The Last Light on the Ridge

IN THE aftermath of the mana influx that rendered his classmates unconscious, Lucien also remained unscathed. A haze developed from where an earlier wave of soul feeders were cut down, but in that dead air, Lucien could sense his friends were scattered across the proving grounds, unconscious but alive. “What is this?” he gasped in disbelief. “This wasn’t supposed to happen, was it?” While no one was there to answer his question, a hiss, layered with hundreds of voices, suddenly rippled through the air.

The soul feeders were returning.

Lucien gritted his teeth, and forced himself upright, while leaning against his broadsword like a crutch. His heater shield hung heavy on his arm, its edge already dented. He looked over his shoulder one last time at his fallen peers. “Oh no,” he muttered. “They’re defenseless–” When the darkness from the haze shifted, he turned, his shoulder-length blond hair whipping, as a wave of soul feeders crawled from the shadows.

The slender, wraith-like figures with elongated limbs and eyeless faces emerged by the hundreds. Their forms flickered like smoke in the receding haze, their hunger agitating. The Pawn’s lively mana beckoned them, like a light that summoned every starving shadow to feed.

Lucien planted his feet while gripping the handles of his sword and shield. He uttered, “Bring it on!” as they scurried towards him.

The first feeder lunged, claws outstretched.

Lucien’s sword flashed upward in a gleaming yellow arc, cleaving it from chest to head, disintegrating it into black motes before it even hit the ground. Another came from his left to be met with a shield that drove it back into the mob of its own.

But for every one that fell, it seemed like three more took its place.

Lucien moved with precision—each swing a kill, and each step measured. His blade cleaved through his opponents with ease, as the Clockwork Harmony of Light engulfed his blade in a yellow glow. He drove his sword through one creature’s core, spun to block another, and kicked it back into a cluster. Lucien’s shield shattered one’s jawless face before he slammed it down again to crush another’s claws. When the soul feeders tried to surround him, he ducked low and swept his blade in a wide arc, sending a crescent of light through their midsections. The air filled with the whispering hiss of dying shadows. He welcomed the hundreds more he would cut down if it meant drawing them away from his fallen classmates, but his mana pool was depleting.

There was no time to recover.

Yet still, he fought, his determination driving his attacks on sheer willpower alone.

“That’s right,” Lucien growled through clenched teeth. “You’re not getting them.” He took a step back and smirked, realizing the ground was sloping upward.

The hill.

He remembered it from the map that Rio and Trisha drew up earlier in the crusade. It was a ridge that led into a valley of the proving grounds. If Lucien could lure them there, he could isolate the swarm away from his friends. But that also meant he’d be cornered. He ran, forcing his exhausted legs to move, and glancing back to make sure they followed.

Swarms of black figures writhed and crawled, drawn by the pulsing mana.

Lucien pushed himself harder, feeling the ache in every joint, the pounding of blood in his ears. His breath came out ragged, the world blurring at the edges. By the time he reached the ridge’s peak, the soul feeders were encroaching like a black tide. His silhouette outlined against the dull gray sky, his body trembling not from fear, but from sheer depletion. Lucien swallowed the last of his stamina pills and drank the last mana potion from his utility belt, his mana recovering and body invigorated. “You wanna fuck with us?” he muttered, voice hoarse as he drew his wheellock pistol. He used the spanner tool to wind up the weapon, before cocking the hammer back, and pointing it at the mob. “Say your prayers!” He fired yellow bullets imbued with light at the horde, decimating sections of them with his spell.

The soul feeders continued up the slope, crawling desperately like bugs, while Lucien slid down the other side into the valley. He readied his pistol again, muttering, “You wanna keep playing?” while channeling another light spell, waiting for the moment the swarm would flood to the valley’s foot. “Alright, I’ll play with you.”

And when they approached within mere meters of him, he unleashed a blinding spell, which disoriented and burned away the soul feeders in his sight. He drew his sword and shield again, unleashing a battle cry as he threw himself into them, swinging with reckless fury. His sword sliced through one torso, then two, then three.

Shadows burst into smoke, drifting upward like embers.

He ducked a claw, slammed his shield forward, bashing a soul feeder’s head, and pivoted again. Lucien felt like death, and the sound of battle became abstract: metal clanging, claws raking, the dull thud of impact, and the rasp of breath. The world had narrowed to him versus them. He fought on instinct alone, his eyes stinging with sweat, his body aching, but his willpower remained undeterred.

At some point, Lucien realized he was laughing with unhinged hysteria. “Come on!” he shouted, pounding his shield with the flat of his sword, as his voice echoed across the valley. “I’m right here!”

A soul feeder lunged at him from behind, and he instinctively stabbed backward without looking. The blade pierced through. Another slashed his arm, but he ignored it, and brought his shield down on its head.

Lucien’s vision swam, black dots blooming across his sight. His mana sense flickered. He was burning out. Soon, his movements grew heavier, slower. His swings left afterimages of pale light, and his shield arm barely lifted. But the soul feeders kept coming, a sea of writhing shadows climbing over their ashen dead, reaching for him.

Every kill was a delay, every second a stolen breath.

He fell to one knee, gasping, pressing his shield into the dirt to keep upright. His sword was slick with ash, his arms trembling.

The air reeked of ozone and decay.

He looked up to the ridge’s edge—the horizon glowing faintly turquoise from the teleportation statue miles away. “Sirius…” Lucien panted.

The soul feeders encircled him completely now, a wall of dark figures and extended claws. They hissed and pulsed, waiting for him to falter.

Lucien stood, raising his sword once more, hatred boiling in his veins. “That all you got?” he shouted. Some of them pounced on him, but he didn’t let them get past the full length of his arm as he swiftly cut them down. He may not have had mana left to cast spells, but his soul did the rest, stimulating his courage with every kill slice. His weapon shimmered faintly through the ash, responding to sheer willpower. “I’ll take you all to fucking hell!” he roared through the pain of lifting his weapons.

The feeders rushed all at once.

Lucien moved. His body screamed with every step, but he didn’t stop. His sword became an extension of thought—slicing, deflecting, cutting through the endless dark. Shadows disintegrated around him, the air thick with swirling ash. His heart hammered in his chest, his veins burning as he pushed every last ounce of energy into motion.

And still, more came.

His shield arm gave out again, the weight dragging him to the left. When he swung upward to block a strike, he missed, and stumbled. His sword, however, found another enemy and cut through anyway. The adrenaline numbed the pain, but Lucien could feel himself reaching his limit. He drove his sword into the ground, using it to hold himself steady. The area around him was carpeted with evaporating remains—fading wisps rising into the dull air like black snow. Lucien looked towards the peak of the hill again, detecting a familiar mana signature.

A surge of purple lightning sparked.

“Sirius…” Lucien muttered, a tired grin spreading across his face. “You made it.”