CHAPTER 85: DEATH

The fog moved to meet them.

It didn’t drift—it stalked, coiling forward with silent, predatory grace. It swirled in a wide arc around the Cohort, encircling them with terrifying intent. The moment it completed its ring, the temperature dropped. The candles lining the stone walls shivered, their flames bending backward as if trying to flee.

The group froze. Even Bruma, tall and sharp-eyed, couldn’t see past the shifting curtain.

The fog rose too high—it built into a towering wall, roiling like storm surf, cloaking the world beyond in impenetrable grey. The thick, sour-sweet stench of rotting incense burned the backs of their throats. It tasted like old blood and dreams that died screaming.

Caelgorr was gone.

No one could see him now. The beast had vanished into the fog as if devoured by it. The candles flanking the temple walls pulsed in and out of existence, flickering not with flame but fear. Lucy felt it crawl up his spine—cold, electric, primal.

"Llarm, Bruma!" Lucy barked. "Focus on dispersing the fog!"

He surged wind into existence without waiting for a reply. Llarm and Bruma responded instantly, calling forth their magic—Bruma’s deep, guttural chants thrummed in harmony with Llarm’s sharper elven syllables. Wind howled through the chamber, slicing at the mist.

But it wasn’t enough.

The fog resisted, unlike air, smoke, or even magic. It pushed back—heavy as sorrow, alive with will.

"It’s no use!" Llarm and Bruma shouted in unison, their voices strained, already half-swallowed by the gloom.

Lucy stopped. His breath came fast and sharp.

’Shit... he’s stronger here. The fog’s thicker near him, meaning we can’t push it back.’

The thought sent an acidic churn through his stomach. Not only could they not clear the fog, but they were already inside its maw. The illusions would start soon. The longer they stood in it, the more their minds would slip.

He had a defense: atomic radiation. It still churned inside him like a second heartbeat. The fog couldn’t touch what it couldn’t tolerate, but his allies weren’t immune. Firing it outward recklessly would burn them, too. For now, he’d have to hold it inside and let it leak slowly.

’Damn it.’

"Eyes up!" Lucy called, voice cutting through the heavy silence. "He’s in the fog. Don’t get distracted. The moment he comes out, hit him. He’s vulnerable."

And it was true.

Caelgorr’s phasing form had been locked into solidity. Lucy’s earlier blast had bathed him in pure radiation—now, he could be hurt. That was the first part of the plan, but the second part—Llarm and Bruma keeping the fog at bay—had failed.

Now, they were hunting a nightmare blind.

Then Lucy heard it.

Footsteps.

Heavy ones.

Not soft, or subtle, but thunderous. Like something charging through the fog behind them.

He turned fast—instinct, not thought. Everyone else spun as well, reacting to the same sound.

He began drawing in mana, focusing it not into a spell-no fire cylinder, not with his allies this close—but into his legs and arms, bracing for impact, anchoring his frame. His skin hummed.

But when he turned... There was nothing—just the backs of his team and fog. He immediately activated soulthread.

Then—

A pulse.

A weight behind him.

Lucy turned again, heart punching his ribs, faster than the rest, and there he was.

Caelgorr.

A towering monument of terror. Twenty feet of night-black muscle and writhing anatomy. His antlers scraped the ceiling. Dozens of bone-white eyes blinked open on his form—on his shoulders, stomach, arms, hands, and knees—all staring directly at Lucy.

One of Caelgorr’s many arms, rooted unnaturally from the center of his chest, was drawn back.

Lucy threw up his arm and knee, body twisting to block, channeling mana into bone and skin—without armor, he had to reinforce or die.

The impact was instant.

A CRACK like splitting granite thundered through the chamber. Lucy’s bones fractured under the force of the blow, pain lancing through his limbs.

He flew.

The fog swallowed him midair like a feast. He couldn’t breathe—the cold and caustic mist forced itself into his lungs, drowning his senses.

Then—

Impact.

His body slammed into the far temple wall. Stone shrieked. The entire chamber shuddered. Dust and pebbles rained from the high ceiling. He left an indent, stone split from the shape of his frame, before he crumpled down into the mist below.

The fog took him.

Lucy didn’t rise immediately.

His limbs were twisted at unnatural angles, bones cracked clean through, ribs trembling with every shallow breath. The Crucible of Grace burned to life in his chest, golden embers fusing shattered bone and torn muscle, but it would take a little time.

He lay still, surrounded by fog that breathed.

