Eugene lay still, his head resting against the dead Calizan's corpse. The blood had long since stopped being warm, now just a cold, sticky presence against his neck. He didn't have the energy to move.
Above him, the sky stretched endlessly—azure blue, cloud-dappled, beautiful in the way it had always been. The same sky he had looked at as a child. The same sky that had watched humanity tear itself apart and rebuild from the ashes.
He let out a long, tired breath.
"Can't believe we live in this kind of world now."
The words hung in the air, unanswered. Around him, the plaza was a tableau of exhaustion and grief. Pathwalkers sat on broken stones, heads bowed. Medics moved between the wounded. Bodies lay covered in sheets, waiting for transport.
The world had changed. The people in it had changed. The Voice had given them power, and now they organized themselves in whatever ways they could—some joined the government, some worked alone, and others threw in with the sects.
Eugene's lip curled slightly at the thought.
'Sects are full of fanatics. Every last one of them has something rattling loose in their head.'
Not that it mattered. Government, independent, sect—they were all just labels. The world kept turning. Monsters kept coming. And Eugene kept fighting, because what else was there? Strive for a better future, or wait for a quiet death.
He pushed himself upright. His Auser had recovered—slowly, painfully, but it was full again. The familiar warmth of essence flowed through his veins, steadying his hands, clearing his vision.
The rift hung above the plaza, closed for now. The second wave was over, but the third would come. The Rift Master. The reason this whole battle existed.
A government agent approached, her uniform crisp despite the chaos around them. "Sir, we need you near the vehicles for a checkup. Patch up your wounds."
Eugene nodded and followed her. The medical team worked quickly—cleaning gashes, applying salves, wrapping bandages. The healer Pathwalker, a stern woman with tired eyes, examined him thoroughly before declaring him fit for light duty.
"You should rest," she said. "Your Auser was depleted."
"I'll rest when it's over," Eugene replied.
She frowned but didn't argue. He was too stubborn to reason with… he made his reputation like this.
He made his way to his car—a battered thing that had somehow survived the battle without a single scratch. He sat on the trunk, watching the rift.
Minutes passed. Then more minutes. The rift pulsed lazily, indifferent to the impatience of the living.
"Ugh, I hate this," Eugene muttered. "Does it have to take this long?"
The third wave was always slower to open. The rift needed time to stabilize, to gather enough energy to release the Rift Master. Knowing that didn't make the waiting easier.
His gaze drifted to the covered bodies lined near the edge of the plaza. Viktor lay among them. Eugene had seen him fall—claws through the chest, no time to scream. Others too. Faces he had known, names he had learned, people who had stood beside him in the first wave and wouldn't stand again.
Eugene rose from the car. He walked to the row of bodies and bowed, low and long.
"Thank you for your service, Viktor."
He turned to the others, his voice quieter now. "Thank you all. May your path be gentler than the one we walk."
A shift in the air made him look up. Something had changed.
He felt it before he saw it—a concentration of energy, dense and focused, coming from a group near the rift. Eugene's eyes narrowed. A posse of figures stood together, their presence unmistakable. Even from this distance, the power they radiated was immense.
'Who are they?' he wondered. 'Government? A sect?'
A Pathwalker walked past him, carrying supplies. Eugene reached out. "That group over there—who are they?"
The man glanced in the direction Eugene indicated, then shrugged. "No idea. They showed up with the reinforcements."
'That's... odd. They're not wearing government insignias. Not sect markings either. So who—'
He let the thought trail off. It didn't matter. They were here to fight the Rift Master. Their origins could wait.
***
An hour passed. The respite was ending.
The rift began to pulse faster, its light deepening from pale blue to something darker, more urgent. The air around it shimmered, warping like a heat haze. Eugene gripped his sword and moved into position.
It opened the same way the second wave had—silently, seamlessly, a portal tearing through reality.
Calizans emerged first. Three of them, then five, then eight. They spread across the plaza, snarling, their claws scraping against stone.
The Pathwalkers stood firm, weapons raised. The archers drew their bows, nocked their arrows, and waited. The Calizans charged—a coordinated wave of muscle and fury. The archers loosed. Arrows cut through the air, finding chests and shoulders and eyes. Some beasts fell. Others kept coming.
