Staring into the arrogant, madness-driven gaze of Thorne, Aster's breath became hoarse, loud enough for him to hear.
Neither of them said a word. His hands had grown cold—not from fear, but from the stressful thought that in a split second everything could go horribly wrong.
He ran through possible scenarios of how things could unfold.
Would there be a fight?
If there was, would he survive it?
Could he escape him?
If he tried, would he succeed?
Endless possibilities and infinite scenarios played in his mind, each more gruesome than the last.
These were the times he wished someone else would speak up—another desperate survivor who could complain about the line's slow progress.
But no. Those behind him were walking shells of the people they might have been.
Thorne's gaze was unsettling. Aster could see that the desire to break him hadn't left him, and yet he hadn't made a move.
He just stared.
Aster took in a deep breath and let out a cold sigh. The worst that could happen would happen.
He had to keep moving.
He reached into his pocket, brought out some copper coins, and dropped them on the wooden table beside them.
Thorne shifted his gaze to the table, a malicious, devilish smile creeping onto his face.
"Still alive, little rat?"
Aster didn't respond. The silence that had been broken reignited once more.
"I thought you'd have died in a ditch by now… since those mutts couldn't find you," Thorne continued.
"I paid the wagon fee. Let me pass," Aster finally responded.
"Yes, you paid. But it isn't complete, little rat. You're down by a silver."
As he spoke, the devilish smile on his face grew wider.
Aster clenched his cold fists. He didn't have a hundred extra copper coins to give
the greedy bastard.
"I don't have that much."
His voice came low, the anger seeping into his blood, almost making it sound like a growl.
Thorne listened for a moment, before letting out a soft, almost maniacal laugh.
Aster watched, puzzled but cautious.
Finally, the chuckle ended.
He unsheathed a small dagger and waved it to face Aster.
The tension that stood between them stilled. Aster could feel the irregular thump in his chest quicken. His vision narrowed to one point—Thorne.
Then he spoke, his voice cold and venomous.
"You could always pay in blood, little rat. I still remember… you owe me your head."
Deep within the carnage that was battle, Socrates moved with calculated grace, avoiding the creatures he could and killing the ones he couldn't. His speed was greatly diminished, but still he was making progress.
He had passed through the horde, seen the different abominations that embodied it, each one more gruesome than the last.
None of them came the same, and if they did, they had a limit to their numbers.
So why did it feel like the creatures he killed were infinite?
They were small, humanoid-looking creatures with dark green skin and black glossy eyes. Their claws and teeth were sharp enough to shatter stone.
Currently, they didn't pose a threat to him. Their numbers were numerous, but killing them wasn't much of a task.
Countless of them had fallen to the dark blade.
His problem was that the beasts were evolving—not in the sense that they had gradually become combat-minded,
but in the sense that slowly, they were becoming harder to kill.
At first encounter, he had noticed that their dark green skin had been easy to cut through, his sword ending their lives in one swift motion.
But the more he killed, the more he noticed. The signs were subtle, but his mind was keen enough to pick up on them.
The beasts that came at him still looked small and humanoid at first glance, but their dark green skin, which had been smooth, now had slight traces of a scaled pattern.
This was their evolution.
He didn't know whether it had a limit, but he wasn't going to fight an enemy that would eventually grow immune to death.
He needed to go deeper into the horde.
He raised the guard of his sword to head level and faced its blade toward the new wave of abominations.
In a split second, he moved—his body racing like a blur through the approaching beasts.
He sliced, pierced, and parried more than he could count. The situation hadn't reached the point where he had to use his affinity.
Finally, he saw it.
The mother. The source.
One of the war grades.
He gripped his sword tighter. This was where the real battle would begin.
He dashed forward, slicing through one of the beasts and kicking another in the chest. Their numbers were more concentrated around the war grade—it was clear these were the most evolved.
He didn't have time to waste.
His dark blade grew darker, its surface—once reflective like a mirror—now pulsed with an eerie glow.
The surrounding battlefield seemed to respond. Shadows deepened. Darkness grew heavier.
Socrates's gaze became lightless.
Perfect copies of his dark blade emerged from the shadows, their surfaces dark and glossy like a demented reflection.
Following the will of their master, the blades surged into the chaos.
They sliced and pierced the beasts, their agonised roars merging into one ear-piercing screech.
Socrates's gaze never left the war grade. He didn't send any of his blades toward it either.
The shadowy darkness wrapped around his figure in a silent embrace, erasing every feature until only a dark silhouette remained.
He brandished his long sword once more.
It was time to kill a sovereign-class beast.