Suddenly, the black surface at the bottom of the canyon boiled.

  Not liquid, but living solid.

  Noel’s eyes widened slightly, pupils adjusting to the horror crawling upward.

  Anukh-Ramj.

  They appeared not as individuals, but as a tidal wave. Thousands... no, millions of jet-black entities crawled out of the obsidian cliff walls. They moved like a spill of crude oil defying gravity, yet viewed closer through Noel’s visual binoculars, it was a mass of sharp limbs trampling each other, writhing bodies, and jaws snapping hungrily.

  Threat density: Critical, Noel thought.

  The next second, the world exploded.

  BOOM! BOOM! BOOM! BOOM!

  The ground beneath Noel’s feet shook violently, resonance traveling up his shins.

  The fire order had been given.

  He saw heavy artillery in the rear lines vomiting their contents in unison.

  Howitzer cannons and MLRS rocket launchers fired in a regular, deafening rhythm. The night sky illuminated by Ignis Magna was now augmented by flashes of artillery muzzle flash blinking rapidly like strobe lights in a hellish discotheque.

  It was not a battle; it was a lethal military parade.

  Explosion after explosion slammed into the cliff walls of Mirror Canyon. Chunks of rock and pieces of Anukh-Ramj bodies scattered into the air, creating a disgusting rain of black flesh.

  However, Noel noticed something in the firing pattern.

  They aren't shooting for total annihilation, Noel analyzed sharply. They are shooting to shape a path.

  The artillery fire created a precise wall of fire. The explosions forced the wave of climbing Anukh-Ramj to break formation.

  The creatures, driven by basic survival instinct, avoided the main blast areas. They were forced to crawl sideways, "pulling over" toward the concrete paths prepared at the lip of the abyss.

  The Gates.

  Along the canyon lip, the Carta military had built intricate concrete structures resembling giant labyrinths.

  Noel watched thousands of Anukh-Ramj flood into the mouths of those gates.

  Once inside, they were trapped in narrow "Kill Zone" corridors.

  Special extermination teams with heavy flamethrowers and large-caliber rifles waited atop the labyrinth walls, shooting the creatures trapped below like fish in a barrel.

  Efficient. Brutal. Systematic.

  However, Noel’s eyes narrowed. His focus locked onto one specific sector on the east side.

  He saw a strange flow pattern.

  While other gates received an even number, one path was getting an excessive "supply" of enemies. Artillery in that sector deliberately fired at angles herding the largest, most aggressive, and densest pack toward one giant gate mouth.

  Noel read the number printed on the concrete wall of that gate through the flare reflection.

  GATE 134.

  Noel’s memory rewound. He accessed his short-term memory files.

  Last night...

  He remembered standing in the shadow of a hangar, observing the movement of special forces—Black Ops Units in uniforms without badges.

  Last night, he saw them running herding simulations. They didn't train at Gate 1, 10, or 50.

  They focused all their elite resources on securing the path to Gate 134.

  Strange... Noel thought, eyes staring sharply at concrete labyrinth number 134 now packed with thousands of rampaging Anukh-Ramj.

  Why there?

  Why is the biggest pack "baited" to that gate?

  Noel traced the path of Gate 134’s labyrinth from a distance. The path was longer, more winding, and... darker. Spotlights in that sector seemed deliberately dimmed.

  Is there something along that labyrinth? he asked silently.

  Tactical logic said, if you face the strongest enemy, you destroy them in the open with the biggest bomb. You don't herd them into a long narrow corridor unless...

  Unless you want to feed something waiting at the end of that corridor.

  Or, unless there is another 'mechanism' at Gate 134 unrecorded in military manuals.

  Noel gripped the iron parapet tighter. He sensed a layer of strategy behind this war hidden even from the core Sanjaya family. And it centered on concrete corridor number 134.

  The massive herd continued to be forced into concrete mouths like black floodwater directed by flood canals. The military strategy was brutal yet effective: break concentration, herd, and slaughter in confined spaces.

  This was just the beginning. A doomsday overture tense enough for laymen.

  Noel stood on the border of two worlds.

  Before him, a visual of hell was displayed clearly. He watched pillars of Ignis Magna fire dance wildly, orange tongues licking the dark sky, contrasting with the stiff blue beams of giant xenon lamp towers. The lights collided, creating madly moving shadows at the valley floor.

  His ears were assaulted by the ceaseless sound of artillery explosions.

