CHAPTER 199: DEATH SENTENCE

They were approaching the surface.

The tunnel sloped upward gently, almost imperceptibly, but their breaths grew shorter—less from fatigue than instinct. A different scent filtered through the cracked grates: not quite fresh air, no, but something less stagnant, a hint of moss, of dead leaves... the faint promise of the green zone.

Julius, at the front, had frozen before a drainage mouth eaten away by time. He carefully pried aside the twisted plates, his movements unhurried. Outside, the light was green and dirty, filtered through the dried foliage of the park.

They emerged one by one, like heavy memories refusing to stay buried. Dylan came out last, still wrapped in his blanket like a second skin, his gaze wary. The park stretched before them, dreary, petrified. The towering stone figures loomed in the morning mist like paused specters.

No one in sight. At least, not yet.

The three soldiers instinctively formed a half-circle around Julius. One of those reflexes forged in old campaigns, moonless nights, and poorly given orders. That kind of thing doesn’t fade. They were still here—and that was already a miracle.

"We’ll cover you to the north wall," said the youngest, a guy with a crooked nose and battered armor. He spoke without emotion, but his eyes kept darting between Dylan and the sky, as if expecting betrayal to come from the clouds. "After that, we turn back."

Julius nodded. He said nothing. No need. These men had never needed speeches.

They moved at a brisk but unhurried pace. Dylan could feel the underlying unease in his bones: this wasn’t a victory, not yet. At any second, they could run into a patrol, a sentry, a misplaced arrow. Even the statues seemed intent on holding them back. There was something threatening in their frozen poses, a melancholic warning, as if they knew every escape was just a detour to another cage.

Finally, they reached the wall. An old breach had been disguised under foliage, and one of the soldiers shoved it aside with his shoulder. The light here was sharper, almost harsh. On the other side lay a discreet ravine, then nature reclaimed by brambles, ruins, and chance.

And beyond that, the real exit.

Julius turned. A suspended moment.

He placed a hand on the oldest soldier’s shoulder. The gesture was simple, but it trembled slightly.

"Thank you."

Not another word.

One of them chuckled. "You always had a talent for pulling off stupid shit with style."

Then they parted.

The three soldiers remained sheltered by the breach, backs to the wall, weapons ready, as if they could still delay the inevitable. Julius was the first to dash forward. Dylan followed, his throat tight, his heart pounding in his temples.

Only after several dozen meters did he glance back, just for a second. The three silhouettes were still there, frozen like the park’s statues. Then they vanished behind the greenery.

They wouldn’t see them again.

But they were out.

Now that they were outside the city, it wasn’t silence that followed them—it was the sound of serious things.

No more walls. No more alleys to disappear into. Just the bare horizon, rough, bristling with thorns and stones. And them, two all-too-human silhouettes, all-too-visible, with two stolen swords, aching legs, and a vague idea of where to go. Julius led the way, wordless, his gaze slightly askew, as if he could see through the forest. Dylan, meanwhile, moved without faltering. His body had finished healing. No more dried blood on his palms. No more dizziness. He breathed easier. Too easy, even—sometimes that was a bad sign.

The calm here felt like a trap.

They walked for a good minute before Dylan broke the silence:

"Where exactly are we supposed to go?"

Julius didn’t slow.

"Far enough that they forget us. We need to avoid known areas for now—otherwise, it’d be too suspicious."

Not the answer he’d hoped for. Dylan grimaced, fingers tightening around the hilt of his weapon. It felt too light, too clean. He’d seen Julius wield these kinds of toys with absurd ease—but to him, it was still just a stick with bad intentions.

The forest grew denser. Slick moss carpeted the roots, and the sun, already high, barely filtered through. It reeked of sap and old metal.

And it was still too quiet.

Too much so.

Julius raised a sudden hand. Dylan stopped short, breath catching. Ahead of them, a sharp sound cut the air. Almost a sigh. Then, two seconds later, came the click.

...a click that promised nothing good. One that resonated like the snap of a breaking bone.

Julius dove without a sound, dragging Dylan with him. An arrow quivered where his head had been a second earlier, buried in a rotting trunk.

It was too quiet...

And finally, the illusion shattered.

