The pressure exerted by the warrior of Dracknum was overwhelming—an invisible weight pressing down on me, making each breath a struggle and turning every movement into a herculean effort. I could barely move, the air around me feeling as dense as lead. And yet, the fear of death, the searing pain in my chest, and the desperate cries of the youngling were the only things keeping me conscious, if only by a fragile thread.
For some inexplicable reason, the Crothyna remained completely still. Her figure, spectral in the dim light, seemed frozen in time, suspended in a state of inertia that defied logic. Her yellow eyes weren't fixed on us but rather on something distant—most likely the battle between the Dracknum warrior and the mercenaries.
Beside me, Nikolas and Oswin were also struggling against the suffocating weight of terror. Their faces, illuminated only by fleeting flashes of light filtering through the thick canopy, mirrored my own silent dread. With an almost inhuman effort, I turned my gaze toward Nikolas.
"Huh?" His expression struck me as odd. "Hey… why are you… smiling?" I asked, my voice breaking between disbelief and despair, barely managing to form the words.
Nikolas tilted his head slightly, his breath unsteady, yet his eyes seemed to search for an answer.
"Huh? I should be asking you the same thing," he replied, speaking far more clearly than I could manage.
For a moment, I froze, confusion swallowing me whole.
'Am I… smiling too?'
I hadn't even realized it amidst the chaos, but there it was—an unexpected smile stretched across my lips. With difficulty, I raised my scorched, trembling hand to my face, feeling my parted lips and slackened jaw, my own disbelief evident in my touch.
The silence was shattered by Oswin's panicked rambling.
"We're gonna die, we're gonna die, we're gonna die!" His voice trembled, barely intelligible, as he fought to stay on his feet, resisting the crushing force. It was understandable—he was only ten or eleven, trapped in a forest teetering on the edge of doom.
'Why?' My mind spun with questions as my hands shook, grasping for some semblance of reason. I looked at Nikolas, and though his expression reflected the same bewilderment, there was something else in his eyes—an unwavering resolve, a fire that refused to be snuffed out.
Oswin's frantic murmurs continued, a relentless, echoing mantra:
"We're gonna die, die, die…"
Then, with a voice laden with unexpected urgency, Nikolas intervened:
"Alexander, look… She must be affected by this pressure too. Maybe we still have a chance."
I tried to reason with him. "But even if we manage to move out of this pressure, it'll just follow us."
Nikolas nodded, his lips curling into a defiant smile despite his trembling hands and the cold sweat on his face. "Exactly."
"Huh?!" I blurted out, stunned by the audacity of his response.
"We're not just going to escape the pressure—we're going straight to the source of it." His grin widened as he spoke.
"You're insane," I shot back, trying to mask the mix of fear and disbelief in my voice. "And what happened to not interfering?"
"That was before this damn pressure escalated and before the Crothyna decided to become part of the scenery, wasn't it?" he retorted, his grin growing with every word. "Besides, who said we'd be interfering?"
With all the strength he could muster, Nikolas leaned in and began whispering.
"This is the plan…"
After hearing everything, I lowered my head slightly—a gesture that was equal parts resignation and irony, reflecting on the sheer madness of Nikolas' idea.
With a sigh, I began to murmur, "And to think I once had the nerve to call me crazy…" Then I lifted my gaze, clenched my scorched fist, and felt a smile forming—trembling, yes, but filled with something that was anything but fear or despair.
"When there's someone even crazier than me!" I declared, my tone hovering between sarcasm and camaraderie.
Nikolas chuckled softly, his eyes gleaming with that fire known only to the audacious.
"In this world? No… In Dracknum, everyone's crazy. The ones who aren't? They just haven't realized it yet."
.......
As expected, Warwick remained almost entirely unfazed by the crushing pressure exerted by the Dracknum warrior, who, in turn, continued his relentless assault—each strike seeming less like a mere attack and more like a declaration of war against reality itself.
As the battle raged, right in front of the rift that tore through space, Darius watched with calculating eyes. His hand, resting firmly on the shoulder of the disheveled-haired, golden-eyed boy, pulsed with an intense, crimson energy. That energy—vivid, almost alive—flowed steadily, like molten lava, being injected into the boy. It spread, reaching the scroll clutched in the youth's trembling hands. Unlike the previous one, this scroll bore red inscriptions, and an immense pentagram, etched with precision, vibrated in sync with each new wave of energy coursing through it.
'It hurts so much…' the boy agonized in his mind, beads of sweat betraying the torment he endured with each infusion of that vital force. The pain was excruciating, but he couldn't falter. That energy—none other than Darius' own mana—was being transferred with an almost ritualistic precision.
Mana, the primordial source of magic, was the foundation of existence itself. From the smallest grains of sand to the most distant celestial bodies, everything carried traces of this energy, in varying forms and intensities. Though invisible to the naked eye, it permeated every corner of reality, sustaining the world and making the extraordinary possible.
