Enemies ran through the white mist, discarding their lives as they approached the trench where Mark stood. Their ghastly dispositions looked alike to haunting wraiths.
His fellow soldiers scrambled incoherently while trying to create a formation to fend off the oncoming assault. Disunity and confusion spread through his allies like a disease. It was truly the perfect time for the enemy to strike, especially through a clandestine offense that could have only been achieved by hiding in the mist.
'Isn't there supposed to be someone who comes help us organize all this?'
If there had been someone of rank at the site, the offense from the enemy would have already been put down. Alas, no such person seemed to be coming over to take command, and the defense was already beginning to crumble.
What was the person in command doing? They couldn't be so lazy as to be sleeping on the job.
The thoughts just after being formulated.
'Oh right. I killed him.'
It was only right that the major would be in charge of the operations on the field. It was a shame that the only capable person had been killed by his own hands. All for a mask.
In that light, maybe this whole situation was Mark's fault, and the consequences to come would relatively be a further result of his deeds. By choosing his own life, he had doomed many others.
Mark looked at his hands. For some reason, that thought didn't bother him very much.
If he were still in the city with the brunette or at the bar - even working in a gang - he might have shed the slightest bit of regret for his actions.
And yet, he felt nothing right now.
Maybe this is how the red-eyed leader of the Spheks felt. To be able to kill someone without blinking. Was it psychopathy or pure insanity? He didn't know.
Either way, now wasn't the time to be caught up in useless thoughts.
The gas concealed the enemies so that by the time Mark could fully see them, they were already within a hundred meters of distance away.
A setting dusk painted the battlefield in a terribly scarlet hue. Bathed in the iridescent lighting, the running and screaming men from the mist seemed to be much more malevolent and fearsome than they were. They trampled on the corpses of fallen comrades and enemies all the while approaching death themselves.
Shots fired in a dreadful cacophony, matched with the shrieks of agony and fright from the oncoming soldiers who were at that moment laid bare to a hell of bullets, now reliant on a simple and cruel game of chance to hold onto their lives.
Mark started running to the place in his trench where people were most concentrated. His chances of survival would be best there if anywhere else. The sounds of gunshots intensified as everyone in the area was focused on putting iron into everybody who came too close, disregarding everything else.
Hearing was also most likely impeded as the deafening noise made almost nobody notice him until he came right next to them, rested his body against the earth, and started shooting enemies himself.
He noticed that despite the panic and disunion, once settled down and defended with a semblance of an objective, the soldiers had more of a cool than he had thought they would. It's almost like a focused environment was created amidst the shooting.
And then, the calm focus was extinguished like a candle flame amidst howling winds.
Before they could even get rid of the first rush of enemy forces, the main body came out of the fog and into their vision.
Best put, the sight was dreadful.
If the first assault was a wave of soldiers, now it looked as if an ocean of desperate men was rolling in their direction and about to flood their trench with misery and violence.
It was at that moment all of the people next to Mark started to lose control. Their aim had become useless with their hands shaking beyond control, their eyes blinked rapidly alongside chattering mouths as some began to scream in terror at the approaching onslaught.
The mood had been flipped from that of tranquility and duty to agitation and despair.
Mark, for the first time since he awakened it, saw past the superficial surface of his ability.
Mass psychology, the mood of a crowd. He had learned it from one of his books at home then applied it as a bartender.
An individual's feelings are affected by the surroundings. A happy crowd would affect a person differently than a sad crowd. That's why he always tried to keep his establishment amiable so that people would feel more comfortable when coming for a drink.
What if that was how his ability operated? It was just a psychological form of communication that ended with evoking some sort of feeling from the other party. The only difference is that he can choose what to bring out.
It might also explain how his ability can scale in potency. Kind of like the way it would be different to have one person mad at him than a whole mob that want to beat him up.
If his ability truly worked in such a simple way, then maybe he already had the ability to get out of the dilemma he was currently in.
Mark might be able to further apply his ability through mass psychology. He could use each person that he influences with his ability as nodes to spread the extent of what he can do.
In such a way, he might be able to gain control of masses and mobs, soldiers in a battalion, and whatever other needs he has.
Up ahead, the enemy was ever so close. The sea of men never ceased as more and more kept pouring into the scene.
Facing death in the face, Mark felt once more the dormant potential he had. Something in the back of his mind loosened as he saw the world in a new light.
Everyone here is now a pawn.
Pawns to a heartless player.