The alchemist's hands trembled as he assessed the situation. His mana reserves were depleted, his tools confiscated by the Strigoi, and his body battered from captivity. The homunculus who had just rescued him—if "rescue" was even the right word—was locked in battle with a massive Strigoi guardian. She wasn't his ally, nor did he trust her.
'I need to escape now,' he thought bitterly. The mories of his captured or dead apprentices clawed at his mind, their failures fresh wounds to his pride.
'They were all so useless… no wonder we're in this ss.'
His gaze darted around the room. Behind him, there were likely more Strigoi waiting in ambush. Above, the sounds of relentless combat reverberated through the upper floors. That left only one option—the outside. The thought of descending from the skyscraper's higher floors made his stomach churn, but hesitation was a luxury he couldn't afford.
The alchemist approached the large, shattered window cautiously and peered outside. His face went pale at the sight.
Below, the chaos of battle unfolded with grim intensity. The Reaper—clad in his ominous vestnts—was cutting down waves of the Nexus's monstrous minions with ruthless efficiency. Around him, shadowy figures dressed in black joined the fray, their movents coordinated and lethal. Though their faces were obscured, it was clear they were no ordinary rcenaries.
To the side, a woman wove through the battlefield, her figure distorted by powerful magic. But even with her form obscured, the alchemist recognized her.
"The Witch of the Night," he whispered, his voice trembling. "The Reaper is in cahoots with her…"
The realization sent a chill down his spine. If the Witch of the Night and the Reaper were allied, it explained why the Order had refused to enter the city. Their operatives had likely deed it a suicide mission—especially with what he saw next.
In the distance, barely visible through the haze of smoke and magical distortion, stood an ancient statue of a woman. To most, it might seem like an ordinary relic of bygone eras, but the alchemist knew better. He swallowed hard.
'The Witch of the Dawn,' he realized, his eyes widening.
The statue wasn't a re carving; it was the petrified form of one of history's most dreaded beings. His gaze fixated on the cracks spiderwebbing across its surface. They were faint but unmistakable, a harbinger of sothing catastrophic.
'Is that ancient witch about to break free?'
The thought alone made his legs weak. Stories of the Witch of the Dawn had been his childhood nightmares, tales told to frighten children into obedience. She was a horror so vile that even ntioning her na was considered taboo in certain circles. Her power was said to rival that of entire organizations three even, and her wrath had turned cities to ash.
The alchemist stumbled back from the window, his breathing ragged. His mind raced. Between the chaos outside, the witch trapped in stone, and the monstrous Strigoi inside, his odds of survival seed nonexistent.
He glanced at Ana, who was trading vicious blows with the massive Strigoi. Her blade-arm whirred and flashed, parrying strikes that would have split a lesser fighter in two.
'If I stay here, I'll die. If I go outside, I'll die. If the Witch of the Dawn awakens, everyone will die,' he thought grimly.
'What am I supposed to do?'
He pressed himself against the wall, trying to steady his panicked mind. His thoughts turned to his training, the countless rituals and theories he had studied in the truth association. But without his tools or mana, all that knowledge felt like sand slipping through his fingers.
Then, a faint glimr of an idea sparked. It was reckless, bordering on suicidal, but it was the only plan he had. His eyes flicked back to Ana. She was holding her own, for now, but the Strigoi was relentless. Its jagged claws struck with the force of a battering ram, and its grotesque body seed to heal faster than she could damage it.
If she fell, he'd lose his distraction.
The alchemist whispered under his breath, invoking a small incantation. It was a risky move, draining the last remnants of his magical reserves. A weak shimr of light ford in his hand before dissipating entirely. It wasn't much, but it confird his suspicion—there was still a faint magical residue in the room.
'It'll have to do,' he thought, his resolve hardening.
He reached for a broken shard of glass on the floor, using it to scratch a crude circle into the marble. His hands moved with practiced precision, though the tremors in his fingers betrayed his nerves. He inscribed runes along the edges, each one glowing faintly before dimming. The circle was far from perfect, but it might buy him the ti he needed.
The alchemist placed his hand on the circle and began to chant. His voice was low and steady, the words ancient and guttural. The air around him grew heavy, charged with a faint hum of energy. The spell was simple—a ward to deter any imdiate threats—but it was all he could muster.
Ana, still locked in combat, spared him a glance.
"What are you doing?" she called out, her voice sharp.
"Trying not to die!" he snapped back, his concentration unbroken.
The Strigoi roared, its claw slamming into the ground inches from Ana. She leapt back, her blade slicing at its arm, leaving a deep gash that quickly began to close. Her expression darkened. This fight was taking too long, and she knew it.
The alchemist finished his chant, the ward flaring to life around him. A faint barrier of light encased his body, barely visible but present. It wouldn't hold against a direct attack, but it might deter the lesser Strigoi long enough for him to escape.
"I'm leaving!" he shouted, edging toward the door. "Good luck with... whatever that is!"
"If you don't die… I'll be back to obtain you."
Ana snarled, parrying another blow. "Coward!"
The alchemist didn't respond. He bolted into the hallway, the faint hum of his ward following him like a fragile cocoon. His mind was singularly focused on escape.
Every step felt like a gamble, every shadow a potential death.
As he descended the stairwell, the sounds of battle faded behind him. But the chaos outside was worse. The Reaper's shadowy figure flashed through his mind, followed by the cracked statue of the Witch of the Dawn.
'One disaster at a ti,' he told himself, forcing his legs to move faster.
By the ti he reached the lower floors, his ward had begun to flicker. The energy was unstable, threatening to dissipate entirely. The alchemist gritted his teeth, praying to whatever force might listen that he'd find an exit before it failed.
Finally, he spotted a shattered door leading to the street. He hesitated for only a mont, then sprinted outside, his lungs burning as he gulped down the polluted air.
The battle around the Nexus gate was more intense than he had anticipated. Reaper's sword danced like a whirlwind, cutting down creatures with brutal efficiency. The figures in black flanked him, their teamwork precise and deadly.
But the alchemist's eyes were drawn to sothing else—the Nexus gate itself. The swirling vortex of energy pulsated with an unnatural rhythm, and for a brief mont, he thought he saw sothing moving within it. Sothing massive.
His blood ran cold.
'The guardian is coming.'
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