“Up, up!” Alexander hoisted a dazed soldier, who used to have a right arm. A medical-grade tourniquet squeezed the stump dry. He might live. Might. The soldier groaned as if his throat was filled with gravel, and every step seemed to shove more into his mouth. “Come on, hang in there. With any luck, we’ll probably get out of here.”

He whipped around, his strapped rifle waving with him, gauging the battle on both sides. Damien was at the front manning the defense by himself, using [Conjure - Mountains] to keep the Incogs at bay. Due to the earthen wall he had erected earlier, it brought them time. From the back, Leona and Montana was there doing work. The flames illuminated clouds of gray wisps; his ax followed the lines and cleaved through grayman after grayman; Leona handled the stragglers that remained, but it was clear who did most of the work.

So Alexander, who was awkwardly caught in the middle, assigned himself the task of leading the wounded. How many were there? Ten, twelve? No, he saw twelve pieces, an arm there and a foot here, a head, some bits of skull and brain. None of the bodies were moving. The dead would have to stay, sorry to say. The wounded needed extraction more than corpses needing coffins.

There were five soldiers, each wounded in their own ways.

The number was better than he thought.

“Everyone still breathing?!” Alexander called out after checking his friend was still kicking—he didn’t have a free arm to raise after all. The four soldiers nodded. They were out of it, bloody one way or another, but everyone could walk. Good, that made things easier.

He cocked his head towards Damien, gesturing everyone to shamble forward. Damien was a clever bastard; not only the wall of tendrils acted as an impediment, but the Incogs were forced to rub themselves against the dirt like five-year-olds. Made it that much easier to take them out. It was a smart play to cover the tracks with tendrils; made it that much more difficult for the Incogs to navigate through. Considering everything, he was doing exceptionally well dispatching D-Ranks as an E.

Alexander was almost jealous that he didn’t have a master flamemancer as a father. Though, considering Damien hated him, perhaps that was for the best.

“Damien!” Alexander hollered and came bearing gifts. “How’s everything coming along?! I don’t know how long until Montana finishes up!”

Damien waved his [Protector’s Stave]. He waved his staff around and beckoned a line of fire that coursed forward, striking the first of the approaching Incogs. Alexander winced. They were closer than he thought. “A couple of minutes at most, but I’m trying to save my mana when we escape!”

Conjurations typically required an abundance of mana; thus, conjurists alleviated the costs with mana crystals embedded inside their catalysts. For Damien, it meant he was running out of mana, and fast.

And to worsen things, he had informed Alexander earlier that topside wasn’t exactly safe either; there were threats up there too. Although Damien didn’t expand on what those threats were, the rest of Luster and the military were up there.

“Do you think they’re holding out up there?!” Alexander asked above the spells.

“They have to! I—Give me a second!” Damien stopped his sentence by slamming the end of his stave on the steel of the tracks. An earthen ripple rolled through the tracks and struck the Incogs; they bumbled, fell, clunking their peanut skills against one another and the ground. “They have to! If they fall, we all do!”

“Let’s hope for the best! Just get ready to move!” Alexander cocked his head towards the stairs on the side, leading up to the platform. “Eyes on, Damien! Make sure you cover our asses!””

Suddenly, across his vision, there was gray. Damien swore and erected an earth shield, and claws dug in. Alexander and the rest of the soldiers jumped back, spooked, as Damien pushed the conjuration forward, casting the Incogs back, and drove thin crags that skewered them dead. “That’ll be a little difficult!” he exclaimed.

“Yeah?! Well, let me change the difficulty to ‘Easy’, would you like that?!” Alexander shouted over the fighting.

“Would you?! You're so kind!” complained Damien with a smirk.

Alexander scowled.

“A joke! It’s a joke!” To prove his professionalism, a few more Incogs were scorched. “See, I’m taking my job seriously!”

“So did the rest of the guys here!” Alexander gestured towards his one-armed friend. “Look what happened to them!”

Damien responded by brightening the glow of his [Protector’s Stave] mana crystal, mustering another flurry of tendrils. It stopped most of the Incogs’ advance and made it more difficult to push through. How long will the crystal last, however? Alexander suddenly wished he was more capable, but not like he could punch the Incogs to death.

By the luck of God though, there was a new message in the [Party Chat].

Leona:

Montana’s moving

The Incogs are thinning but not out

Alexander and Damien nodded to each other.

