CHAPTER SIXTY-NINE

Arrival's Roar

The fog closed around us, its heat thick, carrying the sharp tang of corruption from the chainrunners below. I stood on the Frost Titan's shoulder, Wulric's ice cool under my boots, his steady strides shaking the wide Araksiun road. My core hummed, mist itching to spill, but I held it tight, knowing it'd choke the warriors circling us.

Five units, twenty-five strong each, ran in a tight ring around Wulric, their armor gleaming, spears and shields ready. Lirien's sixth unit weaved through the fog, her shadow darting where beasts would strike hardest.

"Won't take long," I muttered, my voice lost in the fog's hum. The primary road, broad enough for armies, stretched toward District 98, its stones worn but solid, built for machines or giants like Wulric, though no one knew why.

They ran, shoulder to shoulder, speed our only cover. The circle formation kept us moving, 150 warriors packed tight, their boots pounding.

A minute out, the fog shifted, ebony beasts lunging from the haze, their eyes black, claws sharp, drawn by the chainrunners' corruption. A dozen hit the front unit, beasts with jaws like traps, their roars rattling my teeth. I gripped Wulric's icy ridge, watching the warriors meet them, their new armor, with runes for agility, strength and impact, shone with confidence, but not without fear.

A chainrunner, not old, maybe in his thirties, thrust a spear, its fang-tipped head punching through a beast's skull, runes flaring as it sank deep. He stumbled, sweat on his brow, but his unit cheered, "Got it!" Their voices were tense, alive, human.

Another beast charged, swiping a warrior off her feet, sending her skidding ten meters. My gut clenched—she'd be broken, but her armor's runes glowed, absorbing the blow. She scrambled up, cursing, a gash on her arm but no worse, and rejoined her line, spear raised.

Three others circled the beast, one mistiming his thrust, the spear grazing hide. "Damn it!" he spat, but his comrades covered, stabbing the beast's legs, toppling it. A woman drove her spear into its throat, blood spraying, her grin fierce but shaky. They weren't fearless; they were bold, buoyed by gear, but still mortal, even a small mistake could cause death.

Five more beasts hit, bipeds with claws like knives, their snarls high and cruel. The unit formed a wall, raising shields—18-inch, scaled, with faint runes that dulled blows and with a less efficient runic construct of kinetic absorption that required no core.

Claws scraped, sparks flying. A chainrunner faltered, his arm trembling, but yelled, "Hold, damn you!" to his neighbor, who braced harder. Others flanked, swords drawn, runes humming as they slashed legs, slowing the beasts. Spear-wielders followed, piercing thick hides, their coordination tight but not flawless—one warrior tripped, cursing, saved by a comrade's quick shield. The fight ended in a minute, the unit jogging to the rear, replaced by the next, their breaths heavy, faces flushed with victory and fear.

"KEEP MOVING!" Lirien's voice boomed, her runic tool carrying it over the chaos. The circle spun, units rotating, warriors fighting briefly before rejoining the run, their boots with runes for speed, kept the pace steady. This was our strength: numbers, gear, motion. The sub-artifacts, armor with ebony cores, boots, spears with piercing tips, shields capable of withstanding the fog horrors, made the chainrunners relentless.

The armor took hits that'd kill, the boots outran exhaustion, the spears and shields turned defense into attack. But the fog was no less deadly, its beasts endless, its horrors beyond human imagination.

I shook my head, the monocle's pressure a dull ache, its power a shadow over the trinkets they wielded. Compared to ancient Araksiun artifacts, made by the ancient craft, these were toys.

[Kara]

[The spears and shields are crude, but the armor's mana flow mirrors Araksiun designs, a step beyond recent work.]

Kara's voice cut through, analytical, a spark in my mind. I smirked—she'd been quiet weeks, popping up now like a ghost. She was right: the armor was special, its ebony core cycling mana to save lives. The rest, though called sub-artifacts, were not deserving of the title, but they gave the chainrunners something better than power: belief. They ran prouder, struck harder, their fear tempered by the gear's promise, and that changed everything.

Beasts kept coming, hordes swelling, their roars louder, corruption pulling them to the warriors below. Wulric walked, untouched, his ice no lure for their hunger. From his shoulder, I summoned ice spears, my core blazing, mana sharp in my veins. A dozen formed, glinting, and I hurled them at a horde—twenty beasts, charging the right unit. They struck, piercing hides, blood splashing, half the pack collapsing with shrieks.

I summoned more, then more, each volley a deep thud in my chest, beasts falling before they reached the line. My aim wavered at distance, spears scattering without mist's precision and the capability of summoning the spears near the beasts themselves, but the sheer force and brutality of my numerous attacks against the hordes was enough. The chainrunners roared approval, their spears finishing stragglers, their eyes meeting mine, grateful, alive.

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I held my mist, a storm caged inside, knowing it'd kill the warriors, their sub-artifacts no shield against my power or of any other crimson horror. Sweat stung my eyes, my arms ached, but I kept the spears coming, each one a vow: no deaths today. The fog pressed in, its danger real, but we carved through, human, flawed, and fierce, our shouts of victory a light in the haze.

***

Less than an hour into the fog, District 98's ward loomed, its runes pulsing faintly through the haze. The Frost Titan's strides shook the road. Below, the chainrunners ran, their armor scratched but intact, boots pounding, five units circling Wulric, Lirien's sixth weaving through the fray. No one had died, their spears and shields bloodied, their runed armor saving them from claws that should've torn flesh.

