Dawn crested through a funereal shroud of drifting ash and smouldering embers.
Golden light began to pierce the heavy, leaden clouds as the bruised scarlet of the night's mageia finally bled away. The morning sky reclaimed its brilliance, casting its gaze upon a world transformed. Small woodland creatures peered from their burrows, twitching with trepidation as they sensed the cessation of the cataclysm that had ravaged the dark.
Seraph remained a silent sentinel, his vigil unbroken. The shrieks had long since dissolved into the wind; the firestorm had spent its fury. The raging ramparts of flame had subsided, leaving behind over two hundred carbonised silhouettes amidst a vast, blackened void. The acrid scent of char and parched earth hung heavy in the air—a grim perfume that would, in time, surrender to the soil as the ash became a nutrient for the world's rebirth.
Ordinarily, the carcass of a demon was a commodity of significant worth. Even the remains of a Mirkcap, if preserved with care, fetched a handsome price in the markets of Sanctus. Yet, among the two hundred goblins scattered across this scorched expanse, not a single frame remained intact enough to merit interest.
Across the coal earth lay only mounds of seared flesh, so thoroughly ravaged that one could no longer discern if they'd once been goblin kin or common warthogs. Even the most resilient bones—those jagged tusks and ivory claws—had been smoked into brittle, lightless husks.
In truth, even charred remains possessed some residual value, yet Seraph lacked both the inclination and the time to harvest such a grisly hoard. Though the mission was concluded, the tempest within his heart had not yet stilled; there were further reckonings to attend to.
It was a misfortune that the young man would reap no material fortune from this slaughter. However, the Origin Light Dust from nearly two hundred fallen goblins surged toward him in a silent, luminous tide, integrating into his being. Perhaps, in the grand calculus of the magis, the raw vitality of a soul held far greater weight than the mere fragments of a demon's hide.
Once Seraph was certain no goblin drew breathed amongst the ash, he struck out for the Vespass Sentry Tower to conduct a grim audit of the interior. He began his search within the Western Tower; yet, beyond the disarray of overturned furniture and looted sundries, the chambers held only a hollow, undisturbed silence.
The young man returned to the Eastern Tower. He lingered at the threshold, drawing a long, jagged breath to steady his resolve before crossing the lintel. Inside, the tableau of depravity remained as visceral and wretched as before.
Refusing to succumb to the weight of his own grief, Seraph moved with clinical urgency, checking each frame for a lingering pulse. Alas, the townsfolk and wayfarers had all departed this world long before his arrival.
The Eastern Tower spanned several tiers. The ground floor served as the main gatehouse, while the second level—accessible from the ramparts—had once functioned as the customs office where traders consulted with the sentry officials. Above, the fourth level constituted the roof, where a great crystal hovered, tethered to the Sentry Tower by threads of ancient power.
Seraph ascended the winding stair to the third floor. As he cast the door aside, he was met with a staggering sensory assault. A copper-thick stench of gore lunged at him like a physical blow. If the floor below had been a slaughterhouse, this chamber was a sanctum of agony.
The third floor, once the private study of the Tower Commander, had been repurposed into a torture gallery. Within, the broken forms of twenty sentries were bound in heavy iron shackles, the majority suspended by their wrists from the rafters above.
Every part of their bodies bore the marks of horrific abuse. Their forms were a testament to the brutal treatment they had endured, their clothing ripped and torn. As Seraph surveyed the scene, the grim realization washed over him: not a soul remained. The elderly Commander, the highest-ranking among them, had also perished.
The young man stood in the stillness, his heart heavy with sorrow for their terrible end.
"Wait…" Seraph whispered, his heart seemingly skipping a beat.
Most of the figures remained wide-eyed and devoid of motion, yet three among them stood apart. The young magis lunged forward to inspect one of the sentries suspended from the wall, pressing his fingers against the great vessel of the neck.
Seraph's eyes widened. He couldn't recall a moment of such profound relief. Raising his staff toward the young soldier, he surged his mageia to conduct a more rigorous examination. In an instant, he had the result he'd prayed for.
"He's still breathing!" Seraph exclaimed.
"Ventus Cutrix!"
[Snap!]
A small but razor-sharp blade of wind streaked out, severing the iron shackles with lethal speed. As the young soldier plummeted, claimed by gravity's pull, Seraph leapt to catch him, lowering the man to the stone floor with the utmost care. In that fleeting second, hope began to swell within him.
"There may be others," Seraph whispered to himself, his pulse quickening.
He commenced his inspection of the remaining sentries with renewed precision. It was exactly as he'd surmised; against all odds, three had endured. Perhaps it was their youth that granted them the vitality to defy death—or perhaps, it was something else entirely.
Seraph laid the three survivors side by side and hastily drew forth healing potions. As he poured the crimson droplets past their lips—
[Gurgle!]
Before long, colour returned to their faces. The flow of blood from their wounds ceased entirely; their lives had been reclaimed from the brink. All three had passed the threshold of danger, yet the severity of their injuries remained—raw and untouched by the cure.
Potions were no panacea; the efficacy of a healing draught was strictly finite. A minor potion served only to alleviate trauma and provide rudimentary first aid—a bridge to be crossed before professional intervention.
Though Seraph had snatched the three from death's maw, they were far from safe. Consciousness remained beyond them, and raw lacerations still gaped across their flesh. They were critically wounded, requiring urgent, expert restoration.
The young magis rushed to the rooftop. As the door groaned open, he beheld the tower crystal—a two-metre monolith suspended above the stone. Even now, it remained eclipsed, devoid of radiance. He approached and reached out. Upon his touch, the crystal ignited into a deep, bruised violet, pulsing with a frantic rhythm.
[Thrum! Thrum! Thrum!]
Within the lexicon of a Sentry Tower, the crystal's hue held diverse meanings, while the frequency of its pulse dictated the gravity of the hour. A violet strobe signalled that Seraph was broadcasting a desperate plea for reinforcements, using the light-conduit as his herald to reach neighbouring towers and the Arkflame legions.
The young man then vaulted from the roof to the ramparts in a blur of motion. Standing atop the wall, he loosed a sharp, piercing whistle. Within moments, Lilacorn galloped back, her loyalty unwavering.
Sanctus was not his destination—not yet. He needed the nearest village to fetch healers for the survivors. Their lives had been sustained, but whether they'd ever stand as soldiers again depended entirely upon the hours to follow.
The young magis spurred Lilacorn toward the closest settlement. He secured several village doctors, even hoisting an elderly woman onto Lilacorn's back to ride pillion as they raced against the clock.
When the elderly woman beheld the brutal carnage, she broke into a violent wail and collapsed. Even the physician who'd arrived on donkeyback fell to his knees, overcome by a relentless, hollow grief.
Seraph, however, remained a pillar of grim necessity. He urged them both to ascend and tend to the wounded, while he set about the harrowing task of bringing down the lifeless.
Shortly thereafter, more healers and Arkflame soldiers from nearby garrisons arrived to reinforce the post. Every soul present was steeped in mourning, their hearts simmering with a cold fury at the atrocity.
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