“Alright!” Alexander pulled his soldier-friend up, his head whacking against Alexander’s shoulder. “We’re moving when Montana gives us the go-ahead! My team will watch our asses! Stay close and follow the blue light! Follow especially the fire!”

“On you!” said one of the soldiers, all grouping up tightly.

A dancing red light bounced on the walls, gradually growing in intensity. Alexander felt the warmth on his back, the heavy stomping of plated steel and the scratching of joints against metal. Leona appeared first, touching Alexander’s shoulder—made him jolt and flinch—but she looked fine. Then, finally, Montana came after her, covered in a slop of blood and guts. Otherwise, he was thriving.

He immediately took the front, steam puffing through the silts of his helmet. Montana shouted, “Alexander, you got the soldiers?!”

“I got them!” he replied.

“Alright! Damien, Leona, you’re on the rear-guard! When I say ‘move’, we move!”

Everyone compiled.

Montana charged forward as a rumbling beacon of safety, and crashed his battleax into an Incog, bisecting it, and painting the station tunnels black. He went low, huffed another puff of steam, and made a great hack from left to right, cutting through several gray-bastards and killing them. The stairs were conquered. There, stairs were heaven. “Move!” Montana called.

“Come on!” Alexander tugged his soldier-friend as quickly as his legs could handle. Every hard step rattled his bad ankle but he ignored the pain. Pain meant hesitation, and a single moment meant his death. He gritted his teeth and came onto the lower platform and waited for the other soldiers to shamble on. They felt the heat of death staring at them in the face, but they pushed on. Everyone did. Alexander struggled through every step, hissing each time his foot screamed, practically carrying the one-armed man. Up until they reached the familiar station, and there were gray wisps staring from within the darkness.

“Hup!” In a single leap, Montana cleared the height of the platform and landed on a bench, crunched it, and through the flames he saw a fog of gray wisps. He engaged in an instant, roaring, masterfully sweeping through the monsters, as expected from a member of Glory Guild.

Montana had cleared a ten meter space, though that could change on a dime. Alexander moved his group to roughly the center, backs pressed against the walls, constantly watching both sides of the conflict. Damien and Leona managed the back-end albeit shakily, making careful, measured retreats.

Damien lifted a wave of dirt that splashed against the Incogs, revealing every contour these flattering bastards had Leona took advantage, ducking under claws she could now see, severing legs she could now touch, and decapitating as she saw fit. Alexander envied how easily she wielded a sword.

“Move!” cried Montana, pushing forward.

The rest of the group followed behind, maintaining a seven-meter space, defending on both ends. Montana fought like a woodcutter, taking an ax to flesh, huffing, gritting. Damien called out the mana capacity he had left in his [Protector’s Stave]: forty. Leona was visibly breathing, sweat running down her face, fighting more on desperation than energy.

It was showing.

An Incog slipped through. Damien and Leona missed it. It probably wanted a better kill, something vulnerable and fresh. It was right there: six ripe men all for itself. Mud covered its mid-chest, shifting in odd motions. Alexander swore under his breath. “Someone take him!” He pushed his soldier-friend into the safety of another, snatching his strapped rifle.

The Incog stomped towards him, staggered as the first few bullets struck center-mass. That hurt, but it wasn’t enough. Suddenly it jumped forward with its claws raised, and Alexander slid to the side and Alexander threw a dirty shirt on its head. A curious hum came from the gray-thing, then a chuckle—not from it.

[Skill Activation: Certain Shot]

Right through the skull, it stiffened, then fell dead, crumpled. It gained color and a full form; it was an ugly, ugly thing.

“Alexander!” yelled Leona, hearing the gunshots, seeing him and the dead Incog.

“I’m fine!” he replied. “Focus on defending the back! I’ll deal with any wanderers!”

He looked towards the soldiers. One of the men, the blue-haired one, hooked his arm around the one-armed man’s waist. “I got him! Do what you need to do, Slayer!”

“Thanks!” So I’m a Slayer now, huh? Motherfucker, this is the last place I want to be called that. Alexander surveyed the immediate area for any Incogs. None. Just dead men, women, and children, and parts. He grimaced.

“Move!” shouted Montana. Same as last time. Montana busted through another wave of Incogs, slaying them, leaving a trail of blood and corpses for the others to follow. Alexander led the soldiers, watching for any stragglers that managed to survive Montana’s rampage. A few had, but they were on the ground missing something: chunks of their chests, legs, arms, the rest. A few bullets did the work.

