Mirac grabbed Blake by the arm and started running, dragging him toward the rear guard.
Meanwhile, after the guttural roar of the two-horned Rogthar, the horde charged.
Not like a chaotic mass of frenzied beasts, but like a compact, disciplined wave pouring along the tracks.
Their crude weapons slammed rhythmically against the metal, producing a hellish clangor that amplified beneath the vaulted ceiling of the hall. Roars overlapped, fierce and guttural.
Just as Joren finished lighting the last torches in the Rail Hall, flooding it with flickering light, Alvern's new order came, sharp and urgent:
"SPREAD OUT! KEEP YOUR DISTANCE, BUT COVER EACH OTHER!" the squad leader shouted at the top of his lungs.
The team obeyed instantly.
The fighters spread out, slipping between scattered wagons, parallel tracks, and rocky outcrops, spreading out to avoid being surrounded and overwhelmed in a single blow.
It was in that precise moment that Seren saw the opportunity.
Not far from the entrance, on a side track, lay an old wagon still intact.
The gray-haired woman darted forward two steps, positioning herself slightly in front of her companions.
Her fan was already open in her hand, the metal ribs gleaming in the flickering torchlight.
There was no elaborate movement, no dance step. Yet suddenly, the air around Seren rippled.
The dust on the floor trembled, and the hair of those near her stirred backward, as if pushed by a breeze that had not yet decided to be born.
Seren inhaled sharply. Then she twisted her torso to the right, loading the motion like a drawn bow, and with a wide, powerful sweep, she lashed the fan from right to left—as if she were moving something invisible but enormously heavy.
The result of that gesture was immediate.
The air in front of her contracted with a sharp hiss, then unleashed a violent, invisible thrust that cut diagonally across the hall. It was not a simple gust of wind: it was a wall of compressed air that, upon impact, struck the wagon on its right side with the force of a battering ram.
The cart lifted into the air and jolted violently along the tracks. The wheels screeched against the rusted iron, and the entire wagon shot leftward with unnatural speed, transforming into a multi-ton projectile hurled at the enemy's front line.
The Rogthars at the head barely had time to turn.
The impact was devastating.
Entire bodies were hurled away like rag dolls. Bones snapped with sharp, sickening cracks. Agonized screams rose into the air as some monsters were smashed into their comrades, creating a tangled mess of limbs, organs, and weapons.
The wagon continued its run for several meters, leaving behind a trail of pulped flesh and dark blood.
But that blow was not enough.
None of them died instantly.
The wounded Rogthars still growled, writhing among the tracks, trying to get back up despite their broken bones and deep wounds.
Alvern seized the moment.
He saw the enemies on the ground, saw the bottleneck, saw the space that had opened for a few precious seconds.
"COME ON! THIS IS OUR CHANCE!" he roared, his voice full of fury and determination. "TAKE OUT AS MANY AS POSSIBLE!"
The squad charged.
Not against the entire horde, but against the broken front: against the monsters on the ground, against those trying to rise, against those trapped between tracks and corpses.
But in the same instant, the Rogthars reacted as well.
The wounded ones dragged themselves to their feet with unnatural movements, heedless of their broken bones. Those still intact behind them, instead, charged forward, running headlong along the tracks, determined to overwhelm the enemy front before it could fully exploit the advantage.
The floor vibrated under the weight of their steps. The sound of metal against iron bounced off the walls, confusing the ear and making it difficult to tell where the next danger was coming from.
Roric was among the first to spring into action.
He moved sideways, slipping between the railroad ties with light, unpredictable steps, as if dancing on terrain only he truly knew.
His scimitars moved in continuous, ever-changing arcs: a low slash that severed the tendon behind a Rogthar's knee, forcing it to collapse onto its side with a roar of rage; a quick thrust into the flank of a second one trying to flank him; a clean cut to the wrist of a third, precise enough to sever its hand and send its axe clattering among the tracks with a metallic clang.
Roric did not possess a Mana Core, and therefore could not rely on Magical Enhancement like the others. He had compensated for that lack in the only way possible: years of training pushed to the limit, forging a body capable of holding his own against those who could strengthen their muscles with Mana.
But against creatures of superhuman strength like the Rogthars, direct confrontation was an option he could not afford. All he could do was weaken the enemy, as he was doing at that moment: striking tendons, flanks, and armed arms, leaving behind a trail of bleeding and disoriented Rogthars.
Every step he took created a momentary opening that his companions could exploit to finish the enemy off for good.
One of those openings, however, closed too quickly...
A Rogthar more massive than the others emerged from atop an overturned wagon and dropped with all its weight between the tracks. It landed behind Roric with a dull thud that made the floor vibrate, its weapon already raised above its head, ready to split the shaggy-haired boy in two with a single brutal blow!
When the sound of the landing reached his ears and his instinct drove him to turn, the strike was already descending, too close and too fast to avoid.
'Shit!' Roric exclaimed inwardly, eyes widening. 'I won't make it in time to dodge it!'
The slash was about to come down on him and cut him in half…
But fortunately, Morwen managed to save him just in time.