  His nose was ambushed by a nauseating smell: the scent of burnt gunpowder, mixed with a piercing metallic stench—the smell of copper blood from Anukh-Ramj creatures exploding into pieces.

  Love what you're reading? Discover and support the author on the platform they originally published on.

  The air grew colder.

  Not the cold of snow, but a cold absorbing the heat of life. The temperature dropped drastically every time a new wave crawled up from the abyss.

  Noel took a deep breath, filtering the smell of death, then...

  He turned.

  He turned his back on the magnificent yet terrifying scene. To him, the parade of explosions down there was merely statistics. Logistics of bullets and meat.

  His black eyes now focused on something leaning quietly against the stone wall of the platform, right behind where he stood earlier.

  A Long Spear.

  The object was wrapped in thick dull gray canvas cloth wound neatly from base to tip. No gold ornaments, no gems. The object looked like a piece of scrap iron forgotten by people.

  But to Noel, the object possessed a pulse.

  He stepped closer.

  The sound of his footsteps was drowned by cannon fire, but he could hear the "voice" of the spear calling him.

  Noel’s hand, encased in a tactical leather glove, extended.

  He touched the center of the cloth wrapping.

  Cold.

  A cold different from mountain air. This was the cold of ancient metal that had absorbed blood and life for centuries. Cold demanding heat.

  Noel gripped it.

  His arm muscles tensed as he lifted the weapon.

  Heavy.

  Very heavy. The density of this spear's metal defied logic for normal humans. This was not a weapon for common soldiers. It was an earth spike.

  Slowly, Noel began to undo the knot of the covering cloth at the spearhead.

  The cloth fell to the floor.

  Revealing a rough black metal blade. The surface wasn't shiny, but matte, absorbing the beacon light instead of reflecting it.

  Along the black blade, thin reddish lines were carved—like dried veins.

  Noel stared at the spearhead intently.

  He was a man who never spoke. His mouth locked tight.

  But this spear... this spear was his tongue. This spear was the only tool he had to scream, curse, and sing in the midst of this noisy world.

  You feel it too? Noel thought, finger stroking the cold blade.

  A fine vibration traveled from the spear shaft to his palm. The weapon vibrated gently, a resonance harmonious with the scream from Mirror Canyon.

  It wasn't a vibration of fear.

  It was a vibration of hunger.

  Noel spun the spear in his hand once—a flourish movement lithe yet powerful—before slamming its base onto the stone floor.

  THUD.

  The sound was small, but solid.

  He was ready.

  The welcome party with cannons down there was merely an appetizer.

  When the main course—the main dish—truly emerged later, those cannons would fall silent. And it would be his "iron tongue's" turn to speak.

  Noel looked down, eyes fixed on the small dial glowing dimly on his left wrist.

  [ 20 - 11 ]

  The numbers blinked silently in the darkness.

  His lips moved soundlessly, performing the mathematical calculation he hated most in his life.

  "Not long now..." he whispered, his voice instantly muffled by the roar of the wind.

  Countdown to the first opening of the Dark Gate. Time ran too fast, as if sand in the hourglass was leaking.

  Noel stood frozen at the edge of the guardrail. He felt the bone-piercing night wind slam his body mercilessly at the height of this open platform.

  His straight hair, usually falling neatly, now blew randomly, slapping his ears and forehead. He didn't bother brushing it aside. He let the cold freeze the skin of his face, the only way to ensure he was still conscious and not in a nightmare.

  He always remained in this same spot. At the highest point, in isolation he chose himself.

  He was alone.

  The silence around him felt alien.

  They are all gone... he thought.

  All core members of his family had returned to the Old Mansion. They retreated to the ancestral fortress to prepare defense rituals, leaving Noel as the only eye remaining on this tower's front line.

  Noel raised his head, staring at the sole light source dominating his view.

  Ignis Magna Beacon.

  The eternal flame, pride of his family.

  Tonight, the giant fire burned strangely. Its tongues didn't lick the sky, but danced slowly, trembling gently like ordinary fire burning in household hearths. So calm. So tame. As if it weren't holy fire, merely a scout bonfire.

  Noel stared at it gently.

  This calm was deceptive.

  His eyes still recorded clearly the event a few nights ago. When the sky split and the shadow of a Shade Walker appeared, this Ignis Magna Beacon raged. The fire exploded wildly, its color changing from orange to blinding white, roaring as if wanting to break free from its cauldron to hunt the darkness.

