Dozens upon dozens of fleshlings and irregulars barreled down the killing field, their twisted maws slobbering for human flesh. Putrid blood pooled and splashed beneath hoofs, feet, and clawed hands. A cacophony of mismatched limbs crashed through blood-soaked mud and the mounds of lifeless carcasses that now formed small hills.

  The stampede shook the earth, vibrations crawling up through everyone’s bones. Every second one of the vile beasts froze mid-charge—shot dead—only to be crushed under its kin. A choking cloud of stench rolled from the tide of rotted meat and steaming blood, so foul that if a man weren’t fighting for his life, he’d die just breathing it in.

  Metal screeched as a bolt snapped back. A spent casing clinked hollow against the pile below and vanished into the mountain of brass. The bolt slammed forward again—another shriek, then the heavy click of lock.

  Hein drew a shallow breath and lowered his rifle, eyes fixed on the oncoming flood. Soldiers to his left and right kept pelting rounds into the swarm. Logistics runners darted behind them, boots hammering against stone. Officers barked orders over the thunder, and the cathedral-fortress wall groaned beneath the pounding tide.

  “It’s getting close now,” Koln said, stepping up behind Hein.

  Hein turned, nodded once, then faced the ice mage he’d brought.

  “Your turn,” he said with an innocent smile.

  The mage clicked their tongue and strode forward to take position. Hein stepped back from the wall’s edge, meeting Koln in the shadow of the fortress.

  “It’s going to be close,” Hein muttered.

  Koln exhaled, eyes flicking toward the field. “I hope your gamble pays off.”

  “We’ll see.” Hein’s grin cut sharp as shards of ice began to form overhead—then launched screaming into the flood below.

  ***

  A sea of color stretched as far as the eye could see.

  A hollow white silhouette hovered amid the shifting hues.

  The hues crashed like waves, colliding and spiraling around the figure—drawn in and flung out at once. Colors bled into one another, a cyclone of every shade imaginable, yet somehow all the same. Their existence felt paradoxical: different, and yet one. A maddening unity.

  This story has been unlawfully obtained without the author's consent. Report any appearances on Amazon.

  This sea is my soul—or at least its appearance. It’s made of every emotion I’ve ever felt, each a different color, and yet they look identical when viewed together. That sameness, that impossible unity, is me.

  The silhouette is my consciousness, constantly absorbing and expelling pieces of that sea. I don’t fully understand it, but it feels like the part that anchors me to my body—the only part I still command. That’s why I call it my consciousness.

  Right now, my body is probably standing motionless in Swart’s domain, still locked in that cage. I’ve learned to sense the motion in this place, learned how to pull a fragment of the sea and shape it into an attack. But this is the first time I will actually try it.

  ‘Alright,’ I muttered.

  The colors swelled and breathed through the silhouette. Then it raised a hand—fist unclenching until the palm faced outward. At its center, a black dot formed, a pinprick of absence. The surrounding hues shuddered away from it, their edges trembling as if repelled by some silent law of nature.

  The sea froze. The swirl stopped. Only the faint motion of color trying to escape remained. A few inches out, the hues lost momentum and began to creep back toward the dot—slowly, almost unwillingly. When the first drop touched the void, it vanished. The dot grew slightly, now carrying a faint glimmer.

  The still sea started to move again, drawn in by the growing sphere. It swelled, feeding on the color until it reached the size of a hand. Then it refused more, solid and gleaming with the same shade as the sea itself.

  My consciousness trembled. I was spent. That dot had been my will—my first real interference with the sea. I’d managed to forge a solid sphere out of my own soul. I was too drained to make it stronger, and I didn’t know how much more I could take without hollowing myself out.

  All that’s left is to mold it into a weapon.

  ‘Or I could just bludgeon the Leech to death.’

  But he likely wields the same power—perhaps more. He’s born of soul, not flesh, so he has the edge in soul combat. I need something proper.

  ***

  Gunfire tore into the flood of rotten flesh. Fleshlings dropped where they were hit, their bodies trampled flat by the ones behind. Irregulars and giants barreled toward the cathedral-fortress walls, crushing their own kin under heel.

  Above the ramparts, jagged ice formed—sharp, gleaming, and deadly—before plunging down with terrifying speed, shredding anything caught beneath. Amid the barrage, a lone man with an ordinary rifle fired mana-infused rounds. Each shot tore boulder-sized holes through the horde, vaporizing whatever it struck.

  Beside him, his experts handled the lesser irregulars with practiced precision. The flood’s intensity reached its peak. Anyone with enough mana could feel it—the air heavy, the sky itself pressing down. The oppressive aura from the day before swelled to its limit. Something was about to break.

  The same battle that had raged for a month dragged on for hours more—until suddenly, the entire flood froze. Every fleshing, every irregular, even the giants—locked mid-charge. The gunners hesitated for only a heartbeat before resuming fire, cutting down the motionless tide.

  Only two stopped: Hein, lowering his rifle, and the ice mage beside him, hand still raised.

  “It’s here,” Hein muttered.

  Though thirty meters away, the mage heard him clearly and gave a sharp nod.

  Koln stood in Kaizer’s quarters, watching the chaos unfold below. He couldn’t intervene, but that didn’t stop the tightness in his jaw or the clench of his fist. His expression barely shifted—but for Koln, the furrowed brows said enough.

  After fifteen agonizing minutes, the flood within range was annihilated. Only those beyond the reach of the barrage remained alive.

  But then, just as suddenly as it had halted, the flood parted—opening a lane as if the tide itself had made way. The beasts lowered their heads and prostrated themselves, burying their faces in the mud. The coherence was wrong; the slaughtering herd shouldn’t have known discipline.

  Far on the horizon the tide split cleanly left and right. A crimson cloud crept up, and beneath it a blood mist flowed toward the castle until the whole field filled with red and the sun vanished behind the stain.

  A penetrating voice dripping with blood and madness rang out from the center of the field—at once distant and unbearably close.

  “Die, Rett-Pronos.”