Clashing steel and horrifying screams echoed off the crystalline cavern, each sound a reminder of the thin line between survival and slaughter. Toren gripped his straight sword, its hilt worn but steady in his hand, his scar-marked arm tense with readiness. Beside him, Belial—Nero to the squad—wielded his curved longsword, its cruel slight arc stained with black residue, his stance sloppy but brimming with raw power.
The taller figure at the tunnel's far end loomed closer, its unarmored body glowing with sickly amber lines that pulsed like veins beneath its skin. It moved with a predatory grace, its presence chilling the air, a harbinger of something worse than the miasma-bound they'd already faced. Toren's heart pounded, but he steadied his breath, glancing at Belial. The older man's eyes gleamed with defiance, his lips curling into a grim smirk despite the odds.
"Ready?" Belial asked, his voice low, a challenge woven into the word.
Toren nodded, exhaling slowly.
The amber-lined figure surged forward, faster than its bulk suggested, its hands empty but crackling with dark ether. Behind it, more miasma-bound soldiers emerged from the shadows, their pale, stretched skin and blank eyes a grotesque mockery of humanity. The squad braced themselves, Shun's soldiers forming a loose line, their blades raised against the onslaught.
Belial charged first, his longsword swinging in a wide, reckless arc. "Come on, you bastards!" he roared, his voice echoing off the walls.
Toren winced at the noise — Nero talked too much, throwing taunts like he was in a tavern brawl, not a life-or-death fight. The amber figure met him head-on, dodging his slash with eerie fluidity and retaliating with a blast of ether that sent Belial skidding back, gravel crunching under his boots.
Toren darted in, his blade flashing as he targeted a miasma-bound soldier lunging for Belial's flank. "Focus, Nero!" he snapped, his sword slicing cleanly through the creature's arm. The enemy snarled, black ether bubbling from the wound, but Toren pivoted, thrusting his blade into its chest. It dissolved into smoke, and he turned, catching Belial's sloppy counterattack against the amber figure—a wild swing that grazed its shoulder but left him open.
"Quit flapping your mouth and fight!" Toren called, frustration sharpening his tone. Belial's bravado was grating, but there was something infectious about it, a reckless courage that pushed Toren to match his pace.
Belial grinned, undeterred, parrying another ether blast with a clumsy twist of his blade.
"What's the fun in silence?" he shot back, his voice rough with exertion. "Gotta let these freaks know who's sending them to hell!"
Toren rolled his eyes but couldn't suppress a fleeting smirk. Belial's chatter was annoying, but it kept the fear at bay, a defiance that burned brighter than the tunnel's dim lights. They fell into a rhythm, Toren's precise strikes complementing Belial's raw power. Toren ducked under a miasma-bound's wild swing, his blade carving through its side, while Belial barreled into another, his longsword cleaving through bone with a brutal, if unrefined, slash. Together, they held the line, the squad rallying behind them, their blades flashing in the gloom.
The amber figure was relentless, its ether blasts tearing chunks from the walls, forcing the group to scatter. "Spread out!" Toren shouted, diving behind a rusted pipe as a blast scorched the ground where he'd stood.
Belial rolled to the side, cursing loudly—another taunt Toren didn't catch but could guess was colorful. The squad split, some engaging the miasma-bound, others circling the amber figure, but the chaos fractured their formation.
A sudden explosion of ether rocked the chamber, a pipe bursting overhead and showering the ground with debris. Toren lost sight of Belial in the dust and smoke, his heart lurching. "Nero!" he called, his voice swallowed by the din of combat. He fought his way forward, dispatching a miasma-bound with a quick thrust, but the amber figure's presence loomed larger, its amber lines pulsing with a malevolent rhythm.
Belial, separated by the blast, found himself cornered near a collapsed tram car. His breath came in ragged gasps, his shoulder bleeding from an earlier graze. "Alright, you glowing bastard," he muttered, gripping his longsword with both hands. "Let's dance." He charged the amber figure, his blade swinging in a broad, sloppy arc that Toren, if he'd seen it, would've criticized. The figure sidestepped effortlessly, its hand lashing out with a whip of ether that caught Belial's chest, slamming him against the tram car with a sickening crunch.
Pain flared, but Belial pushed off the wreckage, his vision swimming. "That all you got?" he snarled, his voice weaker but defiant. He swung again, his blade grazing the figure's arm, drawing a hiss of dark vapor. The figure retaliated, its ether whip coiling around Belial's leg, yanking him off his feet. He hit the ground hard, his sword skittering across the gravel, just out of reach.
A miasma-bound soldier loomed over him, its blank eyes glinting with hunger. Its jagged glaive rose, poised to end him. Belial scrambled back, his hand groping for his sword, but he was too slow, the pain and exhaustion dulling his reflexes. "Damn it," he whispered, bracing for the blow.
A flash of silver cut through the dark, and the miasma-bound's head toppled from its shoulders, its body dissolving into smoke. Toren stood there, panting, his straight sword dripping with black residue. He extended a hand, his scarred arm steady despite the chaos. "Get up, Nero. You're not dying on my watch."
Belial grabbed his hand, hauling himself to his feet with a grunt. "Nice timing," he said, retrieving his sword with a wince. "Thought I was done for."
Toren's eyes flicked over him, assessing the damage. "You fight like a drunk brawler," he said, a hint of exasperation in his voice. "Too much talking, not enough footwork. But you're tougher than you look."
Belial chuckled, a rough, genuine sound despite the pain. "And you're too damn serious. Loosen up, We're still breathing, aren't we?"
Toren shook his head, but a small, reluctant smile broke through. "Barely. Come on, we're not done."
They turned back to the fight, shoulder to shoulder, their differences fading in the heat of battle. The amber figure was weakening, its movements slower as the squad's coordinated strikes wore it down. Toren moved with precision, his blade darting in to exploit openings, while Belial's wild swings kept the enemy off balance, his chatter a constant undercurrent. "Take that, you glowing freak!" he shouted, landing a heavy blow that staggered the figure.
Toren sighed, parrying a miasma-bound's axe. "Shut up and swing, Nero."
But the banter, however grating, an understanding. They fought as a unit, Toren's skill balancing Belial's brute force, their blades carving through the remaining miasma-bound. The Amber figure let out a final, Horrifying roar, its body collapsing into a cloud of Amber vapor as Toren's sword pierced its chest.
The chamber fell silent, save for the squad's heavy breathing and the distant drip of water. Bodies of the miasma-bound had dissolved, leaving only scorch marks and ether residue. The surviving soldiers regrouped, their faces pale but resolute, checking for wounds and salvaging what they could.
Toren sheathed his sword, turning to Belial, who was wiping blood from his cheek. "You alright?" he asked, his tone softer now, concern outweighing his earlier frustration.
Belial nodded, slinging his longsword across his back. "Thanks to you. I Owe you one."
Toren shrugged, but his eyes held a new respect. "Just don't make me save you again. And maybe talk less next time."
Belial grinned, clapping him on the shoulder. "No promises, But I'll try to keep up with your fancy moves."
Toren snorted, the tension easing as they shared a moment of camaraderie, forged in the crucible of battle. The tunnel stretched ahead, leading to the village and the survivors they'd come to save. But for now, they stood together, bound by a trust that no miasma could break, ready to face whatever lay in the dark.