It slithered toward him like it had a mind, tasting and testing him. The moment it kissed his skin, it hissed, burning away in sharp curls of steam. His body radiated a subtle pulse of atomic poison, keeping it at bay, but the fog was relentless. For every thread that vanished, another came, and another.

Like hunger.

The Cohort had no such protection.

Without Lucy’s resistance anchoring them, the fog surged inward and devoured them whole. The circle was gone, and space lost all meaning. Grey pressed in from every angle while shadows twisted and re-formed.

And deep within that grey... Caelgorr lurked.

Llarm panicked first.

The elf stood frozen, trembling, eyes wide and glazed. The fog was thick as stone, and he couldn’t see more than a hand’s width before him. Every breath tasted sour, like mold and metal. Then the voices came.

They slid through the air like blades.

Screams.

Laughter.

Howls.

Whispers.

All at once, from every direction. A woman sobbing, a child giggling, and a blade being sharpened behind his ear. His skin prickled as invisible shapes moved past him, and his sharp elven eyes caught flickers of silhouettes—small, quick, skittering.

Elves.

He saw elves running through the fog.

Long hair, pointed ears, and familiar weapons in hand. They didn’t run far.

Each time, a monstrous shape emerged behind them—a giant silhouette, hulking, crowned with horns and countless eyes. Caelgorr. It pounced with impossible speed, shredding the fleeing figures into streaks of blood and ash.

"No. No, it’s not real," Llarm muttered, his voice cracking. He clutched his head, pressing his palms against his temples like he could crush the images out. "It’s not real. It’s not real!"

He surged mana into his core, letting it spiral outward. Wind roared around him in a tight circle. He launched himself into the air with practiced ease. He couldn’t disperse the fog—but flight gave him space, and a chance to gather himself. The air felt safer than the ground, where shadows had hands.

Flying was second nature. In the air, Llarm could breathe again even if every gust felt like a scream curling through his wings.

Bruma stood her ground.

Her massive form stood unmoving atop the cold grey stone—immovable, a boulder in a storm. The fog smothered her vision.

But she saw something.

The Obsidian Chronicle—the divine tome, her purpose, her obsession—burned

before her eyes. Its black pages curled with flame, and the secrets she had sacrificed half her life to uncover crumbled into ash.

The illusion was almost flawless.

Bruma didn’t flinch.

She narrowed her eyes, the firelight reflecting in their amber depths. "That’s not real," she growled. "I bled for that knowledge. You think I wouldn’t know what it smells like when it dies?"

The scent was wrong. Real burning paper had weight, smoke, and grit. This smelled like despair painted with perfume.

"Fight me, bastard," she snarled into the mist, her muscles tensing, ready to strike.

Gindu was running.

His breath came in ragged gasps. The fog stung his eyes, but every now and then he saw her.

Eri.

She was screaming.

Dragged by her legs through the mist by something unseen, her face twisted in terror. Her armor was cracked, her short sword had fallen, and she reached toward him, mouth open in a voiceless cry.

"Please!" she screamed. "Please help me!"

Gindu roared and sprinted harder. His sapphire scales glinted under the low light, and his muscles bulged as he forced speed from his body.

He was confident—arrogant, even. No wyrmling could take him down, and yet, he didn’t run from courage. He ran from love. He would not lose her, or let her die screaming, not while he breathed.

"Hold on!" he bellowed into the fog, heart pounding like war drums.

Eri wasn’t being dragged.

She stood alone in the storm of mist—the only one untouched by illusion besides Lucy.

She didn’t know why—not entirely—but she could guess. The statue of Seraphine she had touched left a mark that even Caelgorr felt.

So he feared her.

And like many warriors, fear didn’t birth retreat. It birthed violence.

Eri stood still, short sword lowered, eyes closed. Her breathing was even and calm.

Then—

Movement.

No sound or warning.

Caelgorr exploded from the fog like a spear of night. His form materialized instantly—twenty feet of nightmare, dozens of eyes flaring open, each glowing with pale moonlight.

Before she could raise her blade, one of his long, obsidian arms drove straight through her chest.

The sound was wet.

Her body jerked as the limb punched through her ribs, splitting bone and flesh with ease. Blood burst from her lips in a choking spray. Her sword clattered from limp fingers.

Caelgorr didn’t hesitate. He threw her like a discarded weapon. Her body slammed into the far wall opposite Lucy—stone cracked, blood painted the floor in a long smear.

She didn’t cry out, nor did she move.

Eri’s eyes stared blankly into the fog.

And then, she died.