  "Now you pretend to sleep, huh?" Noel thought at the fire.

  "You forget your anger that easily?"

  Thum...

  Suddenly, Noel felt the stone floor beneath his boots vibrate.

  The vibration was subtle at first, then increased into a low rhythmic thud. Thum... pause... Thum...

  To a layman, this might feel like a micro-earthquake or structural damage to the tower. But Noel wasn't worried. His heartbeat didn't jump a bit. Nothing to fear from this sound.

  This was a rhythm he knew by heart since he was crawling.

  He recognized the pressure—massive weight landing with precision. He recognized the pause between presses—wide and powerful strides. A specific constant rhythm, unshakable, like a metronome of approaching death.

  It was the sound of his father’s footsteps. Maronn Sanjaya.

  Noel turned slowly, against the wind.

  Sure enough. The spiral staircase access door at the end of the platform opened.

  His father’s figure just became fully visible as he finished the last step and set foot on the observation deck.

  Noel stared at his father.

  Even under the dim light of the calm Ignis Magna, Maronn Sanjaya’s presence felt suffocating. He didn't look like an ordinary human; he looked like a natural disaster compressed into humanoid form.

  Maronn stood towering, the cold wind that had slapped Noel seemingly afraid to touch his skin. He wore a simple black shirt, yet the garment looked to be suffering, stretching to its maximum limit at every seam, struggling to contain the explosion of muscle beneath.

  His neck was not a neck, but a thick pillar of muscle merging directly with trapezius shoulders rising like mountains behind his ears. Blood veins on his arms bulged out like angry giant earthworms, pulsing under skin that looked as thick as rhinoceros hide.

  His jaw was square, hard as granite, and above it a pair of predator eyes stared sharply, radiating an aura of pure intimidation that could make even wild beasts kneel. His wild dark red hair moved slowly, as if charged with static electricity from his own raw power.

  His father stood there—The Monster of Clan Sanjaya.

  Noel saw his father cross his arms. That simple movement looked like a threat to the integrity of his clothes. Noel saw threads on the black shirt strain violently, the fabric increasingly—suffering—pulled by biceps and chest expanding unnaturally.

  Maronn didn't speak. He just smiled.

  His lips pulled wide, baring rows of solid, neat white teeth. It wasn't the friendly smile of a father visiting his son. It was the grin of a beast that had just found interesting prey. The aura radiating from that smile was so sharp, as if he were ready to tear the throat of anyone—even a ghost—daring to appear behind his back.

  However, Noel’s attention was diverted. He just stood silent, eyes fixed above his father’s head.

  He was still baffled. His father’s long red hair... was strange.

  The hair didn't follow the wind direction. The coarse strands stood straight, writhing slowly as if possessing their own life. Moving sinuously like octopus tentacles foraging in empty air, charged with visible static energy.

  Noel exhaled slowly. He raised both hands. His fingers began moving nimbly, forming a series of precise hand signs.

  His finger movements asked with thick sarcasm:

  Noel pointed at his father, twirled a finger in the air as if demonstrating a cheap spell, then raised both hands to the sides of his head while wriggling ten fingers in waves with a disgusted expression to mimic writhing octopus tentacles.

  [ Did Father just learn a new magic? Hair charm magic? Why is it wriggling disgustingly like octopus tentacles? ]

  Silence...

  The insolent question hung in the air. Maronn didn't answer, his smile didn't fade a bit, eyes still staring straight.

  Instead, nature answered.

  Whoosh!

  The night wind suddenly blew far harder, slamming Noel’s face brutally.

  The wind slapped him.

  Forcing Noel to squint. His own straight hair was instantly thrown into chaos, combed forcibly back revealing his entire forehead, while his father’s hair—tentacles—kept dancing arrogantly, untouched by the wind in the slightest.

  Noel lowered his hands from the—tentacle—pose earlier, then calmly turned his body, turning his back on his father who was still grinning wide. He looked at Sergeant James standing straight and stiff a few steps away—the poor soldier looked to be sweating cold just being in the same area as Maronn.

  Noel raised his hands again to give a brief instruction.

  Noel directed an open palm toward his father (subject signal), then moved his hand downward with a flat palm as if pressing a low seat surface. Then, he spread both arms wide in front of his chest ('big' or 'massive' signal), before pointing at the floor beside him with two fingers stomping strong.

  Meaning:

  [ Bring a large chair for my father. Place it here. ]