CHAPTER 48: CHAPTER 48 — THE QUIET AFTER THE STORM

The fires in Grim Hollow sputtered low now, dying into smoldering lines across the cracked dirt. The sky above was a washed-out grey, smeared with smoke trails that still drifted like ghosts. The outpost looked as if a titan had seized it by the edges and shaken it until everything inside rattled loose.

The aftermath always revealed the truth of a battlefield.

The dead stayed still.

The living pretended they were fine.

And the broken—stood somewhere in between.

Atheon—HoursEarlier

Captain Atheon wiped blood from the edge of his gauntlet with a motion so clean it bordered on ritualistic. His elite squad—eight men and women trained to operate where most units died—stood behind him, breathing hard but unbowed.

The trap had sprung the moment they entered the canyon pass. A shroud breakage spot, where crawlers had leaked out from their dark dimension.

Ink sigils hidden beneath dust.

Covenant infiltrators lying dead-still in false burial pits.

A detonated fear-crawler husk chained to a proximity rune.

A textbook massacre attempt.

For any other squad.

Atheon only cracked his neck and muttered,

"Sloppy."

The Covenant emerged from the canyon walls like shadows peeling off stone. Dozens. More than the intelligence brief predicted. Their eyes glowed with the same ink-laced madness seen in every covert report.

Atheon stepped forward.

"Burn them," he said.

And his squad obeyed.

The fight lasted three minutes.

Three violent, concussive, reality-bending minutes.

Atheon moved like a man sculpted from iron and heat,his core abilities working in tandem, producing explosive force. Every punch detonated shockwaves through the canyon. Every movement drove Covenant members into stone hard enough to shatter their bones on impact.

His elites fought with equal brutality:

First lieutenant Maren, a staunch support in the good he’s trying to build in the republic’s army and his pursuit of influence at court.

—A marksman whose bullets curved midair with wind whispers.

—A melee fighter who hardened his skin into obsidian plates.

—A medic whose healing pulses ignited when near corruption.

They tore through the ambush like wolves through weakened prey.

One by one, the Covenant cultists fell, screaming half-prayers of the Great One as their corrupted bodies snapped or burned.

Then silence.

Atheon stood over the last surviving cultist, a man desperate enough to crawl backward even with a broken leg.

"Y-you don’t understand," the man hissed. "The Great One rises. You can’t stop him. You’re too late."

Atheon grabbed him by the throat.

"Too late for what?"

The cultist only smiled, ink bubbling from cracked lips.

"Grim Hollow."

Atheon crushed his windpipe.

He didn’t waste another second.

Silas — PresentTime

Silas extended his trembling hand toward the shard embedded in his own sleeve. Even the slight movement hurt—his ribs felt like splintering logs—but his eyes still sharpened with the hunger of someone sensing the edge of change.

Initiate rank.

He had been pacing its threshold for months.

Pushing. Grinding. Failing.

The Tier 2 Shroud incident had cracked something open inside him.

But tonight—

Tonight utterly tore the barrier apart.

Bodies lay across Grim Hollow. Covenant corpses twisted in unnatural shapes. Barricades reduced to scrap. Sections of the grain tower still smoking.

Silas had fought alongside Adam.

And they had barely survived.

He clenched his fist.

"I’m done being behind."

Adam stepped beside him, rifle tip dragging in the dirt. "You’re shaking."

"I know."

"From what I can tell you either need to take a piss or your breaking through. So am I right?"

Silas didn’t say a thing. He couldn’t be bothered to associate with Adam once the battle was done.Their team-up was of convenience and it’s time had elapsed.

Adam reading Silas behavior from his facial expressions using his ability opted to let the brooding mare rest.

But he couldn’t disengage for one second before the mare spasmed from pain.

Silas snorted and reined in the discomfort. The agony was a reflection of his improvement in staying alive in this world and his self-seeking nature applauded that.

Adam approached, breathing hard, his knuckles cracked from fighting cult remnants near the storage sheds.

"Don’t do it now," Adam warned. "Not in this state. You don’t rush a breakthrough just because you feel one."

Silas’s eyes drifted toward the central street.

His jaw tightened. "It’s not about rushing. It’s about being ready. We weren’t tonight."

Adam exhaled slowly. "You’re not wrong."

"I’m not letting that lucky fool be the only initiate among us anymore," Silas said, voice low. "Not after tonight."

Bright — At the Medical Bay Entrance

The lantern light cast a pale glow across Hailen’s stretcher as the medics rushed him inside.

