. "You're thick-brained."
"Enough." Imla's voice cut sharply through the banter. "This is not the time."
Dris leaned in to whisper to Roderic, just loud enough for everyone to hear. "We need to establish a hierarchy. You can call me father; I don't mind."
Roderic drove an elbow into his ribs. "At least whisper quietly."
Ashan stared ahead at the source of the horrific cacophony—the altar entrance.
The sounds of snarls, dying cries, and gnashing teeth poured forth like water from a broken dam.
Cloe. Ballio's thought was a silent prayer. Just hold on a little longer. I'm coming.
Team 7 looked on with somber determination. They had come this far. There was no turning back now.
"So." Roderic tightened his grip on his sword. "That's the path to our door."
"And to our graves." Damara pinched her nose against the stench of death that rolled out of the entrance like fog.
"So many vestiges to harvest." Dris's voice was almost wistful. "So many orbs, just waiting for someone to claim them."
Imla observed in silence, her green eyes cataloguing everything. Helma grimaced. "I just hope this is the last trial. I don't think I can take much more."
Ashan turned to the larger group.
Their faces were pale, streaked with dirt and fear and the blood of enemies not their own.
But beneath it all, a flicker of stubborn hope remained in their eyes.
He uttered the words softly—a dark mantra that had become their creed.
"For a few more moments, we die gladly for it."
The phrase rippled through them, passed from one to another like a whispered prayer and a battle cry combined.
"For a few more moments, we die gladly for it."
Together, they marched toward the roaring darkness, hoping to trade their lives for a chance to live.