Chapter 11
THE HOLD
An audible gulp escaped IAM's throat.
So basically, if a devil were to attack, he would be utterly powerless—unable to resist, doomed to die a miserable death. How terrifying.
What was even more frightening was the revelation that such beings might soon stand before them, their human flesh and mortal skin no defense against the nightmare.
Now it was clear why even 'cannon fodder' were given a chance to walk the path of ascension—to at least show some faint signs of resistance against the creatures. Though only provided a beginner's manual, it was better than nothing. And if they somehow managed to survive, the reward could be the full manual of their chosen path.
Suddenly, a heavy stone seemed to fall and settle deep within his heart, sinking to the very bottom, unmoved by the crashing waves that tried to dislodge it.
This stone had a name: fear.
Slowly, IAM began to realize just how lightly he had been taking everything. The weight of reality, sharp and merciless, dropped its cruel sword at his neck. This wasn't a game. War was no joke.
Death was no longer a distant concept—it was a fine line away, and he was steadily approaching it with each passing day.
A strange, invisible pressure began to build in the center of his forehead, like a storm gathering behind his eyes. The desire to form an avien was no longer just a step on the path—it had become a necessity. Urgent. Personal.
He wasn't just determined anymore—he had managed to squeeze in something new, something heavier: desperation.
Tomorrow, he promised himself. Tomorrow I'll push harder. No more delays. I need to form this damn avien.
And just like that, IAM and the rest of the group crawled into their sleeping bags, letting the embrace of sleep pull them away once more.
.....
A nudge. Then a harder shake.
Ryan was hunched over IAM, shaking the sleeping log with both hands. The first light of dawn had barely begun to stretch across the horizon, a faint golden blush against the dark sky.
IAM stirred, groggy and disoriented. "Wha… I thought we were leaving later... What happened?" he mumbled, rubbing at his heavy, drooping eyes.
"Well, that was the plan," Ryan replied, adjusting his shirt with a tired sigh. "Until you started thrashing around like a dying fish in your sleep. Pretty sure you were having a nightmare."
"Really…?" IAM frowned, trying to pull the memory from the haze of his mind.
He racked his brain. Nothing.
No—wait. Ever since he had arrived in this world, it felt like he had been having the same dream over and over. But each time, it slipped through his fingers like sand, impossible to hold onto. Still… something lingered.
"I don't know," IAM finally muttered. "But I felt like it was… a good dream."
Ryan blinked at him. "You sure? You were sweating like crazy and looked like you were fighting off a demon."
IAM just shrugged, still lost in thought.
Ryan watched him for a moment longer, then shook his head. Whatever it was—it was none of his business.
A few hours later, they were off again.
The days that followed blurred into a repetitive grind. IAM devoted himself to pushing his limits, pouring every ounce of effort into extending the time he could maintain a steady flow of mana into his body. The progress, at first, had been encouraging. From a mere six seconds to over a full minute—one minute and four seconds to be exact.
A milestone. A breakthrough, really.
Under any other circumstance, this kind of improvement would have sparked celebration, or at the very least a flash of pride. But any such feeling was quickly drowned beneath the towering shadow cast by Ryan's progress. His soon-to-be fellow soldier had already reached four minutes and thirty-three seconds. He was closing in on the threshold—ten minutes of continuous mana flow, the bare minimum required to form an avien.
Compared to that, IAM's achievement felt painfully small.
Ryan, ever upbeat, showered him with encouragement, constantly reminding him how much he had improved and that he was bound to get there soon if he just kept pushing. But even those words, sincere as they were, couldn't quite lift the weight pressing down on IAM's shoulders.
Because this wasn't about talent.
It was about willpower.
And that realization struck deep. The uncomfortable truth that it wasn't some mystical gift that had propelled Ryan forward—but grit. Relentless effort. Determination.
And if IAM was already struggling this much just to reach the starting line, how could he ever hope to survive what came after? How could he dream of withstanding the chaos of war, when the very process of preparation already had him on his knees?
Still, the stone in his chest remained unmoved—cold and unrelenting. Fear. He felt it every second of the day, a silent weight that refused to budge.
So he gritted his teeth. Again and again, he forced himself to try. Over and over, until the burning pain became familiar. He stopped noticing the scenery that rushed past the carriage—the forests, the hills, the ever-darkening skies. The world became noise, a backdrop to his singular obsession: to be stronger. To survive.
Ryan was improving too, the gap between them widening. Yet somehow, that didn't discourage IAM as much as it once did. It terrified him—but it also gave him something to reach for. Something to chase.
Then, one morning, the carriage slowed.
The dirt road grew rougher, the trees more twisted, and the wind carried a strange, sour scent. Joe pulled on the reins and brought the horses to a stop. This was it.
The two young men jumped off the carriage. The air was thicker here, heavy with tension. And despite the many jokes, awkward moments, and strange conversations they'd shared over the week, a solemn quiet settled between them and Joe.
