"Cough cough… Jermal, what do we do now?!"
Totat voiced what was on everyone's minds. It was evident that the wall of darkness was only a temporary reprieve from the flames.
And this reprieve was quickly coming to an end. Just one minute in, and the wall already began to crack. But never mind that, it was becoming nearly impossible to breathe.
Jermal hadn't moved an inch since he took his stand. Despite his seemingly controlled breathing, he was at his wits end.
Physical or mental fatigue? Which one would be the death of him?
By now, Jermal could only stand because of his faith. Faith in the god that granted him this power. Faith that he had what it took to save his friends.
He could "feel" what his mana wall felt, meaning he understood just how bad the situation was.
Fire licked the obscure fortress. On all sides. The moment he let go of this spell…
They would all burn.
Jermal gritted his teeth, every muscle in his body screaming for rest. His hands trembled violently, his veins pulsing with that same deep, crimson glow that once thrilled him. Now, it only hurt.
He couldn't even hear the others anymore. Their voices, their coughing, their cries for help, all of it blurred into a dull ringing in his ears. His entire world narrowed to one single thought: Hold.
The dark wall shuddered again, cracks of molten orange splitting through the black. It wouldn't last. He knew that. Yet, somewhere deep inside, Jermal felt something stir.
Not fear. Not despair. Something else.
Resolve.
If this was the will of the Hollow Eye, then he would not collapse like a coward. His god had chosen him for a reason, and if that reason was to burn while buying time for the tribe to live, so be it.
Then, just as the final fracture broke through the wall, a spark, no, a surge, of new energy coursed through him. The dark fire within flared brighter, stronger, as though answering his faith.
Jermal's eyes rolled back, leaving only the white of his eyeballs. Veins popped everywhere on his body, a testament to his effort.
This black flame lasted for but a second. However, in that second, as the wall collapsed, and the fire galloped to claim its prey, the cold set in.
Not the cold of the night, or that of winter. Not the cold of the winter, when the tribe told stories around the campfire.
No. The cold of an endless blizzard, where each snowflake is lifeless, with the sole purpose of piling up, like thousands of soldiers sacrificed to break through front lines.
The cold of loneliness. When no one is there to save you. When your death is imminent. Inescapable.
A cold that isn't tangible, yet can be felt. One that can only be experienced when despair reigns supreme.
The black flame burst from Jermal's body, spreading outward in a radius of about fifteen meters. The blazing, suffocating inferno collided with its icy counterpart, and hesitated.
The impact was too fast for the eye to follow. The black flame struck the red blaze and… absorbed it?
It was like a whale swallowing a lion, two forces so different that comparison felt meaningless.
At the edge of the explosion, a deep red gash carved itself into the ground, forming a ring of ash and embers around the tribe members.
And beyond that ring, the fire refused to advance.