But Eugene's attention was fixed on the rift. Something else was coming.
The ground trembled.
Then it stepped through.
The Rift Master was massive—three, maybe four meters tall, standing on powerful hind legs. A canine shape, but wrong. Its fur was black as void, absorbing light like a hole in the world. Horns curved back from its skull, thick and spiraled like a mountain goat's, framing ears that lay flat against its head. Its eyes burned yellow, scanning the battlefield with something that looked almost like intelligence.
Eugene's breath caught.
'What in hell is that? A werewolf?'
But werewolves didn't have horns. Werewolves didn't radiate this kind of presence—a weight that pressed against his chest, that made his instincts scream danger.
The battle began.
Calizans charged, moving not as individuals but as a coordinated unit. They flanked, retreated, attacked in pairs—behaviors that should have been impossible for mindless beasts. The Pathwalkers met them, blades clashing, arrows flying.
Eugene found himself facing a Calizan, his sword raised. He parried, dodged, held his ground—but he couldn't strike to kill. His Auser was full, but his body hadn't fully recovered. His swings were slower, his reactions dulled. All he could do was hold the creature at bay.
An arrow whistled past his ear.
It struck the Calizan square in the chest, piercing its heart. The beast crumpled.
Eugene turned toward the source. A slender woman stood fifty meters away, her bow still raised. The weapon was magnificent—double-stringed, designed to launch two arrows at once with devastating force. He recognized her.
He nodded. 'Thanks, Kalin.'
She nodded back, already nocking another arrow.
But Eugene's attention had already shifted. The posse he had noticed earlier—they were engaging the Rift Master.
Or rather, one of them was.
A female Pathwalker moved against the beast with a grace that bordered on surreal. She didn't fight; she danced. Every step was precise, every movement fluid, as if she and the creature were performing a choreography only they could hear. Her weapon was a crossbow mounted on her left arm—ancient, tribal, humming with power that Eugene could feel even from a distance.
The Rift Master roared, a sound that shook the plaza. It charged, its speed defying its size, its claws tearing grooves in the stone. A siege engine given flesh.
The woman raised her arm. Fired.
The first bolt struck the creature's shoulder. It staggered but kept coming.
She fired again. The second bolt hit its flank. Dark blood sprayed, but the beast barely slowed.
The woman sidestepped the Rift Master's claw, pivoted, and fired a third bolt into its chest. The creature stumbled, roaring in pain, its momentum finally breaking.
Then she aimed.
The fourth bolt flew straight and true. It struck the creature's head—and passed through it as if the skull were paper.
The Rift Master's legs buckled. It crashed to the ground, slid, and lay still.
Dead.
Eugene's jaw hung open. His sword lowered to his side, forgotten. He had watched the entire thing. Four bolts. Four hits. And in seconds, a Fiend-rank Rift Master was dead.
'She's Ascended rank. At least. And that crossbow—it has to be a boon of the same rank. No wonder she made it look easy.'
He stood frozen, processing what he had just witnessed. Then a sensation crept over him—a tingling at the base of his skull, a prickling along his spine. Not pain, but wrongness. Something about the woman, something beneath the grace and power, felt...
Off.
He watched her wipe blood from her crossbow. Her hair was a striking mix of white and black, her build slender, her face beautiful in a way that drew the eye. She moved like someone who had never known fear, never known doubt. A perfect warrior.
Too perfect.
Eugene's instincts whispered warnings he didn't want to hear. He pushed them down, looked away. Whatever lay beneath her facade, he wanted no part of it. Let her be. Let her leave. Let the mystery remain unsolved.
***
Minutes later, the battle was over. The remaining Calizans had been cut down, the rift had sealed, and the plaza was finally, blessedly quiet. Survivors embraced. Medics called out for assistance. The dead were counted and covered.
Eugene let out a long, relieved breath.
"It's over."
But as he said the words, his gaze drifted back toward the woman. She was speaking with her companions now, her expression calm, her posture relaxed. Nothing out of the ordinary.
And yet, the unease remained.
He turned away. He wanted no meddling in her affairs. He wanted to go home, check on Jean, and sleep for a week.
But life didn't work like that.
And somewhere, in the back of his mind, his voice told him this wasn't and won't be the last he would see of her.