But they were tired, sweat streaking their faces, some limping, their confidence hard-won. Beasts still came, onyx and worse, crimson horrors spotted coming in our direction, luckily for us, they would not arrive fast enough.

I spotted District 98's guards massing at the ward, their spears raised, braced for the titan about to test their ward.

But then, a surge of mana prickled my skin, sharp, like a storm breaking. I turned, and there was Lirien, her unit breaking from the flank, her arm raised. "CLOSE YOUR EYES!" she bellowed, her runic tool amplifying her voice, a thunderclap over the fog.

She loosed the Arrow of Pure Light, a blazing streak that tore skyward, exploding in a white flare that burned my lids even closed. For ten seconds, it pulsed, searing, a beacon District 98 knew well—Lirien's signature, a signal of return, of power. Beasts shrieked, some fleeing, others stumbling, blinded. The chainrunners cheered, hoarse but fierce, their boots never slowing.

"She didn't need that," I muttered, low enough for only Wulric's ice to catch, my voice bitter. The hordes were thinning, our spears and shields enough. This was Lirien flexing, showing District 98 who led, who owned the fog. The guards would see, and would know we were back.

Lirien's surged through the ward first, fast, her armor a blur, likely to calm the guards before Wulric's bulk triggered panic. I hoped the ward would read him as human, his icy form still tied to the man he'd been. It hummed, unresisting, as we approached, a relief that steadied my breath. Far off, I saw Norman Highrow, captain of the guard, his beard stark against his armor, shouting orders.

Just then, I remembered what happened to the Guard's Captain of District 97, his tragic death. Norman's children, Cedric and Hana, my old study-mates, weren't ready to lead their houses, still too young, too unscarred compared to us.

"Kara," I said, my voice low, "watch Norman. Flag anyone near him with bad intent. Social cues aren't my strength."

[Kara]

[Understood. Shall I compile a list of potential targets?]

"Yes, do it," I replied, my eyes scanning the ward's edge. Lirien wanted the council gone, power reshaped, but I didn't want blood, not here, not in District 98. Centralizing power in one person, her, was a mistake, a path I'd resist, even if it meant defying her plans.

[Kara]

[Protecting Norman may weaken your family's influence, potentially disrupting current strategies. Is this intentional?]

Her question stung, forcing me to pause, my grip tightening. "Yes," I said, firm. "Change is needed, but not through death, not if I can help it. Force, maybe, but not slaughter." I cared for District 98—its streets, its people, my home. Bloodshed here would haunt me more than the fog's beasts.

[Kara]

[Why does user seek to avoid bloodshed here, when user's strength outside the wards comes from killing? What drives this difference in intent?]

Her question hung heavy, her tone sharp, probing, like she was piecing me together, trying to grasp why I'd shift my ways. I exhaled, my breath fogging, and glanced at the beast corpses tied to Wulric's legs, dozens dragged across the road, their blood a dark smear. My ring, packed with District 97's tools and kills, weighed on my finger, a reminder of the path I'd walked.

Elina's voice came back, clear as ever: understanding your own ignorance is the first path to wisdom. I'd clung to that, but now I saw it deeper, a truth that cut through my bones.

"Humans are hypocrites, Kara," I said, trying to explain in a way Kara would understand. "We twist rules, call it virtue, bend what's right to sleep at night. It's in my nature, too. I'm no hero, no good man—I never will be. Outside, I kill, because the fog demands it. But here, in District 98, I want something else, a path that doesn't leave me choking on guilt. I want change, but not through death, not if I can avoid it." I paused, my chest tight, the monocle's weight a dull ache. "I know it's contradictory. I know I've built power on blood. But this is my home, and I'd rather reshape it with fear than bury it in graves."

[Kara]

[User's intent is to minimize violence through fear, despite past reliance on force. This is noted. I will continue monitoring for threats.]

Her response was calm, processing, like she'd filed my words but still puzzled over them. I nodded, my gaze drifting to the ward's light, its glow soft on Wulric's ice as he stepped through, unblocked, his form towering over the guards. Norman's face twisted, shock and terror plain, his men gripping spears, some retreating. Civilians spilled from buildings—smiths, mothers, kids—their gasps sharp, eyes wide at the giant.

"Scream," I commanded Wulric, my voice firm. "As loud as you can."

His roar erupted, a deep, shattering bellow that shook the buildings, cracked windows, and echoed through District 98's streets. Guards stumbled, spears clattering, some bolting outright. My heart stung, guilt sharp for their terror, but I held steady. "Fear, not death," I thought, my resolve iron. This was my weapon, to make the council kneel, to force change without blood, to change the home I loved.

Lirien's gaze locked on mine, her smile sharp, a mask of control that didn't reach her eyes. I stared back, my breath steady, seeing the truth: her power was a shadow, built on fear, not strength. The ward's light caught her face, and her grin wavered, then faded, a crack in her facade. She turned away, and I slid down, my boots crunching on stone, my chest heavy with the weight of what came next.

The chainrunners gathered, their breaths ragged, armor scarred, some clutching cuts or limping, but alive, every one. They clapped shoulders, voices low, their survival a quiet triumph after the fog's wrath. No deaths, just wounds, ones a healer could mend, maybe a warlock I knew well, her power a spark for what lay ahead.

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