「Status Update」

Location: Castle York (House Norwen)

Threat Level: Moderate

Active Hellschisms: 1 (Minor)

Order Presence: Limited

Available Resources: Low

Current Mission: Stabilize Eastern Wall

Orien Majere pressed himself against the rough stone corridor, fingertips braced on ancient mortar. He inhaled through his teeth, adjusting to the strange ache behind his eyes. He remembered screams. He remembered standing in halls like these while demons howled through shattered gates. That was another lifetime. Now, he wore an initiate's cloak—threadbare, a bit too loose at the shoulders—and carried only a worn talisman at his belt. He narrowed his eyes and moved forward.

A door hung crooked at the corridor's end. He pushed it aside and stepped into a small courtyard. A late afternoon gloom pressed in, and a group of Norwen soldiers hacked at dried weeds in an old planter box, cursing under their breath. Orien scanned them. The men were exhausted. Their armor mismatched, some wearing dented plate, others just layered leather. Across the yard, a handful of House retainers stacked crates of grain that looked more chaff than seed. Here, nothing felt secure.

He glanced at a distant rampart. A tall knight leaned over the edge, helm under one arm. The knight's posture radiated tension—shoulders tight, head turning left and right as if expecting something to leap from the gloom. Orien crossed the yard, boots scraping old stone, and climbed a narrow stair. At the top, the knight eyed him without warmth.

"I've not seen you before," the knight said. His voice rasped under a thick beard. "You bear the Vigil's cloak, but no rank badge."

"I'm Orien Majere," Orien said, pulling the cloak tighter. "I'm here to help close that Hellschism beyond the eastern fields."

The knight stared, measuring him. "Seal a rift? With what forces?" He tipped his chin toward the courtyard below, where no one seemed ready for a fight. "We're short on arms and wits. Are you sure you know what you're doing?"

Orien answered by holding up his left hand. With a slow breath, he coaxed energy through old pathways inside himself. A tiny arc of flame flickered between his fingertips—just a spark, a whispered promise that he controlled more than scraps of steel. The knight grunted, not impressed yet, but at least not laughing.

They descended together, the knight—Sir Alden, he offered—leading him through half-collapsed passageways toward the eastern gate. Each step they took revealed new decay: a split beam here, a twisted hinge there. Outside the gatehouse, a squire struggled to string a bow of questionable quality while a woman in chipped armor checked a quiver of mismatched arrows. Two more figures waited behind a low barricade—an older man gripping a short spear, and a retainer holding a battered lantern.

"Orien claims he can help seal the rift," Sir Alden said, addressing them as if daring any to scoff.

The woman with the arrows half-smiled, eyes sunken. "We'll see," she said. She passed a look over Orien's cloak as if searching for a hidden mark. Finding none, she shrugged.

They pushed through the gate, boots crunching over loose gravel. The path beyond Castle York's walls sloped gently downward into a field of ruined outbuildings. Broken carts and split fences littered the ground. Orien crouched behind a torn stable door still leaning on its frame. He pointed eastward, where faint flickers of unnatural light glinted behind the skeleton of a barn. "The Hellschism lies beyond that barn," he said, voice low.

He remembered how these cracks in reality behaved. A minor one might look like a thin slash of shimmer in the air. If left unchecked, it would widen and vomit forth more horrors. Last time, he had failed. This time, he planned differently.

"Let's move," he said. He didn't wait for Sir Alden to order it. He slipped past the stable door and darted through tall, dry weeds. His boots scuffed something metal—a broken hoe, rust clinging to its blade. The small group followed, weapons raised but quiet.

As they neared the barn, Orien saw the Hellschism's glow reflected on rotten planks. He smelled rot and something sharper. He held out his hand, palm down. The others halted, shifting their weight on unsure footing. He tapped the talisman at his belt, feeling runes etched into bone. He had carved them himself, long ago, when he knew more than he dared speak aloud now.

From the barn's far side came a scraping sound. Orien pressed himself flat against the wall and peered through a gap. The Hellschism hovered two strides beyond a collapsed beam, shimmering like oil on water. A twisted shape prowled near it—vaguely humanoid, but hunched, its skin marked with greasy patterns. The creature's knees bent backward, its hands ending in hooked claws. He recalled such creatures: vanguard spawn, testers of mortal defenses.

He placed a finger to his lips. The woman with the arrows nodded and notched one carefully. The squire swallowed but tightened his grip on the bow. Sir Alden shifted his shield so it would not reflect torchlight.

Orien reached out with his magic. This time, he did more than spark a flame. He felt energy coil in his gut, a warmth spreading to his fingertips. He whispered the name of a spell he once mastered: 『Ember Lash』. A thread of fire formed between his index and middle fingers, hot enough that the hair on his knuckles curled.

With a flick, he sent the ember whipping around the corner. It struck the creature's flank, igniting scraps of foul growth on its hide. The thing shrieked in a voice that sounded like nails on slate. It bolted forward—and Orien stepped around the barn's edge, meeting it head-on. He brought his other hand up and released a second spell, 『Cinder Spear』, a focused bolt of flame that drilled into the beast's chest. The smell of burning sinew hit them like a slap.

