Chapter 60: Caesar

Chapter 60: Caesar

“Correus, meanwhile, was far from crushed by this disaster, and could not be persuaded to leave battle or take refuge in the woods, nor to take up the opportunity of surrender which we were offering. Rather, he fought with great courage and wounded many, thus provoking the anger of his conquerors and forcing them to cast their weapons against him.

Such was the character of fighting...”

- Julius Caesar, The Gallic War (Unknown, 1st Era)

With monsters nipping at their heels, the expedition marched full-paced into the night. Boldwick led the flight, constantly checking his compass as they moved, trying to calculate their bearing. Setting up long-range communication on the run wasn’t feasible. Their only option was to try to intersect the last known coordinates of their relief.

They’d out-sped the stone creatures, yet two different sets of monsters still chased them. As was typical with monsters from a Rift, their appearances tended to fit together. It was uncanny in a way, like how one could tell that a human and a squirrel came from the same place, an instinctual identification. Their different worlds lent to vastly different appearances. Yet this coordination between monsters was unheard of.

As was their commonality in their silence, no howls, no whines, no growling; they moved with a haunting quiet as they attacked.

The Renders were the biggest threats—running on four legs, their veiny skin laced in a network of wires and pointed blades jabbing free from their back.

They were the fastest, and that speed was deadly.

When a pack of them approached, a Knight broke off to fend off the terrors.

But it was a careful act. The awful things had to be slaughtered quickly, or more packs would join the fray. If a Knight got overwhelmed, they’d get dragged into fighting with more Monsters—until they met their demise.

One by one, sacrifice by sacrifice, a handful of Knights went out this way to cover their retreat. Tearing into the main host of enemies to lag them behind just a bit longer.

Heroes. Or corpses.

In the moment, it was hard to make that call.The debut release of this chapter happened at Ñòv€l-B1n.

One of the Master Knights maintained a position on the flank—and for his part, held it up fine; as the night wore on and more miles flew under their feet, reality sank in.

These things would never give up. There was no retreat, as they’d never grow bored. It wouldn’t stop until they left every last human here rotting on the wasteland, or they’d killed each one of these terrors.

Erec pressed ahead with Colin limping next to him; the boy’s leg degraded further as they went. The two maintained a position in the middle of the pack, despite the injuries and malfunctioning Armor. Whenever Colin’s servos acted up too heavily, Erec would yank him along.

The packs they’d started with were long since tossed to the ground; this necessary and rash plan was so far working in minimizing casualties.

Due to their flight, they kept ahead of the host of monsters, limited the skirmishing, and widened a gap before the main host of enemies would crash against them.

But the good news ended there.

As the night stretched, the frustration, exhaustion, and morale loss took their toll. They moved slower. The Render attacks grew more frequent as the fast-moving creatures caught up.

“Keep going,” Erec yelled to Colin as his friend’s leg sparked and spasmed.

“Dammit, all!” Colin screamed, dragging the metal and leaving a gouged-out streak of dirt. “This is it; it’s gone!”

Erec paused as Knights rushed by; he took in as much air as possible while examining the sparking limb. The damage without a proper patch job was too much. After all the running, it must’ve reached a critical failure point. There was only one option.

[Well done, intern, you’ve diagnosed its state without me running an assessment!]

Glad you agree. If nothing else, it made his next demand easier to voice. “Abandon your Armor.”

“What?!” Colin asked, fear in his voice. “Do you know how much my father paid—“

Healthy Knights, like Garin and Olivia, got yanked away to construct fortifications for the coming battle.

Those wounded and without Armor—like Erec and Colin, were tasked with managing supply lines and assisting the injured. A backline position.

But, Erec supposed it to be prudent.

In short order, his hands were full. He provided aid to the injury tents, taking orders from the priests as they scrambled to stabilize the newly wounded, and helped gather supplies for those moved during the travel.

The priests divided the tents unevenly. With most of the priests smashed together in the largest one. Within its linen walls, blood flew, and they worked to close dire wounds and perform emergency surgery to stabilize Knights. Most healing prayers required the recipient to be stable so they could withstand the increased pain.

If they weren’t, they risked falling into shock. And if healed improperly, there was a chance of causing disability.

He drifted between tents, hauling water, food, and medicine, and marveled at the difference of this world. How even here, chaos dominated, and people died. This was a different fight, yet he found peace in the task. He could help people.

Erec paused at the back of one of the most stable tents, watching a priest softly chant over a stilled Knight. Everyone here was going to be fine, and live, thanks to the healing and the efforts of those to haul them across the wasteland.

As much as his mind told him this was good, that he was doing good. It felt wrong.

He was away from the fighting.

Garin and Olivia risked their lives to build defenses somewhere near that wall. Here he was, wounded, sure, but in fine enough shape to provide more direct support. Every second here stabbed at his nerves—every time that priest asked him to get more bandages—it was annoying.

[Quit using Fury, there’s no reason to anymore.]

Erec exhaled.

Sure enough, the fire was burning inside. Low and smoldering. He hadn’t even realized he’d started to pull from it again. Erec smothered it out, his shoulder drooping as the pain sank back in.

I’m losing it.

Alister groaned on the ground, shuffling to look at Erec and give him a sloppy grin as he returned with a pack of rations. “Aw, shucks. Getting my meals delivered to me by my junior. Way it’s supposed to be.” He shifted, leaning up.

The priest tended to a man in the corner; they'd stuffed this tent with those transported from Worth. Too injured to walk around and assist.

“Don’t get used to it. Get better, alright?” Erec said, opening the pack of rations and setting it in Alister’s hand. A cold stew of some kind. Rich in nutrients and likely better than most to help injuries recover.

Erec’s shoulder flared with pain, and he grit his teeth. He fought back the instinct to call forth Fury again. Healing, stress, and pushing himself would likely delay the time it’d take for it to recover completely. But so be it.

Once they made it free from this hell, he’d have all the time he needed to get back to normal.

They’d found what they sought. The White Stag revealed itself; none could deny that every person in their expedition confirmed its appearance.

Nor could they quickly wave away its connection to those silent monsters.

[Hatchet!]

A claw tore through the side of the tent—a Render crashed through the thin fabric, a blade shooting out of its right foreleg and jabbing into the chest of one of the sleeping Knights, painting the sand below red. They choked on their own blood as it spun away.

A second later, its metallic blade tore out another man's throat, moving quickly enough for its form to blur.

Erec’s hatchet met his hand as Colin turned into the tent.