Bright followed them almost blindly.

His thoughts were a storm.

Larkin’s body.

The cores in his pocket.

The way the fight twisted him into something he didn’t fully recognize.

He stopped at the medical bay door.

A nurse blocked his path. "Only authorized personnel."

"I’m his student."

"And he’s dying," she replied sharply. "Let us work."

She shut the door.

Bright just stood there, fists trembling.

Healers were a very rare talent to sight, especially in the outpost, Bessia being one of them, although she could only heal herself at the moment. The medical equipments were top notch. Central didn’t give a fuck if you died in battle but they sure as hell would like to keep the goose that keeps on laying fit.

Fen limped up beside him, holding his ribs. "They’ll stabilize him. They have to."

"They couldn’t stabilize the last one," Lira said quietly.

Juno flinched.

The cult’s ink was an insidious and malignant pestilence, and the medics were used to the corruption from crawlers which were cured by their miraculous serums. So it was hard to say, which path the coin would land on hailen’s life.

Mara held her arms tightly as if shielding herself from a cold only she could feel. "Private ... what did he say to you?"

He didn’t answer.

Couldn’t.

Hailen’s words echoed inside him like heavy stones sinking in dark water:

"Grow faster... before the world collapses."

Bright turned away from the door. His face showed nothing. But inside—an ocean raged.

Rolf lumbered up, shoulder bandaged. "We should check on supplies. Make sure more umbrae’s aren’t hiding."

Bright nodded automatically.

But his mind wasn’t on supplies.

It was on the three cores pressed against his chest.

A forbidden gift.

A dangerous choice.

A path he shouldn’t take but couldn’t ignore.

He didn’t know whether there were any adverse effects of taking the cores from a human.

But looking at the state of things in the outpost,he steadied his mind.

his squad—his people—

would die the next time if he didn’t act.

And if they died, it’s sure as hell would be him next. He couldn’t let his buffers between him and the crawlers be weak to the point of dragging him down.

AtheonEnters Grim Hollow

The outpost gates swung open with metallic groans.

Atheon walked through with the weight of a storm in his stride. His armor was scorched, cracked at the joints, splattered with dried ink—but his eyes were razor sharp.

He scanned the ruined outpost once before ordering:

"Fan out. Secure the perimeter. No survivors from that accursed group should remain. If one breathes—finish it."

His voice rumbled like a delayed thunderclap.

The surviving guards straightened reflexively as if oxygen suddenly returned to the air.

Atheon spotted Bright’s team near the medical bay.

Then saw Bright.

And stopped.

The young private looked exhausted, but his posture...

There was something different.

Something harder.

Something carved by the battle itself.

Atheon stepped toward him.

Bright stiffened.

"Private Morgan," Atheon said.

"Captain."

"Looks like you did a good job while I was away, Larkin was it?"

Bright nodded silently.

Atheon studied him for a moment longer than necessary.

"You did well tonight."

Bright blinked.

Atheon didn’t give praise lightly.

Atheon turned to leave but paused.

"Bright."

He looked back again.

"You’ve proved you worth the name you carry, do not let the night stain your spirit."

The captain’s gaze lowered—just for a flicker—to Bright’s chest.

To where the cores were hidden.

"You’ll face choices soon. Dangerous ones. Make the ones you can live with."

And then he walked away.

Leaving Bright frozen in place—

because Atheon knew.

Not what Bright carried, but the burden he felt holding onto it.

Silas — Final POV

Silas was envious of bright since the day he heard about his promotion and his advancement.

He saw the weight in the boy’s shoulders as he carried out orders akin to a key to its lock.

There was tension in his jaw.

Still he kept one hand near his chest unconsciously.

He inhaled sharply as warmth surged through his limbs again, like fire crackling beneath his skin.

The breakthrough pressed harder.

Adam noticed. "Sit."

Silas obeyed unexpectedly , dropping onto a broken crate as his vision blurred with a haze of energy.

He thought to himself. "Breathe. Breakthroughs aren’t pain. They’re transition."

Adam folded his arms. " if you pass out, I’m dragging your sorry ass to the medic myself. You, crippled would be an interesting development."

Silas barely heard him.

His mind was caught between two images—

His current circumstances

and the future he refused to lose.

He clenched his teeth.

"Tomorrow," he whispered.

Adam raised a brow. "What about tomorrow?"

Silas opened his eyes—now sharp, burning with resolve.

"I advance tomorrow."

And somewhere across the outpost—

Bright whispered the same words.

But for very different reasons.