As the creature staggered, Sir Alden lunged from the side, shield raised. His blade sank in just under the creature's arm. The archer loosed an arrow that punched into its throat. The squire, pale-faced, advanced two steps and stabbed low with a short spear, catching the beast's flank. The monster flailed, hissing and stamping at the ground, but they'd trapped it, each strike measured and relentless. The creature collapsed, leaving a smear of blackened ichor on the ground.

Orien allowed himself a single breath of satisfaction. He was stronger than he'd feared, not just a fluke. He turned to the rift, squinting as its shimmering edges pulsed. "More will come," he said, voice tight. "Form a perimeter."

They spread out. The retainer lifted the lantern and angled it, revealing a second creature slithering closer—a smaller shape that clung to the barn's remains. Without hesitation, Orien narrowed his eyes and raised both hands. He traced a pattern in the air and released 『Flame Arc』. Sparks danced in an arc that seared through rotten beams and struck the creature, sending it tumbling. Before it could rise, the archer's arrow pinned it to splintered wood.

Sir Alden moved closer to Orien's side. "You handle spells as if you've been doing it since childhood," he said quietly, voice laced with grudging respect.

"I've had good teachers," Orien replied. It was half-true. Memory lingered—teachers, lessons, scrolls, long nights studying old runes. He had learned them all before he died. He would not waste that knowledge.

A new tremor rippled through the air. The Hellschism widened, a fraction. Orien clenched his jaw. He stepped closer, feeling invisible needles pricking his skin. He ignored the discomfort and began tracing symbols in the air, muttering old words too soft for the others to catch. He needed to weave a stabilizing net of energy.

A faint greenish glow collected around his fingertips. He pressed both palms forward, feeling resistance like pushing against taut fabric. The rift quivered, resisting. He ground his teeth and poured more mana into the spell, summoning remnants of knowledge few still held. Bit by bit, the shimmer shrank, edges curling inward. The process felt like wrestling a drowning man back from a ledge.

The squire shouted, "Something's coming!" Another shape lurked behind the thinning veil, claws scraping at the boundary. Orien glared at the half-sealed tear. If it got through now, he'd lose ground. He needed a distraction.

He snapped at the retainer holding the lantern, "Shine it there!" The retainer swung the light, catching a glint of movement behind the rift. The creature hesitated, momentarily blinded. Orien used that instant to knot his spell tighter. The rift's shimmering edges sparked, crackled, then sealed with a sound like a muffled scream. The tear in reality vanished. The creature beyond it lost its foothold and vanished with a fading hiss.

The field fell silent except for the ragged breathing of the men and woman behind him. Orien let his hands drop. The talisman at his belt smoldered faintly, runes dimming after heavy use.

Sir Alden prodded the dead creature's remains with his sword tip. "You did it." He wasn't whispering now. "I've never seen a novice caster manage a seal that neatly. What are you, Majere?"

"I'm someone who wants to keep these lands standing," Orien said. He stepped away from the corpse, wiping sweat from his brow. He felt drained, but not weak. He had succeeded without revealing the truth of his old life. Now, perhaps, House Norwen and the Order of the Vigil would trust him just enough. He needed their cooperation to prevent greater horrors.

The archer retrieved her arrows, one by one, flicking blood away with practiced motions. The squire bent to examine the charred remains, nose wrinkling. The retainer lowered the lantern, careful not to spill precious oil. Every detail happened here and now, no distant rumors or off-screen whispers. They had done this together, blade and bow and spell, under a sky that offered no comfort.

Orien gestured toward the castle. "We should return. The gate's still open, and we've drawn attention. This spot isn't safe."

They moved in a loose formation, more confident than before. The squire even managed a thin smile. The archer watched Orien from the corner of her eye, sizing him up, as if deciding whether he belonged here. He understood that look. Let her wonder. Let them all wonder. For now, he was an asset, a mage who delivered results.

As they reentered Castle York's walls, guards stepped aside to let them pass. Sir Alden gave Orien a curt nod, less suspicious now. No grand declarations were offered. No cheers rose from weary throats. Yet the tension had shifted. The people saw what Orien could do. They saw him meet that Hellschism head-on, spellfire cutting down abominations before they could spill into the fields.

Lantern light drew long shadows as they crossed the courtyard. Orien eyed the chipped columns and half-repaired gate chains. He heard distant hammering—somewhere, someone tried to mend a broken hinge. He let the sounds wash over him. He had changed something already. The immediate threat was gone, the gap sealed. He carried old knowledge inside him and would use it to shape alliances. If he remained focused, perhaps no Hellschism would ever widen enough to bring the apocalypse he remembered.

He walked past a cart stacked with musty straw and entered a narrow passage leading back into the heart of Castle York. Behind him, Sir Alden took up watch on the wall, the squire helped gather spent arrows, and the retainer hung the lantern on a hook beside the gate. There were no wasted motions now. They had tasted the difference a skilled mage could make. Let that sink in.

Orien slipped into the torchlit gloom of a side corridor, fingers brushing the stone. He did not rest yet. He had spells to refine and plans to lay. He would not fail this world again.