They stood there for a while, unsure of what to say. Then, Joe finally broke the silence.
"Well… This is where we part ways."
IAM nodded slowly. "Thanks for everything, Joe."
He had taken them as far as he could—right up to the edge of the Deadline. Beyond this point, he would go no further.
After settling himself back into his seat and gripping the reins loosely, Joe glanced one final time at the two young men standing before him. A thoughtful expression passed over his face—followed by a twitch at the corner of his mouth and the faintest dusting of red across his cheeks.
He cleared his throat.
"It's not often I see a young couple like yours out on a journey like this," he said, trying to keep his tone casual. "But I gotta say, I hope the love between you two lasts for years to come. Real sweet."
He gave them both a quick wink.
Before either IAM or Ryan could open their mouths to respond, Joe snapped the reins and the horses took off at full speed, carriage wheels kicking up dirt as they sped away—leaving behind nothing but a stunned silence.
?????????
IAM stood frozen, his brain buffering harder than it ever had since arriving in this world.
Couple?
Love?
What the hell was that man talking about?!
His mind fired through recent events at lightning speed—every interaction, every shared glance, every 'training session' filled with groans and moans and sweat and out-of-context screaming—
Oh.
Oh no.
IAM, who prided himself on being a connoisseur of all forms of humor, felt the joke lock into place in his mind like puzzle pieces clicking together. It was too perfect. Too tragic.
He turned to face the retreating figure of Joe, now no more than a silhouette in the distance, riding into the sunset like a man at peace, completely satisfied in his hilariously misguided assumptions.
IAM raised a trembling fist toward the sky.
"IT'S ALL A MISUNDERSTANDING!!"
His voice echoed through the air.
"NNNNNNNOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO—"
But it was too late.
The man was gone. The joke was sealed. The reputation was set.
IAM collapsed to his knees, defeated by the weight of secondhand embarrassment and irreversible misunderstanding.
Behind him, Ryan rolled his eyes and adjusted the strap of his bag.
"What the fuck is wrong with you?" he muttered, stepping past IAM without a shred of sympathy. "Come on. We've gotta reach The Hold before nightfall."
Ah, yes. As the saying goes—
Ignorance is bliss.
IAM stood up slowly, brushing the dust from his knees as he surveyed his surroundings. Almost immediately, a strange, oppressive silence pressed in on him—a silence so deep it felt like even sound had abandoned this place. Maybe it was because they were now infinitely closer to the Deadline—the very edge of the front lines, where war clawed at the world's fabric—but everything around them screamed desolation.
They were surrounded by looming mountains and jagged hills of uneven size, like the remnants of a land shattered by something far greater than time or erosion. The ground beneath their feet was composed of hardened, brownish sand. It crunched beneath their boots like gravel, yet when IAM bent down and pushed his hand against it slowly, it gave way like dry powder, unsettling in its inconsistency. A surface as unforgiving as stone when fallen upon, yet disturbingly soft if you lingered. It felt wrong.
The color scheme was off. Distorted. As if the entire region had been dunked in charcoal water. The sky above was a smothering, stagnant grey—its clouds thick and unmoving, as if frozen in place by something unnatural. The sun was nowhere to be seen, and its absence created a disorienting blur between day and night. Time, it seemed, had forgotten this place.
A thin veil of fog hugged the terrain. It wasn't dense enough to obstruct their view entirely, but it gave the landscape an eerie unreality—like the world was just slightly out of focus. Shapes in the distance flickered with uncertainty, as if refusing to settle on what they truly were.
IAM stared ahead. Far in the distance, he could just make out several strange figures piercing through the mist. Spindly silhouettes rising from the ground, warped and unclear. Were they trees? Or perhaps buildings? No… the shapes were too wrong. Bent at unnatural angles, leaning as if being pulled by something below the ground.
His instincts flared—don't go near. Not yet.
He had no idea what lay ahead, and he wasn't about to take chances. Not here. Not now. Not with creatures like devils lurking just a level away from myth and rumor.
"I'm not doing anything stupid," IAM muttered to himself, narrowing his eyes toward the horizon. "Not until I know exactly what I'm dealing with."
"According to the information we received, that should be The Hold," Ryan said, his voice unusually serious as he pointed toward the distant haze.
IAM followed his gesture, his eyes locking onto the vague silhouette in the foggy distance. Though the shape was indistinct, the weight behind the name was not. The Hold. The name alone carried weight—like a whisper spoken in fear, or a prayer muttered under breath.
IAM felt his throat dry slightly, the weight in his chest returning tenfold. That was it. That was the place. The place where he'd bleed, where he'd break, where he might rebuild. The place that would mark the end of one life and perhaps the beginning of another.
His future, uncertain and brutal, lay just beyond the mist.
Ryan didn't respond, And together, they began walking.