The tattooed woman stepped into the trajectory of the blow at the last second, planting the shaft of her hammer crosswise. The metal of her mace clashed against the enemy blade, with a clang so deafening that it made the air and the bones in her hands vibrate.
The force of the impact bent her knees, but she didn't retreat even an inch. She held her grip, absorbed the impact, and transformed it into something else.
Exploiting the moment of impact, she deflected the blow sideways with a twist of her wrist, forcing the Rogthar back half a step.
The monster growled, disoriented, and reacted with a sloppy attack—a wide slash lacking any technique, the kind of strike that relied on brute force rather than precision.
Morwen didn't parry it.
She slid just outside its path, letting the blade whistle past her with a rush of hot air. In the same movement, she twisted her torso, planted her feet between two parallel tracks, and brought the hammer in line with the monster's chest, loading the strike with the full weight of her body, her arms, and the Mana already beginning to coil along the steel of the weapon.
The head of the hammer struck the center of the chest with a deep, muffled thud.
In the very instant of impact, thanks to her Syntony with Fire, Morwen unleashed the flames directly at the point of contact, between the hammerhead and the Rogthar's chest.
It was not a fire that enveloped or burned slowly: it was a violent eruption, concentrated in a single point. The air between the weapon and the monster suddenly expanded with a sharp, deep boom, as if lightning had burst between the two bodies.
The force of the explosion did not disperse: it discharged entirely forward, transforming the hammer strike into a devastating blow.
The Rogthar was hurled away instantly, its body lifted off the ground and flung backward.
It flew for several meters, bowling over several of its companions like pins, before slamming into the rocky wall with a heavy crash.
The bones gave way on impact: a sharp crack of breaking bones echoed out.
The monster slid to the ground without getting up, while the other Rogthars struck during its flight rolled among the tracks, growling in rage and pain.
The air was instantly saturated with the acrid smell of burned flesh and superheated stone.
The flames on the hammer, obedient, extinguished abruptly, recalled by Morwen with the same surgical precision with which she had unleashed them.
Roric stared at her for a second, his eyes still wide with astonishment.
'Right, I almost forgot…' the boy thought, his heart hammering in his chest. 'This is the difference in strength between an Incompatible and a Syntonyc!'
Roric didn't dwell on that thought for long and hurried to show his gratitude before another monster could lunge at them:
"Thank you," the boy murmured, still shaken, as he tried to catch his breath.
"Be more careful next time," the tattooed woman replied, giving him a pat on the shoulder.
Roric nodded quickly, gripping the hilts of his scimitars more tightly.
Without another word, the two threw themselves back into the fray.
Meanwhile, the squad leader Alvern issued new orders:
"QUICK! Cover fire!"
Lirael didn't hesitate.
Mana flowed through her arms as she drew the bow to its limit.
The first arrow shot forward with a lethal hiss, embedding itself in the flank of a Rogthar still on the ground. The second struck a shoulder, the third sank into the thick thigh of another.
The monsters screamed, thrashed, and clawed at the ground with their black nails in a desperate attempt to get back up.
The pain pinned them to the ground, but it didn't kill them.
Not yet.
With the intention of delivering the finishing blow to the stunned enemies, Felisia and Ananya slipped between the bodies with the cold precision of those who knew exactly where to strike.
Felisia crouched beside a Rogthar that was still trying to get up.
She didn't even give it time to understand what was happening: the girl grabbed the monster's head with one hand, tilting it sideways, and drove her dagger into its throat with a short, precise motion.
The Rogthar opened its mouth as if to scream, but nothing came out—only a low gurgle that faded in a few seconds, while its large red hands slowly stopped clenching into fists.
A little further away, Carmen was already approaching her next target.
She moved in from behind, silent, using the chaos surrounding her as natural cover.
The Rogthar was still disoriented, breathing heavily, its arms struggling to lift the weapon.
It didn't notice her until it was too late.
Carmen struck the base of the skull with a sharp, calibrated blow—the kind that left no chance of survival.
Dark blood sprayed out in a clean arc, and the monster collapsed forward without a sound, its enormous weight making the tracks vibrate beneath its feet.
This modus operandi was exactly what made them Assassins: not speed, not strength, but that innate fluidity with which the body always found the right opening.
Meanwhile, Seren spun her fan with an elegant but precise gesture. From that movement, a violent gust of wind lifted dust, sand, and debris accumulated between the tracks from the ground, slamming full-force into the group of Rogthars that continued to converge toward the center of the hall.
The opaque curtain hit the Rogthars directly; they growled in rage, striking blindly and breaking formation in their clumsy attempt to orient themselves.
The squad took immediate advantage, hurling themselves at the blinded monsters before they could recover.
"DON'T STOP!" Alvern roared, deflecting a slash aimed at his side with his double-bladed axe and counterattacking with a strike that ripped open the enemy's stomach—its guts spilling out like ground meat.
At that moment, Darick had just defeated two Rogthars, but he didn't even have time to wipe the blood from his face before he saw three more charging ferociously towards him.