Then, there were two lucky freaks that slipped through with minor burns, shrieking and revelous. These things had intelligence, Alexander had to give them that. They probably hid and waited for Montana to pass before attacking his charge. Though Alexander was the next Slayer they had to face. He gritted his teeth and let his rifle dangle by the strap, and he donned his [Hobgoblin Steel].

As he did, the first ugly bastard growled and sprinted forward, its wisps flickering like candlelight. It was fast. Frighteningly fast, sort of like a rabid dog or something. Alexander met it in the middle, ducked under the first claw and darted between its legs where his partner was, who had followed closely behind. His goblin-blade found its mark: the ripe leg of the second and the wonderful sound of steel cracking against bone.

It faltered, and Alexander twirled, feeling a little bit like Leona, and bashed his edge into its ribs. The Incog folded over slightly, enough to signal its hurt. Not its death however. It was too stubborn to die, and he was too weak. That was disappointing.

A gray lash came for Alexander and he panicked, raising his [Hobgoblin Steel] hastily. The gray clashed with his own, its strength stronger than his grip and his sword sputtered away, and he stumbled somehow unharmed. It was the first one. The one whose legs he had dived under.

Alexander backed from another spiteful, vengeful swipe, moving on instinct rather than thought. His instincts told him to sidestep another, then weave around. He jumped onto its back, but that was not an instinct however, but a thought. A thought to kill it and kill it now. The [Steel Dagger], the one given in the Slayer Gift, easily slide where its neck was, smoothly. It howled but it did not fall. Not yet. Alexander did it a second time, tore through its flesh, and it refused again, so there was a third and a third it did. They both fell.

He rolled onto his feet, grinned, then suddenly he was launched backwards, crashed into a wall, and his head got knocked with a subtle reminder: right, the other one. He got kicked. A low groan came from Alexander, alive still, and felt his rifle resting on his lap. Before the Incog could claim him, lead had already claimed its stomach. Alexander unloaded as many bullets as possible into the damned thing, fired, fired, firing until it fell. He hopped up, pressed the rifle close, and shot its peanut-shaped head until white matter came out. And until he was empty.

Alexander reclaimed his [Hobgoblin Steel] and checked on the soldiers—safe, that was good. But Damien and Leona were struggling. Exhaustion was getting to them, Leona particularly, and Damien must be running out of mana at this point.

“Move!” yelled Montana. There were less room than Alexander would’ve wanted. It felt like he was living inside a box, and that box was getting smaller and smaller. So this was the feeling of claustrophobia.

“Come on!” Alexander encouraged everyone. “Push!”

Leona heaved with every swing now, unable to kill as effectively as she did before. Damien clenched his teeth, his conjurations getting smaller, less potent, and ultimately weaker. Alexander swore and delegated himself to the rear-guard. Earlier, he had stolen more magazines from the fallen soldiers. It wasn’t much however. He fired what little bullets he had into the swarming Incogs. It eased his team’s burdens but not by much. Not by much.

There were stairs though. Stairs. That was their way to Jury.

“Move!” They moved, and the walls were coming in.

“Twenty percent!” alerted Damien.

“Move!” They hurried to the stairs, climbing up.

Leona was slow, legs buckling at every step.

“Move!” But the Incogs were thinning on Montana's side. It made sense—if Team Luster was topside, then there was a considerable force keeping the underside out.

It gave Alexander hope. “We got through the worst! Just keep pushing!”

“Move!” How right Alexander was. Montana had less Incogs to deal with, but as if to maintain balance, the rear-guard had many more Incogs to deal with.

“Move!” said Montana, switching roles and becoming the vanguard, and Alexander’s team became the spearhead. They rushed.

“Move!” said Alexander next; for one, he loved the sound of gunshots.

“Move!” shouted Leona. She was barely able to fight but here she was, fighting nonetheless.

“Move!” urged Damien. The crystal of his [Protector’s Stave] waned, less than ten percent left.

The final few corridors awaited them. Alexander heard human voices and human guns and human things—they were in the home stretch. “Let’s go—!”

Filled with the final vigor of the escape, knowing that salvation lay in just a minute’s time perhaps, they pushed forward with what little embers they had of their remaining stamina. Montana began laughing, becoming more fervent in his slays, and little-by-little, foot over foot, they saw the glimmers of the false night.

