CHAPTER FIFTY-ONE

The Last Stand

The run through District 97 felt like wading through a graveyard. Every corner hid a threat, snarls echoing off shattered walls, the crunch of rubble underfoot, the faint tang of blood on the wind. We pushed on, a weary line of Chainrunners from District 98, until we reached the heart of the mess: a barricade cobbled together from broken carts and splintered beams, shielding what was left of the district's people.

I stopped, staring at the huddled survivors behind it. They reminded me of goblin camps I'd seen out in the fog, desperate, clinging to whatever scraps of safety they could find. If the ward wasn't functional again, those beasts would swarm as one, tearing through this flimsy line. For now, though, the defenders kept them at bay, their shouts and clashing steel rising over the chaos.

But it wouldn't last. I felt it deep. A shiver rattling my bones, an influx of beasts pressing closer, their presence shaking the ground, fouling the air with a thick, sour heat. Some carried mana so dense it drowned out everything else, a pressure I couldn't ignore.

Crimson beasts, Tier 3, loomed out there. They weren't like the Onyx ones I'd cut down or even me. These were something else. Mana wove into their very being. I'd crossed a few on that cursed bridge and every time ended the same: pain, then death, quick and brutal. Now, more than one had slipped through this breach, and they were near.

One stood out, its power rippling through the district. The air grew heavy, warmer, like a furnace had opened somewhere beyond the barricade. Flames licked the horizon, curling high enough to spot from here—red and wild, a promise of what was coming. Other Crimson beasts prowled too, but that one… it was different, its heat a warning we couldn't shake.

The district itself was a ruin. Buildings leaned, half-collapsed, their insides spilling into streets choked with bodies—men, women, beasts, all tangled in a bloody mess. Screams pierced the air, some sharp with pain, others broken with sobs. It was impossible to miss where the survivors had holed up; the noise marked them clear as a beacon. That meant the beasts could find them too, drawn by the sound of life still fighting.

The stench hit hard. Flesh, spilled guts, a symphony of death that turned even some of our Chainrunners green. One doubled over mid-run, heaving his breakfast onto the cracked stone.

Ahead, the barricade swarmed with action, a dozen ebony beasts clawing at it, each one stronger than any normal man. Guards and local Chainrunners held the line, a few wielding artifacts that sparked or hummed. Most were outmatched, their swings desperate, but one stood firm.

I spotted Mateo first, District 97's Chainrunner Captain. His mana pulsed like Lirien's—steady, sharp, cutting through the din. His face scarred and bleeding, swinging a mace that glowed faintly. Every hit landed wrong, too many wounds for one strike, like it tore deeper than it should.

Lirien didn't hesitate. She pulled the string of the Dawnbreak Bow, its hum rising as she loosed a barrage, shafts of light streaking into the fray, piercing hides, dropping beasts where they stood. I called up my ice, blades forming around me, sharp and cold.

It worked for a moment. But more beasts surged in, their growls rolling closer every minute.

"We got your message," Lirien said, her voice cutting through the noise as she stepped toward Mateo. "We're here to help."

He turned, wiping blood from a gash on his cheek. His eyes were sunken, exhaustion carving lines into his harsh face. "You actually came," he said, flat but grateful, glancing past her to the District 97 Chainrunners we'd brought, familiar faces in our ranks.

They'd sent messengers to us, a desperate call after the breach. Not all made it; the fog had claimed its share on the way to District 98. But enough had, and now those who'd survived the run greeted their own with tired nods, clasps on shoulders, relief in a sea of ruin.

"Of course we did," Lirien replied, calm and sure. "There's strength in numbers." It sounded simple, but I knew it wasn't the full story. District 96 was the only district that currently produced batteries, so this line towards them was very important to us.

We'd lost a shipment not long ago. Cargo and lives both and if 97 fell, these routes would turn deadly twice over. Lirien wasn't just here for honor; she couldn't afford to lose this link.

She scanned the barricade, then frowned. "Looks like we're the only ones who showed."

Mateo nodded, slow, his jaw tight. "Maybe 96's still coming," he said, voice rough. "Or maybe our chainrunners didn't make it there. Couldn't spare many, most of our best are here, or dead."

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Their words hung there, practical and grim, while we moved past the barricade's edge. The people of 97 saw us—dirty, armed, stepping into their fight and a ripple of greetings broke out. "Chainrunners!" someone shouted, hoarse but warm. Hands waved, faces lifted, a fleeting gust of hope. It didn't last. A fresh wave of beasts hit, claws scraping wood, and the air turned to steel again.

We fought as one. Lirien's arrows flew, each finding a mark—heads, throats, hearts—beasts crumpling in sprays of black blood. Mateo swung that mace, every strike a mess of torn flesh, wounds blooming wider than they should. I kept to the shadows. Hazeveil cloaking me as I wove through. Ice blades formed around me.

No one clocked me as a kid, just a figure, short and lethal. I didn't bother correcting them. Ebony beasts charged, packs of them, some lone bruisers, each a nightmare of muscle and fang. Most fighters couldn't match them; they fell back, bleeding, or didn't get up at all.