More than just fuel for spells, mana was the hidden essence that shaped nature, strengthened bodies, and awakened supernatural abilities. Just as coal feeds a fire, mana burned and transformed, enabling anything from simple enchantments to feats capable of bending the very laws of the universe.
However, this energy was not inherently benevolent. It manifested in many forms, capable of being either a force of creation or a harbinger of destruction. In Darius' case, the mana he wielded was impure—a stark contrast to the natural, untainted mana that coursed through most living beings. His, by nature, was corrupted, harmful. As a vampire, Darius bore this curse, turning his very essence into a double-edged sword—immensely powerful, yet poisonous to those whose mana was inherently pure.
"Damn this fragile human body," Darius muttered under his breath, frustration lacing his voice. From the very start, this mission had felt doomed to failure, and with every passing moment of misfortune, his irritation only deepened.
......
Darius and Warwick, both members of a notorious mercenary organization, were no strangers to working with all kinds of contractors—ranging from wide-eyed children to the most ruthless criminals in the city. In this organization, money was the only law: as long as the price was paid, any task would be carried out without question. Though neither of them stood at the pinnacle of the hierarchy, Darius—the sharp-tongued half-blood—and Warwick—the proud-hearted barbarian—were considered high-class warriors, always above the average.
That day, however, they found themselves drowning in boredom, suffocated by the monotony of their recent missions. No contract seemed worth the effort, and the rush of adrenaline had long since faded. Then, unexpectedly, a new contract arrived—an enigmatic request from an anonymous employer. While secretive deals were nothing new in their line of work, something about this particular approach was disturbingly unusual. The mysterious contractor arrived accompanied by an impeccably dressed butler, who, with a voice as smooth as it was precise, laid out the mission's terms.
The initial meeting unfolded in a tense silence, filled with an air of formality and unease, interrupted only by the faint clinking of the butler's accessories and the scrutinizing gazes of the mercenaries. By the end of the discussion, as if enacting some macabre ritual, the contractor—whose identity remained concealed—slit the butler's throat without hesitation. Darius would never forget the cold, deliberate words spoken the very moment the lifeless body hit the ground:
"Perfect. Now, no loose ends remain."
Though they had dealt with their fair share of eccentric clients, Darius and Warwick knew something was deeply wrong with this mission. To make matters worse, it had been classified as an S-rank job—something that, under normal circumstances, would never be entrusted to them. However, the client had explicitly stated that only they were to undertake it. And after three long months without a contract of real significance, this opportunity felt like an oasis in a desert of meaningless missions. Accepting was their only option—refusal would bring severe consequences from their own organization.
The mission's objective seemed, at first glance, straightforward:
"Infiltrate the Black Forest of Dracknum during the hunter's trial, destroy all rapid access points to prevent reinforcements, create a diversion, and finally, break the protective seals and leave the area."
An impossible task—almost suicidal. No one in their right mind would dare provoke the Archduchy of Dracknum. They were a nation of hunters, relentless and unforgiving. But the contractor—through the butler's measured, almost sinister tone—made one thing explicitly clear:
"Fear not. I require only the first layer to be broken."
Those words echoed in Darius and Warwick's minds, stirring an unsettling mix of relief and dread. On one hand, knowing they didn't need to shatter the seal entirely offered a small measure of reassurance—like a breath of air amidst the looming storm. On the other, the mission still meant crossing a line—offending the mighty Dracknum family. Even for mercenaries accustomed to operating beyond the bounds of law, this job required more than just skill; it demanded caution, strategy, and a great deal of nerve.
They had already completed the first two phases of the contract with remarkable precision. Between skirmishes and obstacles, the only real complication had been the death of a Dracknum guard—a minor incident in the grand scheme of things. Yet, as they neared the final stage, an unexpected problem arose. A troublesome individual had appeared, throwing their plans into disarray and fueling Darius' growing frustration.
The situation was spiraling out of control. And now, he had no choice but to find a way out—immediately.
Darius knew that he and Warwick could escape on their own—but there was one unacceptable variable: the fragile boy assigned as their "assistant" by the enigmatic client. His mind was as delicate as his body, and losing him wouldn't just jeopardize the mission; it could also stain their reputation within the organization. That responsibility kept them from making any reckless moves.
With his eyes burning with determination and his mind racing through strategies, Darius made a bold decision—it was time for Plan B.
If retreating wasn't an option, then forcing the rupture wider would be. Even if only 1% of the second layer fractured, it would be enough.
While Warwick continued to hold off the Dracknum warrior, Darius pressed on with his effort to break free.
"Damn it, this payment better be worth all this trouble," he muttered, his voice carrying both irritation and cautious hope. Unlike standard missions, S-rank contracts never came with a set price. The reward would only be revealed after the mission's successful completion—if they made it out alive.