Figures emerged from the undergrowth, eerily synchronized. Soldiers in city guard uniforms. Ordinary, but their numbers alone were a threat.

But the worst were the Awakened.

They weren’t many, but their armor seemed fused to their flesh, veined with glowing ridges. One had fingers elongated into bone blades. Another, eyes replaced by cracked, hissing gems.

"Death net..." Julius muttered, his sword already in a low guard. "They’ve brought out the big guns."

Dylan drew his own blade, the weight unfamiliar in his newly healed palm. His body was intact, but his reflexes were rusty. The core nestled beneath his ribcage pulsed, almost burning.

All around, they heard the click of crossbows being readied, the sound like a call to danger.

The Awakened advanced in concentric circles, unnervingly silent. Their steps didn’t crush twigs. Their breaths didn’t rustle leaves. Only the crackle of the gems pierced the quiet.

"Back to back!" Julius barked.

The first blades fell. Dylan parried a strike that nearly tore the sword from his grip. The shock jolted up his arm.

"These freaks aren’t human," he spat, his voice weaker than the clang of steel.

The strength behind the blows was monstrous. He pivoted, barely dodging a claw swipe that shredded his coat. The scent of blood—his own, this time—stung his nostrils.

Julius, meanwhile, was a whirlwind of precision. His sword sliced through the living armor’s weak points, seeking the fragile flesh beneath. One Awakened collapsed, throat slit without a sound. But there were too many. Always more.

Suddenly, a hoarse laugh split the air:

"If someone had told me the fisherman would one day be the target of the net, I’d have laughed..."

A man stepped out from behind enemy lines. Not quite an Awakened. A captain, his insignia torn but his face familiar to Julius, judging by his expression.

Raymond, a former subordinate of Julius. His right arm was amputated, the sleeve folded to hide the useless stump.

"Ray..." Julius blocked a war axe that nearly split him in two. "Kneeling for the Marshal’s toys now?"

"It’s that or rot in a cell, Captain." Raymond raised his cannon-arm. "Like your three lackeys."

Rage flashed in Julius’s eyes. A crack in his composure. And Raymond smiled.

Suddenly, an explosion—not of fire, but of violent magnetic pulses—warped the air itself.

Pain erupted in Dylan’s skull. His essence screamed beneath his skin, drawn toward the violet energy. His knees hit the ground. The sword slipped from his grasp. The trees swayed. The Awakened seemed to multiply.

"Dylan!" Julius’s voice was muffled, distant.

Raymond aimed his cannon at the fallen young man. "Pilaf wants his gem. The rest..." His grin widened. "Is scrap."

Violet light enveloped Dylan. His vision whitened. He felt his bones vibrate, as if his very essence was trying to tear through his flesh to escape—

Then instinct took over.

Not reason. Not training. Just raw survival.

His hand closed around the sword fallen in the moss. Without thinking, he hurled it with all his strength—not at Raymond, but at the magnetic cannon.

A sharp CLICK.

This time, not from the trigger. But from the blade shattering against the glowing appendage.

But it was enough.

The impact threw off the shot. A burst of energy veered into the trees, carving a furrow of violet flames through bark and trunks.

An inhuman shriek tore through the foliage, as if the forest itself protested. Raymond staggered back, his cannon smoking, its circuits flickering.

Julius seized the moment.

He lunged, his sword carving a diagonal arc. The blow shattered an Awakened’s shoulder as it tried to flank him. Bone splintered, a choked cry lost in the chaos. Julius was already pivoting. A second, then a third attacker fell, limbs severed.

"Get up, Dylan!"

But Dylan was fighting against a muffled world. Everything swayed. The pain wasn’t localized anymore—it had fused with him. And yet, his trembling fingers groped through the moss, still searching for the lost weapon.

There was only his empty hand. And around him, the clamor. The blood.

"We’re breaking off!" one of Julius’s soldiers—a tall, wild-haired man—shouted as he slashed through the enemy’s rear guard.

One of theirs—the youngest—had already fallen. A spear in his side, eyes vacant. No time to mourn.

Raymond screamed:

"Don’t let them escape! Bring back their corpses! Kill them—kill them all!"