Behind us, a second barricade loomed—a big, reinforced building packed tight with survivors. The last of District 97 crammed inside, voices muffled through the walls. Out here, the line wavered. Hours of fighting had worn the defenders thin—arms shaking, breaths ragged. Our own Chainrunners weren't much better, legs heavy from the run to get here. Beasts didn't care. They kept coming, endless, a tide that chewed through us.

One of ours went down—a guard, too slow, an Ebony beast's jaws closing on his arm. He screamed, then didn't. Another stepped up, a civilian with a broken spear, untrained and wild-eyed. He lasted seconds before claws found him. Gaps opened, bodies dropped, and the barricade creaked under the weight. Lirien's arrows didn't stop, Mateo's mace swung on, and I carved through what I could, but the numbers weren't ours. Somewhere out there, that Crimson beast's heat pulsed closer, a threat we couldn't see yet, and the dread of it sank deeper with every fallen fighter.

The flicker of hope we'd brought was fading fast. I saw it in their eyes—guards, Chainrunners, civilians—dimming with every beast that fell and every friend who didn't get up. Their heartbeats thudded unevenly, fear creeping in. My own mana was draining too quick, ice blades eating through reserves I couldn't spare. I stopped cold, letting the frost fade from my hands, and broke away from the barricade. Bare fists it was, I leaped down, landing hard, and tore into the nearest beast, ripping its throat out with a wet crunch.

Mateo's voice cracked over the chaos. "What are you doing?" he shouted, leaning over the barricade's edge, mace still dripping black blood.

He didn't press it, though. He saw it quick, beasts turned toward me, snarling, drawn by the mess I was making. It pulled pressure off the line, gave their archers and Lirien cleaner shots. Arrows sang past, Lirien's Dawnbreak Bow humming as shafts of light punched through hides. I caught a glimpse of her up there, face set, firing without pause. My way wasn't as efficient. Fists didn't match magic by half. Still, I kept going. I snapped a jaw here and crushed a skull there. Blood slicked my hands, warm and sticky.

Truth was, I could've done more. A lot more. Mana pulsed in me, ready to freeze a dozen at once, yet I held it back. The Crimson beasts were closing in. I felt them. Their mana grew thick and suffocating, intensifying every second. Tier 3. Beyond me, beyond the Onyx ones I'd handled. I'd faced a few on that bridge and each time I'd died fast, the long sleep claiming me. One of those things could end us all, and there wasn't just one out there now.

I couldn't fathom beating them. The gap between tiers was a cliff, and these were mountains—monstrosities no one here could match, not even Lirien or Mateo with their artifacts. The air told me one was near, heat rising sharp and fast, like the district was baking under an unseen sun.

I fought closer now, conserving what mana I had left. That meant taking hits. Claws raked my side, and teeth grazed my arm. Each sting pulled stamina, nibbled at my reserves anyway. I gritted my teeth and kept swinging.

Then, sudden as a snapped thread, the hordes stopped. No more growls, no claws on wood, just silence, heavy and wrong. We froze, guards clutching spears, Chainrunners panting, civilians trembling behind the line. Bodies littered the ground, some still twitching, others gone cold. A scream cut off as a blade ended someone's pain. Gustav, one of our veterans, rasped into the quiet, "The silence before the storm. When beasts stop, that's when you know you're dead."

The ground answered him, trembling under our feet. People stumbled, some falling outright, crates tipping over with dull thuds. I steadied myself, looking up. Something massive loomed into view, a shadow at first, coiling slow and deliberate around a tall, broken tower two streets away. Its bulk wrapped the stone, scales glinting red through the smoke, tightening until cracks split the building's base. Then it moved—unraveled in a fluid, terrifying rush, and crashed to the earth, shaking the district like a hammer blow. Dust billowed, stinging my eyes.

A serpent titan broke into view, its massive bulk coiling around the fractured tower two streets off. At least thirty meters long, its body was thick as a wagon, tapering to a whip-like tail that flicked with a crack. It moved with an unnatural fluidity, scales catching the dim light filtering through the smoke its own flames churned up, too vast to take in whole, half-lost in the swirling gray.

The scales shimmered crimson, uneven and brutal, some jagged like broken glass, slicing the air, others pulsing like living embers, a grotesque patchwork of molten stone and flesh. Tendrils sprouted along its spine, writhing like living things, each tipped with glowing ember-eyes that darted and stared, tracking us with no pattern I could follow.

Its head defied reason. It had no single face. A skull split into three maws, each a gaping wound of hooked teeth curving inward, sharp and relentless. Molten saliva dripped from them, hissing as it scorched the ground into blackened pits. The maws moved out of sync. One snapped shut with a bone-rattling clack. Another roared out a gout of fire that painted the air red. The third hummed low and dissonant, producing a sound that scraped at my mind like dull blades.

We all knew what this was, from drawings scratched into old walls, tales told in hushed voices, and songs that lingered through generations from times before the fog. A creature of myth, a horror from legends, kin to the dragons of a lost age. The heat rolled off it, thick enough to choke on, every eye locked to it in raw, wordless fear as the name settled heavy among us: Vyrithax. A titan serpent birthed by the fog's cruelty, now slithering real and unstoppable toward us, and I knew my fists were nothing against this.

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