Erik sat cross-legged, his eyes closed in quiet concentration, though his mind was far from still. Through the infected he controlled, he surveyed the various battlefields as if he were standing in the thick of it. On Howard's side, everything was progressing well. The archers were improving, their volleys hitting with more precision, and the chaos they had caused was satisfying. Erik's lips curled into a faint smile—Howard was performing as expected, a reliable asset.
On the other side, Ashley's side was harder to overlook. She fought bravely, but when he saw how many had died to just bandits and ruffians, Erik was somewhat disappointed. Still, the way she handled the enemy captain in the end earned her a place on his growing list of talented individuals. It was an unexpected display of adaptability and ferocity that piqued his interest.
Throughout the battle, Erik kept meticulous track of those who stood out. He mentally made a list of these people. He wasn't one to let talent go unnoticed. Because only during the moment of crisis would many reveal their potential, and he was watching closely to look out for them, reason unknown.
His constant surveillance of the battlefield through the eyes of the infected granted Iron'Heits' soldiers a slight edge. Every move the Alliance army made was swiftly countered, allowing the city's defenses to hold—just barely. His focus shifted between the different points of view of the infected.
He changed his view from inside to outside and as he scouted; he saw the next wave.
"They really want to take Iron'Heits in one fell swoop," he said. Despite all his efforts, he still couldn't figure out why the Alliance was so determined to conquer such an insignificant city. He had found no clue yet.
With a deep breath, Erik shifted his vision from one infected soldier to another, his mind hopping between bodies as easily as flipping the pages of a book. Suddenly, he found himself in a world of fire. Heat waves distorted the air, and the crackle of flames filled his ears. One of his infected soldiers was locked in a fierce struggle against a fire mage, the scorching flames swallowing everything around them.
Erik watched the inferno with detached curiosity, his gaze fixed on the burning body. He wondered if he could feel the pain of the infected, if the searing flames would somehow reach him. But no pain came. He felt nothing—just the sight of his host's arms slowly burning to ashes. His vision dimmed as the infected soldier died, consumed by the fire. Before the connection faded completely, Erik caught a glimpse of the fire mage standing in the distance. Gablis had a curious look, eyebrows raised as if puzzled by something.
Without lingering, Erik switched his focus to Brema, who was cutting down enemies like weeds. The soldiers standing behind Brema watched in awe—some repulsed, others relieved, and a few wanting to cheer but holding back. Brema, with his broadsword in hand, the other one still on his waist, cleared the field swiftly, his powerful strikes ending lives with brutal efficiency. Soon, the only figures left standing were Brema and the infected soldiers Erik controlled.
"Let's see what you've got," Erik muttered, gripping the sword tighter as he charged at Brema.
Erik and Brema circled each other, their movements fluid and calculated. His sword slashed through the air again, a diagonal arc aimed at Brema's midsection, but Brema stepped back, evading it with minimal effort. Erik quickly reversed his grip and followed with a rising slash. Brema shifted to the side, narrowly avoiding the blade once more, his expression focused but calm.
Calm, he advanced, launching a series of quick, unpredictable strikes. His sword flashed in every direction—slashes, stabs, and feints—each one aimed to catch Brema off guard. Yet Brema continued to dodge with uncanny precision, his feet moving just enough to evade the edge of the blade. The infected Erik controlled showed no signs of fatigue, like it had unlimited stamina, allowing him to maintain the relentless pace of the fight.
Brema's movements remained composed, almost effortless. He dodged each attack, sidestepping or pivoting just in time, his eyes locked on Erik, studying every shift in his stance, every flicker of movement. It was clear that Brema's skill was in his ability to read and anticipate his opponent's intentions, allowing him to evade even the swiftest blows.
Watching Erik's relentless attempts, Brema sighed inwardly, his mind briefly wandering. The infected's technique was improving with every strike, growing sharper and more precise. Brema could see the potential in Erik's fighting style—adaptable, creative, and relentless. For a fleeting moment, he even considered offering to train him, wondering what the infected might become with proper guidance. But he had to let it go when he saw the expression on the infected face—controlled by Erik—was too resolute for that.
"Why isn't the captain finishing him?" a soldier said to his comrade in a low voice.
"How should I know?" the other replied. "Why don't you ask him yourself?"
The first soldier cursed under his breath and stayed quiet.
As the fight continued, Brema had to block an attack or two—something that hadn't been necessary earlier. Erik improved noticeably during their exchange, adapting quickly with each strike. Brema couldn't help but be impressed by the progress, though it was clear Erik still had room for improvement, and this was already a monstrous improvement.
"Impressive," was all Brema could say. 'He really is a talent.'
But he knew it was time to end things. With a sigh, he unsheathed his sword, signaling that their bout was over. Erik sensed Brema's intent and halted his assault, bowing slightly as a sign of respect. Brema, in a single swift motion, ended the sparring with a decisive strike, severing the infected's head and bringing the fight to a close.
