CHAPTER 59: CHAPTER 59 — BREAKING POINTS

The sky boiled.

The sky screamed.

And then it split open.

Bright didn’t see the individual crawlers anymore—only the sheer mass of bone and malice plunging from above like a corrupted avalanche. Baggen’s hammer cracked another skull, Estovia’s fire spiraled into blinding arcs, and Bright himself carved through the chaos with an efficiency that bordered on instinct. But even he—especially he—could feel it.

They were losing.

Not later.

Not eventually.

Now.

The swarm was too large.

Too synchronized.

Too hungry.

And somewhere beneath the thunder of wings and bone, Bright felt something colder than fear:

The certainty that someone out there—some surviving fledgling—would never understand why their protectors never came back.

He swung again, blade cracking through bone, breath ragged as the swarm closed tighter.

But while Bright fought for survival...

Somewhere far behind the battle line—

A different struggle unfolded.

Silas moved like a whisper between heartbeats.

Not fast—merely absent.

The battlefield would look one way, then blink, and suddenly he wasn’t where he had been. Crawlers snapped at where he once stood, mandibles clashing on empty air. He reappeared behind one, plunging a thin, jagged dagger into the socket beneath its skull-plate before fading back into the shadows.

Every kill was clean.

Low risk.

High return.

Exactly the way he preferred.

He wasn’t as powerful as Baggen, or Estovia—not yet—but he understood something the others didn’t:

Chaos was a ladder.

And Silas was very, very good at climbing.

He lingered on the outskirts of the battlefield, waiting for wounded crawlers, distracted crawlers, isolated crawlers—anything that allowed him to end a life without risking his own.

Every time his blade sank into bone, he felt that invisible rush inside him—his soul-core accepting the experience, refining itself. Growing.

They will never know, he thought, moving through the dust as smoothly as smoke.

And if they do, they’ll be too dead to complain.

He disappeared again—vanishing just as a Bone Crawler’s tail-blade tore through the space he’d occupied.

Silas didn’t flinch.

He didn’t need to.

He focused on the next opportunity.

The deeper halls of the southern outpost trembled as crawlers poured through the broken vents and shattered corridors. Rhys stood shoulder-to-shoulder with Verrick and some other nobles from the logistical high committee —all armored, all trained, all terrified beneath their rigid posture.

But Rhys was different.

His breathing was shallow but precise. His hands steady. His senses razor-sharp.

Because he wasn’t looking at the creatures.

He was listening.

The world hummed under his boots—vibrations through stone, through metal, through dust. Rhys’ Earth Pulse mapped every tremor with terrifying clarity, painting a second world inside his mind:

steps,

heartbeats,

shifting weights,

blood rushing faster in a terrified soldier,

wings scraping along vents,

mandibles vibrating as crawlers prepared to leap.

And his Soul Talent—Micro—let him focus on any detail, any fragment, any pulse, down to its smallest truth. It let him isolate a single heartbeat inside a room of twenty. It let him tell if someone flinched because they were lying, or because they feared death.

An ability suited for the slimy hands of the senate.

Now he used it for something simpler:

Staying alive.

Verrick’s voice snapped the tension.

"Positions! Archer behind! Shield forward!"

One of the nobles—lifted his enchanted halberd. His hands shook.

"Do we know how many more are coming?" he asked.

Rhys answered without hesitation.

"Thirty-seven. Two are burrowers. One is... bigger than the others."

Bright wasn’t the only capable scout in the north,

"How do you—" the noble began.

But the wall behind them ruptured before he finished.

Bone Crawlers poured through the fissured stone like a living tide.

The noble with the halberd swung too slow.

The crawler struck too fast.

It hit him in the chest, mandibles clamping down. He screamed—eyes wide, disbelief raw—before his armor buckled like wet cloth. Blood sprayed against the wall.

Verrick roared and brought his axe down, cleaving the crawler in half before it swallowed the man entirely.

Rhys didn’t look away.

Some part of him hadn’t even been surprised.

He had heard the man’s heartbeat moments before—stuttering, weak, unfocused.

A person already half-dead.

Earth Pulse didn’t lie.

He’d grown familiar with the youth over the past months, yet familiarity offered no weight. The day wasn’t done, and the dead were far from finished.

Another noble lady shouted, "We can hold them! Just stay tight!"

Lie.

Rhys heard the spike in his heartbeat.

He heard the tremor in his stance.

He heard the tiny, near-silent intake of breath that meant fear, not confidence.

"Don’t rely on him," Rhys said flatly, pointing without looking.

The noble spun. "What—?!"

The crawler leapt.

Rhys’ warning saved the noble’s life. A spear he picked up mid battle stopped the creature mid-air.

But only for a second.

A second crawler ripped the noble’s leg off from behind.

"Fall back!" Verrick yelled.

But Rhys shook his head.

