The wooden door exploded inward with a deafening crash, the sound reverberating through the gray mist and shattering the deathly silence of the walls. From every direction, corrupted corpses answered with eerie, wailing moans, as though acknowledging the intruders' challenge.
Phield's eyes flicked to his minimap—the skull markers converging rapidly, accompanied by faint, guttural growls reaching his ears. His heart tightened involuntarily.
Before the two corpses inside could fully lurch forward, Ashina was already in motion, longsword flashing in a vicious downward arc.
The blade bit deep into the first creature's neck; black-purple blood fountained against the walls, painting them in grim streaks. The entire room seemed bathed in cold, bloody light, the air thick with the reek of death.
The second lunged, jagged teeth ripping toward her face, carving a crimson gash from cheek to ear in the air it occupied a heartbeat earlier. One solid bite would have torn away half her flesh.
Ashina sidestepped with effortless grace, wrist flicking as she reversed her grip. Empowered by divine strength, the sword sheared clean through the corpse's skull. Half its head vanished in a spray of gore; thick, tainted blood pooled swiftly across the floor.
"Rooaaar!"
The commotion drew more. A shambling horde of corrupted soldiers poured from the connecting passageway, milky eyes rolling, armor clanking as they pressed forward in a mindless surge.
The slaves brandished their farming tools, swinging them nervously—but none dared step past the threshold.
Monsters were terrifying enough; monsters in full plate were a nightmare.
"Fuck—just how many got infected?" Phield muttered under his breath.
"Flames!"
Ashina released her Drakewolf. The massive beast filled the passageway like a living wall of midnight scales and ice-rimed fangs.
Starlike magical energy coalesced in a glittering torrent. The Drakewolf opened its maw and unleashed a roaring gout of ghostly blue fire. The corrupted soldiers vanished into the inferno; only twisting, thrashing silhouettes remained visible for a fleeting moment before the flames consumed them utterly.
"Terrifying power…"
The slaves had been wavering—fight or flee?—when the brief, explosive battle ended in the blink of an eye. Some caught only the final silhouettes swallowed by fire; most saw merely ash drifting to the stone floor and stood frozen in stunned silence.
"This is the might of a Divine Chosen?" Phield felt exhilaration swell within him, confidence bordering on arrogance. Time to be bold. "Everyone—make as much noise as you can. Draw the nearby corpses here and let Ashina and her Drakewolf finish them."
At his command, the slaves obeyed with newfound zeal, banging tools against shields and walls, shouting, stomping—anything to lure the enemy.
Wave after wave came, and wave after wave fell to frost and flame.
Soon the barracks area lay cleared of threats. The last embers of blue fire died away, leaving only scattered ash and twisted metal.
Phield's understanding of a Divine Chosen's true power deepened immeasurably. With Ashina at his side, the Nightfall Domain no longer felt like certain death.
It felt like opportunity.
"Now—let's find anything valuable," Phield said, a greedy smile spreading across his face. "Weapons and coin especially."
He had barely dispersed the slaves to search when one came running back, breathless with excitement.
"My lord! We've found survivors!"
Phield's expression didn't brighten. Instead, he swept a complicated glance around the empty grounds.
"Ashina—dismiss your wolf. Now's not the time to reveal our strength."
He hadn't had nearly enough time to build a foundation. Parading a Divine Chosen would be inviting assassination—his stepmother would waste no time sending blades in the dark, then binding Ashina to a new master.
The slaves weren't a concern; they were under his constant watch, and a single thought could reduce any one of them to ash.
Still… survivors might know where the good loot was hidden.
The survivors emerged from a concealed bunker along the wall. The door had been doused with purifying draughts, barely holding the mist at bay long enough for them to hear living voices before daring to open it.
"Thank you for saving us," the bearded officer said with a forced chuckle, straightening his rumpled uniform. "I thought we'd be stuck another week—eating our own shit to stay alive." He flashed a yellow-toothed grin. "Let me guess—newly knighted? I'll be sure to report your valor to Baron Bull."
"A kindness, nothing more," Phield replied evenly.
He tilted his head, trying to peer past the man into the bunker, but two soldiers shifted to block his view.
All ten of the officer's men were crammed inside.
"Where's the rest of your force?" the bearded man asked, eyeing Phield's ragtag slaves with open disdain—farm tools instead of proper weapons.
Phield shrugged. "I'm no knight. I'm Baron Phield."
"Ah… Baron Phield." Recognition flickered, followed by an odd shift in the man's expression. "The one without a single guard to his name. Your messengers mentioned you when they brought the donations."
The officer's face cycled through several emotions before settling into a thin, humorless smile. He gave his men a subtle signal.
"Everyone knows how kind-hearted you are, my lord. Perhaps you could do us one more favor?"
Something in his tone set Phield's nerves on edge.
He raised an eyebrow, playing innocent. "Name it."
"We got drunk—forgot to light the mist lamps. The fog rolled in, and we lost the barracks. That's… a serious offense. Baron Bull is not a forgiving man. We'd all swing for it."
Phield's mouth curved in faint amusement. "So… you want to defect to me?"
Laughter erupted from the soldiers—sharp, ugly, weapons tightening in their grips.
"We're leaving," the bearded officer said flatly. "But we'll need a noble's savings to do it comfortably. And once you're dead, no one will know we were ever here for a good long while."
"You repay your rescuer like this?"
Phield almost laughed at the irony. He'd planned to press-gang the survivors and strip the fortress anyway—if they refused, he'd have killed them without hesitation. Being threatened first, though, stung his pride.
The officer sneered. "If we'd had a working lamp, we'd have cut our way out days ago. You're nothing."
Phield let out a soft, genuine chuckle.
"What's so funny?" The bearded man lifted his saber, unsettled by Phield's calm.
"Actually, I came here to loot the place clean. Now you've solved my witness problem for me." His smile turned wolfish. "Ashina—go."
The nearest soldier lunged, dagger flashing toward Phield's ribs.
A blur of spectral blue streaked past. The next instant, the man's arm was torn free at the shoulder, spinning through the air like a snapped insect limb.
The dagger clattered to the stone. Only then did the soldier collapse, clutching the gushing stump, his screams echoing off the walls.
"My arm! Gods—my arm!"
The Drakewolf filled the passageway, plated hide gleaming like frozen midnight, a living battering ram of fang and frost.
"Monster!"
The soldiers recoiled in terror.
"What the fuck?" the bearded officer stammered, face ashen. "They said Baron Phield was a rootless nobody—a complete waste!"
He desperately wanted to flay alive whoever had spread that rumor.
"Leave them crippled, Ashina," Phield said, licking his lips with dark satisfaction. The original owner had been a bleeding heart—what did that have to do with him?
He raised his voice to the watching slaves. "A chance to prove your courage—and grow rich! One silver for every kill."
The air filled with the ring of drawn steel and the first desperate cries.