"What a waste," Brema uttered as Erik's consciousness left the infected and jumped to another. Erik used this opportunity to hone his skills against Collum and Mallory as well, but both proved far superior. He didn't last ten seconds against them before being defeated.
"Enough for now," Erik said to himself, pulling back from his training. He refocused on the chaos spreading across the city, but kept one area under constant surveillance. Soon, he heard a voice through one of the infected as they emerged from a hidden tunnel. The voice said one word: "Welcome." And he knew where he was.
'Don't go too wild.'
...............…
Valcroy sat still, his eyes closed in deep meditation, the Abyssal miasma swirling around him like a dark veil. His breathing was slow and deliberate, his mind a void, absent of thoughts or distractions. This was a new phase of his meditation, something deeper, as it allowed him to analyze his inner and outer self calmly.
The barren landscape stretched out endlessly, a desolate expanse scarred by the ravages of past bombings. The crater from the explosions stood as the sole significant feature amid the wasteland—a grim testament to the horror that had once unfolded here. In the distance, almost untouched by the devastation, the silhouettes of houses and a solitary mountain loomed, casting a stark contrast against the ruin. A strange contrast that made one contemplate and question—why was this place bombed?
Crack*
A faint rumble stirred the ground, an unsettling tremor that disrupted the eerie stillness of the wasteland. It wasn't the random aftershocks of past explosions; this vibration had purpose, a deliberate force as though something—or someone—was emerging from below.
The ground around the crater began to sink and shift, the once-stable soil collapsing as if a hidden void had been uncovered. With slow, deliberate movements, a figure clawed its way to the surface, the earth parting to reveal its ascent.
Valcroy remained seated, his presence cloaked by the Abyssal miasma that surrounded him. The figure continued to rise, its emergence from the ground a stark contrast to the desolate landscape, casting an ominous shadow over the scarred land. The figure looked around, taking in the barren landscape.
"Finally out,"
The man breathed in relief, his voice shaky. He was a soldier of the Alliance.
Before he could fully appreciate the view, another voice appeared from below, saying. "No time for sightseeing! Keep digging. We need to widen the tunnel."
The first man groaned but complied, picking up his tools and returning to work. Neither of them noticed Valcroy sitting on a small boulder nearby, watching them silently.
More soldiers soon emerged from the tunnel, their armor clinking as they gathered at the surface. It was clear this was an old tunnel, one that had been long lost to the Iron'Heits, but somehow the Alliance knew about it and had bombed this place for that very purpose. Captain Jayanta and Vice-Captain Renan quickly took charge, scanning the surroundings.
Unlike the others, they noticed Valcroy, who had left the boulder and was now walking toward them, his posture relaxed, almost too casual for the situation.
"Who are you?" Renan said out loud, his voice a mix of caution and arrogance.
Valcroy smiled faintly. "Welcome," he said, his tone calm.
Captain Jayanta exchanged glances with Renan, both seasoned soldiers growing wary of the unknown figure. The men behind them shifted uneasily, their hands instinctively moving toward their weapons. Captain was wary because the person moving toward them was a non-practitioner, but he was giving him dangerous vibes, like even staying next to him for a moment was not safe.
Valcroy stopped a few paces away, his gaze drifting toward the tunnel. "You've been busy."
Jayanta narrowed his eyes, but stayed silent. Renan, always the more aggressive, stepped forward and asked, "What are you doing here?"
Valcroy chuckled softly when he heard that. "Just meditating. You've chosen an interesting place to dig up old wounds."
"You seem to know a lot about what we're doing."
Before the conversation could continue, a low rumble echoed from the tunnel. The soldiers tensed as dust and debris began falling. Valcroy's eyes flashed with blackness as he looked at them.
"It seems you've disturbed something else during your little excavation," he said, glancing back at the tunnel. "Maybe you should be asking yourselves what else lies beneath."
Before either officer could respond, a loud cracking sound came from the tunnel, and the ground rocked. The soldiers instinctively formed a protective circle around the captain and vice-captain, their weapons drawn.
Valcroy remained eerily calm, but his eyes gleamed. "You might want to prepare yourselves," he said as his mouth corners turned up. Before they could react, a series of explosions tore through their formation.
Bam! x 23
Shockwaves and explosion rippled through the air as the bodies of the infected exploded. Three intermediate-realm experts near Jayanta had detonated, their bodies reduced to mist along with the twenty initial realm experts who added finishing touch and took care of Renan and the other intermediate. The battlefield became shrouded in red, staining everything.
Jayanta, flung backward by the blast, landed hard on the ground, his armor cracked and splattered with blood. He grunted in pain, seriously injured.
Renan was knocked down as well, disoriented and severely injured, but alive. He gasped, looking at the charred remains of his comrades.
"You trapped us," Renan looked at him, his voice filled with shock and disbelief as he stared at Valcroy.
Valcroy's blackened eyes glowed. "I told you," he said, the grin creeping over his face.
"Welcome."