"No. The back corridor’s fared to collapse. I can feel the rebar strain."

"How the hell—"

"Just trust me," Rhys said.

Verrick did.

The others hesitated.

That hesitation cost some more lives.

"Below!" Rhys snapped.

The ground split. A Burrower burst upward, jaws snapping like a steel trap. It caught one noble at the waist and dragged him screaming into the dark earth.

Verrick charged, but Rhys grabbed his arm.

"He’s dead. Focus on the big one coming from the left."

"What big—"

The wall blew inward.

A massive crawler—easily three times the size of the others—charged through the dust. Its ribs were plated with layered bone like overlapping shields. Its mandibles glowed faintly, as if something inside burned.

Verrick whispered, "What is that?"

Rhys focused. Earth Pulse narrowed to the monster’s core, reading the patterns of vibration from its plated chest.

"A Shepherd’s lieutenant," he said quietly.

The nobles paled.

Even Verrick shifted uneasily.

The creature shrieked and barreled toward them.

"Scatter!" Verrick roared.

But Rhys didn’t move.

He placed both palms on the floor.

He inhaled.

Then he listened.

The crawler’s weight...

Its speed...

The rhythm of its legs...

The angle of its leap...

The tiny crack in its left rib where the bone had regrown incorrectly...

Every detail lined up in Rhys’ mind with terrifying clarity.

As his second core ability worked the backend job in this fight.

"Verrick! Hit the left rib-plate on your second strike!"

"What—"

"DO IT!"

The lieutenant lunged.

Verrick charged to meet it.

And for a moment, the world was only impact—bone and flesh clashing in violent storm.

Verrick struck once. The blow barely slowed the monster.

The second blow—guided by Rhys’ whisper—hit the exact fracture line.

The rib-plate shattered like brittle glass.

The creature shrieked and crashed sideways into the wall.

Rhys finished it by driving a spear through the exposed gap.

Its body twitched once.

Then fell still.

Silence followed.

A heavy silence.

Until Verrick spoke.

"You really can see the world differently."

Rhys didn’t answer.

Taking down the stronger crawler had almost felt effortless, but the rest were on their way, and he didn’t have another reverse scale to bail him out.

Another tremor.

Then another.

"More incoming," Rhys muttered.

"How many?" Verrick asked, tightening his grip.

"...All of them."

Verrick swore.

The survivors gathered around him—only three nobles left, pale and blood-splattered, their confidence shattered.

"Retreat!" Verrick ordered. "Now!"

But as they made for the inner corridor—

A skittering echo rippled through the metal.

Rhys froze.

"Stop."

"Why?" Verrick demanded.

"They’re ahead too."

"Then where—"

Rhys pointed upward.

The ceiling cracked.

Bone Crawlers spilled through in a rain of broken concrete and splinters.

The nobles screamed.

Verrick roared.

Rhys moved.

He wasn’t much of a frontline fighter. Even so, he bore the Cavendish name, and that alone demanded he stand his ground.

He dodged a leaping crawler by inches.

He used another’s momentum to flip it into a ruptured pipe.

He kicked a third aside and stabbed its thorax precisely where its vibration weakened before attack.

But precision had limits.

A crawler clipped his shoulder, tearing armor.

Another struck his knee, dragging him down momentarily.

He gasped—breath breaking for the first time.

Still he fought.

One noble woman—Serene Acaeron—fought valiantly. Her wind blade lit the hallway with the carnage it conjured. Her lineage was powerful, her control precise.

But her arrogance was fatal.

She broke formation for a high-value kill. It was a stupid act, especially now. And a hulking monstrosity was waiting to make her pay for it.

A Bone Crawler landed behind her.

Rhys felt her heartbeat spike.

He turned too late.

Her scream cut through the hallway as the crawler tore her spine open.

Rhys’ pulse tightened.

"Serene—!"

But she was gone before her body hit the floor.

Verrick killed the creature in a rage,her prowess was needed a lot in holding the monsters back, but now it didn’t matter.

The people were dying.

And the nobles were dying all the same.

But the wave remained never ending.

Silas watched from a high vent as his companions died one by one.

His expression didn’t change.

He didn’t rush to help.

Didn’t shout a warning.

Didn’t join the formation.

He simply crouched there, expression calm, as Rhys drove a spear through a crawler’s skull with surgical precision.

Silas’ eyes narrowed thoughtfully.

"Impressive," he whispered. "But you’re burning out."

And burned-out teammates meant opportunities.

He slithered down silently.

Found an isolated crawler tearing at the remains of a noble.

Silas killed it quickly.

Effortlessly.

Then faded again before Rhys or Verrick even noticed.

Another crawler.

Another kill.

Another pulse of strength surging through him.

He moved like a ghost through their blind spots.

A thief of life.

A collector of strength.

And no one could call him out—not when everyone was struggling to survive.

Silas almost smiled.