The chamber where Belial and Toren had fought the miasma-bound lay behind them, its floor strewn with scorch marks and black residue, the violet figure's collapse still fresh in their minds. The surviving soldiers—five now, battered but resolute—followed closely, their visors casting dim glows that flickered against the rusted pipes overhead. The mission to reach the ruined village pressed on, but the weight of the battle clung to them, a reminder that every step deeper into the tunnels carried new risks.
Toren moved at the front, his straight sword sheathed but his scarred hand ready, his eyes scanning the shadows for threats. Belial—Nero to the squad—walked beside him, his curved longsword slung across his back, its cruel arc catching the visor light with a menacing gleam.
The older man's shoulder was bandaged from the miasma-bound's graze, but he carried himself with a stubborn defiance, his earlier brush with death only sharpening his edge. Toren glanced at him, noting the faint smirk on Belial's lips, the way his hand twitched toward his hilt at every stray sound. The man was a paradox—sloppy in a fight, too talkative for his own good, yet undeniably tough, a survivor who'd stared down hell and laughed.
The tunnel narrowed, forcing them single file, the walls pressing close enough to brush their shoulders. Toren's boots crunched on gravel, his senses heightened, the memory of Belial's reckless taunts during the battle still fresh. "You talk too much, you know," he said, his voice low to avoid echoing, though a hint of amusement softened the critique.
Belial chuckled, a rough sound that carried more warmth than Toren expected. "Keeps the blood pumping, man. You should try it sometime—might loosen that stick up your spine."
Toren snorted, shaking his head. "I'd rather keep my focus. You nearly got yourself killed back there, flapping your mouth instead of watching your footing."
"Yet here I am," Belial countered, his smirk widening. "And you're still nagging me like a worried mother. We make a good team, don't we?"
Toren didn't reply, but the corner of his mouth twitched, a reluctant acknowledgment of their budding camaraderie. The fight had forged something between them—a trust born of survival, of Toren's blade saving Belial from a killing blow. They were different, yes, but in the tunnels' crucible, differences mattered less than the will to keep going.
A faint sound broke their banter—a low, pained groan, muffled by stone. Toren froze, raising a hand to halt the squad. "Listen," he whispered, his eyes narrowing as he traced the noise. It came again, weaker now, from a side passage half-hidden by rubble. Belial tilted his head, his smirk fading, replaced by a focused intensity that Toren hadn't seen before.
"Someone's alive," Belial said, already moving toward the passage. "Let's go."
Toren nodded, gesturing for the soldiers to hold position. The two slipped into the narrow corridor, their visors casting long shadows across the uneven walls. The groans grew clearer, laced with desperation, guiding them to a collapsed section where the tunnel had caved in. Jagged stones and twisted metal blocked the path, but at the center, pinned beneath a massive boulder, was a man.
He was one of Shun's soldiers, his uniform torn, his face pale and slick with sweat. Blood pooled beneath him, seeping from where the boulder crushed his legs. His breaths were shallow, his eyes fluttering as he fought to stay conscious. The sight hit Toren like a punch, his stomach twisting with urgency. Belial cursed under his breath, kneeling beside the man to assess the damage.
"Hey, stay with us," Belial said, his voice softer now, though still rough around the edges. "What's your name?"
The soldier's eyes focused briefly, pain clouding his gaze. "Garen," he rasped, his voice barely audible. "Couldn't… get free."
Toren examined the boulder, its surface cracked but unyielding, easily twice their combined weight. He pushed against it, muscles straining, but it didn't budge. "It's too heavy," he said, frustration creeping into his tone. "I can't move it alone."
Belial stood, brushing gravel from his hands. "Then we move it together. Come on, man—no time for doubts."
Toren met his gaze, the older man's confidence infectious despite his flaws. They positioned themselves on either side of the boulder, Toren bracing his shoulder against its rough surface, Belial gripping a jagged edge. "On three," Toren said, his voice steady. "One, two—three!"
They heaved, muscles burning, boots slipping on the gravel-strewn floor. The boulder resisted, its weight a cruel mockery of their efforts, but Belial growled, his face contorted with effort. "Not… giving up!" he spat, his words a mix of defiance and strain. Toren pushed harder, his scarred arm trembling, the memory of saving Belial fueling his resolve. Slowly, impossibly, the boulder shifted, grinding against the stone floor with a low rumble.
With a final surge, they rolled it aside, collapsing to their knees, panting. Garen gasped, his face twisting in pain as the pressure lifted, but blood still flowed from his crushed legs, dark and relentless. Toren crawled to his side, checking his pulse, his heart sinking. "He's alive, but he's bad off. We need to get him to the camp."
Belial nodded, wiping sweat from his brow. "He won't make it far like this. We need someone to take him back."
Toren turned to the squad, who'd crept closer to watch. He singled out a soldier—a wiry woman named Syla, her face grim but determined. "Syla, take Garen to the camp. Get him to Lira or Xin—fast. Can you handle it?"
Syla nodded, slinging her blade across her back. "I've got him. Stay safe."
She knelt beside Garen, gently lifting him with another soldier's help, his groans echoing as they retreated down the tunnel. The remaining squad members shifted uneasily, their numbers now four, but Toren waved them back. "Hold the junction. Nero and I will scout ahead."
The soldiers obeyed, fading into the shadows, leaving Toren and Belial alone in the rubble-strewn passage. The silence was heavier now, the groans of the wounded replaced by the distant hum of the tunnels, a reminder of the Sovereign's miasma lurking beyond. Toren glanced at Belial, who was checking his longsword for damage, his movements casual but his eyes sharp.
"You didn't talk that time," Toren said, a wry edge to his voice. "Starting to learn?"
Belial laughed, a low, genuine sound. "Don't get used to it, man. Just saving my breath for the next fight."
Toren shook his head, but the banter eased the knot in his chest. They moved deeper into the passage, their visors casting twin beams of light, the tunnel narrowing until it felt like the walls were closing in. The hum grew louder, a slithering whisper that set their nerves on edge. Toren's grip tightened on his sword, his senses screaming that danger was near.
It struck without warning—a miasma-bound soldier, its pale form lunging from a side alcove, its jagged glaive aimed at Belial's chest. Belial reacted, but his sloppy footwork betrayed him, his sidestep too slow, his longsword caught in its sheath. The glaive grazed his side, tearing through fabric and drawing blood. He stumbled, cursing, as the creature pressed its attack, its blank eyes glinting with malice.
"Nero!" Toren shouted, sprinting forward. He drew his sword in a fluid arc, intercepting the glaive with a ringing parry. The miasma-bound snarled, swinging wildly, but Toren was faster, his blade slicing through its arm, then its chest, with precise, lethal strikes. The creature dissolved into black smoke, its glaive clattering to the ground.
Belial leaned against the wall, clutching his side, blood seeping between his fingers. "Damn it," he muttered, his face pale but his smirk defiant. "That one was faster."
Toren sheathed his sword, offering a hand. "You're a mess, Nero. Watch your damn feet next time."
Belial took the hand, pulling himself up with a wince. "Yeah, yeah. Thanks, man. Guess I owe you another one."
Toren's expression softened, a hint of warmth breaking through his usual reserve. "Just don't make it a habit. We've got survivors to find."
Belial nodded, his hand steadying on his hilt, the pain sharpening his focus. "Right. Let's keep moving."
...
Oracle was my acting good enough?
There was no answer.
Right, Oracle was sealed because of this damned Act. It seemed that Belial was used to having someone else in his head, but now oracle was temporarily gone. But one thought still clung to him,
He couldn't trust anyone.