'Damn bastards…'
Without hesitation, he planted his feet between the tracks, channeled Mana into the blades, and let the Fire Runes activate: a red glow ran along the engravings, and flames engulfed both greatswords in an instant.
By then, the three Rogthars had almost reached him.
Darick dodged their first strike and responded with a slash that cleanly severed the arms of the first Rogthar, disarming it. The monster crumpled to the ground with a roar of pain.
Without interrupting the motion, Darick twisted his torso to the right and brought the second greatsword down in a horizontal arc, striking the second monster squarely in the flank and knocking it down between the tracks with a dull thud.
The third lunged forward with a roar, but once again Darick moved faster than the enemy.
With a crossed slash of his blazing blades, he struck the Rogthar square in the chest, leaving a deep, smoking cut in the shape of an "X" on its red skin.
Meanwhile, Morwen was no less impressive.
Her war hammer came down heavily on the chest of a Rogthar that was trying to flank Darick: a single, brutal blow that sent the red creature flying like a rag doll.
The monster slammed into the rocky wall with a dry crash, sliding to the ground between the tracks with a choked growl.
Morwen's fighting style was the most violent among her companions—brutal, direct, without frills. Something the Rogthars themselves might have recognized as their own.
Joren, on the other hand, fought with the same arrogance he brought to everything else—and strangely, in that context, it worked.
He didn't hesitate even when facing groups of four or five Rogthars at once.
He moved with agility through their assaults, dodging weapons and claws, then sprang into a counterattack at the precise moment the monsters lunged at him, meeting them with fast and lethal slashes.
The flames dancing along the blade of his sword burned the flesh far more intensely than those produced by the Fire Magic Runes engraved on Darick's greatswords.
'Heh, stupid creatures! Your movements are far too predictable!' he thought, dodging a sloppy slash and responding with a cut to the side of the monster that had attacked him. 'Even if only for a brief moment, I'm ashamed I ever feared a pack of incompetents like you!'
At that moment, Mirac finally returned to the front line, his sword already in hand and his gaze urgently scanning the area.
But when he reached the heart of the clash, the first thing that struck him was not the chaos.
It was the order emerging from it.
The squad was holding.
In fact, not only that: they were advancing!
The Rogthars were falling one after another under the coordinated blows of the companions, repelled, struck down, broken before they could even exploit their numerical advantage.
Every member of the group moved with determination and precision, without useless hesitation, as if each one knew exactly where to position themselves and what to do.
It was not a desperate resistance: it was an offensive that was proving successful.
Mirac slowed his run until he came to a complete stop, observing the scene with attentive eyes.
'Incredible! They're handling it so well…'
Between the sudden appearance of the Rogthar horde, Zoltan's brutal death, the chaos that had exploded all around, and the panic that had overwhelmed everyone, Mirac had almost forgotten that this was no second-rate squad!
They were all experienced fighters, classified from the seventh rank upward, hardened by missions far more complex than this one.
The confidence they radiated, the clarity with which they managed the battle, should have been reassuring.
And for a moment, they truly were.
Unconsciously, Mirac loosened his grip on the hilt of his sword, his breathing slowing, his shoulders dropping a fraction.
'Well, at this rate, I won't even have to lift a finger…' he joked to himself.
But that sense of relief didn't last long.
It lasted exactly until a more uncomfortable thought made its way into his mind…
The Rogthars were not simple beasts.
Although details supporting that assessment were scarce, the ancient texts of the Seven Gospels described them as resistant, stubborn creatures, but above all, dangerous.
And yet, before his eyes, they were falling one after another with an ease that clashed with everything he had read about them.
Mirac tightened his grip on the hilt again, his heartbeat accelerating without him realizing it.
'Are these really the demonic creatures that once sowed terror?'
It was right then that Mirac caught an anomalous movement among the tracks…
Not far away, almost forgotten in the chaos, lay the Rogthar whose stomach Alvern had ripped open just moments before.
The monster was sprawled on the ground, motionless, its guts spilled across the rocky floor in a dark, steaming mass.
It lay there defeated…
But it was not dead!
The first sign was a barely perceptible twitch, almost nothing, the kind of movement that could be mistaken for a final involuntary spasm.
Then the monster began to writhe, and there was nothing involuntary about what was happening.
'What the-?!' Shock cut his thought in half.
Before Mirac's disbelieving eyes, the guts spilled on the floor began to move.
Slowly, viscously, like snakes summoned by a silent whistle, they slid toward the open wound and began to slip back inside, piece by piece.
The flesh tightened, the ragged edges drew closer, the blood still oozing slowed until it stopped, coagulating into dark filaments that solidified before his eyes.
In the end, the skin closed over the wound like melted wax, leaving only a thin scar that was already beginning to fade.
The Rogthar remained still for a long second… then opened its eyes.
It let out a low, guttural growl, slowly rolled onto itself, and rose to its feet, gripping its weapon as if nothing had happened.
Mirac couldn't tear his eyes away from the scene.
'I-I can't believe it!'
A cold shiver ran down his back, climbing up his spine.
It was in that moment that Mirac finally understood why those demonic creatures had once been so feared:
'T-The Rogthars… can regenerate?!'