Alexander was overtaken by the beauty of the stars and fought. He turned the corner and saw the Incogs attempting to climb the entrance stairs but were shot dead where they stood. Not a single bastard made it up more than five steps from the main entrance.

Alexander sped forward and slammed himself against a corner. It was a horrible idea appearing unannounced.

“Friendly!” He looked over. “Friendly! Friendly! Hold your fire! Friendly!”

“Hellfire!” called a shadowed soldier up top.

“What?!” Alexander shook his head, gritting. “I don’t know the fucking countersign! I’m a Pseudo! Montana’s down here! Don’t fire!”

Before the soldier could respond, two of the wounded hurriedly climbed. Some of the soldiers guarding the entrance had broken the line and scattered down, retrieving their comrades faster than their two bloody legs could take them. Incogs had seen this and tried to capitalize only to find lead coming from Alexander himself. He hit a fraction of his bullets probably but it was the thought that counted.

The next soldier came through. Then the next after him, helped up by Leona. Briefly, she exchanged a worried expression with Alexander.

“Go!” said Alexander. “I’ll get out when Montana gets here!”

Leona didn’t argue any further. The last soldier, the soldier-friend with one arm, was practically carried by Damien, both struggling to climb up. Finally Montana. He looked worse than before, being more blood than armor. But, miraculously, no one had died.

“We good?!” Montana asked Alexander.

“We good! That’s everyone!” Five wounded soldiers, Leona, Damien, himself, and Montana. Everyone was here.

Montana told him, “I’ll cover you, go!”

Don’t have to ask me twice! Alexander turned and darted. The few seconds felt like an eternity but he made it, second-to-last, seeing the new battle unfold before him. The Army had constructed a small barricade to Black Paladin Station, fortifying the front entrance.

A majority of the soldiers were firing upon new creatures: jagged spears and long ears and crooked blades and crossbow bolts coming from perches in broken windows and a few spellcasters threw bastardized magic, and what else were there? Everything, Alexander supposed. Everything. Though their numbers were thinning. That was good.

Something tugged at his hand. A medic. “Hey! Hey! Come with me, let’s get you patched up!”

Alexander let the medic lead him into a small cluster of open tents far from combat. He searched for Jury and the other Luster members, Kirk too, but couldn’t find them. All he saw were the extracted soldiers plus Leona and Damien.

“Shit…” muttered Alexander after being told to raise his right arm. “How bad was it on your end?”

The medic sighed, shaking his head. “It came out of nowhere. While we were settling in, we had contact to the east, then to the west. Through Jury, we were able to maintain our defenses—lift your left arm.” Alexander did so. “It’s nothing we can’t handle, honestly. They counted on a surprise and it wore off. What about you? What happened in Black Paladin?”

“I don’t know,” he answered. “The Incogs, the guys we fought, cut off the power somehow.” Alexander looked around for any civilians. They had outnumbered the soldiers three-to-one, but that was before the attack. “I didn’t see any civilians while we were escaping. Any living ones anyway. They really came through everyone that fast, huh?”

“Yeah,” solemnly said the medic. “Thirty minutes ago, everything was normal.”

Thirty minutes ago, there was at least double the amount of people. “By the way, know a Roswell Kirk? A Pseudo?”

“Mhm. I treated him. Got a nasty cut on his abdomen. He’s with Jury now.”

Alexander was relieved. “What a shitshow…”

“That’s most things.”

“Yeah...” He shut his eyes. “Yeah, I—”

“I see. I see.” It was a booming voice with a strange clarity that could only be explained by magical phenomena, that no matter where you were, you could hear it as if the voice was right next to you.

Everyone looked up.

It was a lanky cloaked figure levitating above the encampment. Its crane fingers curled around a twisted scepter crowned with a ruby jewel. In place of its head was darkness, similarly to Problem’s, yet there was not a warmth of humanity was present.

Alexander’s throat went dry.

“Peculiar,” it said, “it is I who you seek, yet it is you who remain speechless. How tongues flap, so do your lives.”

It chuckled. The Slayer System alerted Alexander.

[SLAYER SYSTEM ALERT]

A COMET HAS APPEARED.

IMMEDIATE DEATH IS LIKELY.

“It is I, Pereyra, Servant to Sirius Aethfell.”