Roland’s blade carved through the air, meeting the twisted flesh of a corrupted Worldborn with precise, brutal efficiency. The creature let out a hollow, gurgling shriek as its form crumpled, black ichor spilling onto the cracked earth. Before its body hit the ground, Roland had already moved on, pivoting into a seamless strike that split the throat of the next.

  They were slow. Predictable.

  Their numbers had increased as they neared the Veil Gate, but their movements had not changed—each one sluggish, their bodies dragging as if resisting some unseen force. Their souls, what little remained, flickered weakly, weighed down by the corruption that had consumed them. And Roland could see it all.

  His Soul Gaze had sharpened.

  Every flicker of intent, every subtle shift in the dim light of their spirits, foretold their attacks before their bodies moved. He saw them reach, strike, falter. He saw the moment their forms tensed before lunging, the hesitation before they tried to defend. It was as though time stretched out before him in threads of certainty, each enemy a story already written.

  And Roland walked through them like a man turning the pages.

  His sword danced between strikes, flowing effortlessly from one motion to the next. A downward cleave split through a staggering foe’s collarbone—before the body fell, he shifted into a sidestep, catching the next enemy’s arm mid-swing and twisting his blade free in the same motion. The corrupted stumbled, off-balance, and Roland drove his knee into its chest, knocking it backward into the path of Celeste’s waiting daggers.

  She moved as naturally as breath, her weapons flashing in smooth, decisive arcs. A corrupted lunged at her, its once-lustrous golden skin mottled with rot, eyes dark hollows of what had been. Celeste spun, slashing with daggers, piercing the creature through the neck before tearing the blade free in a spray of blackened blood.

  Another surged toward her flank, but Roland was already there. He twisted his sword, driving the pommel into the creature’s temple with a sharp crack. It reeled, stunned, and Celeste finished it with a single, graceful strike.

  They had fallen into a rhythm.

  Strike. Flow. Finish.

  Roland didn’t even need to speak—he simply moved, his instincts guiding him. Celeste followed, anticipating his openings, sealing his gaps. When he created space, she filled it. When she needed a second longer to land a heavier blow, he covered her. They moved like a single entity, each step weaving into the next.

  The corrupted pressed in around them, relentless in their sheer numbers, but they might as well have been moving through water. Roland sidestepped a sluggish claw swipe, reversed his grip, and plunged his blade backward into the creature’s ribs. His free hand grabbed another by the throat, holding it just long enough for Celeste to sweep its legs out from under it before she drove her dagger through its skull.

  The world blurred into motion—bodies fell, limbs severed, dark blood slicking the ground beneath them.

  Roland barely registered his own breathing. His Soul Gaze was wide open now, every enemy laid bare before him. He had expected the ability to feel overwhelming, but instead, it was… calm. The battlefield made sense in a way it never had before. He was ahead of it. A step, a second, a heartbeat ahead of every attack.

  A corrupted Starborn loomed before him, its massive stone-like form sluggish but powerful. He saw the shift in its weight—the tightening in its stance that meant it would bring its great hammer down in a crushing blow. Roland didn’t wait.

  Before the creature could swing, he dashed forward, twisting his blade in a smooth arc that cut through the joints at its knees. The beast collapsed, and as it did, Celeste vaulted over its crumbling form, landing a precise strike that severed its head clean from its shoulders. Roland could see the faint glow of purple on the blade.

  For a moment, silence.

  Roland exhaled slowly, the clarity of battle fading as the last of the corrupted bodies slumped to the ground. The stench of rot and ichor filled the air, thick and cloying. His grip on his sword tightened, then relaxed.

  Celeste turned to him, her breath steady despite the carnage.

  “You’re getting faster.”

  Roland rolled his shoulders, wiping his blade against the tunic of a fallen enemy. “I can see them now. Before they move. Before they even think to move.”

  She studied him for a moment, then smirked. “Well, that certainly makes my job easier.”

  Roland let out a short breath of laughter, shaking his head.

  Roland wiped his blade clean and sheathed it, but his work was not yet done. The battlefield was quiet now, the corrupted lying still in the dirt, their twisted forms unmoving at last. But their souls lingered.

  He could see them—faint, flickering lights, still bound to their ruined husks. Some clung desperately to what little remained, others barely aware of what had happened to them. It was an unnatural state, a consequence of corruption. They could not pass on, not on their own.

  Roland knelt beside the nearest body, pressing his hand to its chest. He closed his eyes, exhaling slowly as his mark flared with pale silver light. He would go through the act of purifying the soul so it wouldn’t carry the corruption back to the cycle.

  “Mortana, Gentle Ender, guide this soul to its rest.”

  The light spread from his fingers, seeping into the remains. The soul shuddered, then eased free, a soft wisp of light rising like mist before dissolving into the air. The moment it was gone, Roland felt it—a faint warmth deep in his chest. A gift. A divine payment.

  It was the same with each one. He moved from body to body, repeating the rite. With every soul he released, the warmth returned, trickling into him like water filling a basin. But as he worked, the sensation began to change. The warmth grew fainter. Less distinct. By the time he reached the last of the fallen, he could barely feel it at all.

  This tale has been pilfered from Royal Road. If found on Amazon, kindly file a report.

  He purified the final soul and rose to his feet, stretching out his fingers as if trying to grasp something just out of reach.

  Celeste watched him from where she was tending to her spear, idly wiping it down with a cloth. “You feel it, don’t you?” she asked.

  Roland flexed his hand, brow furrowing. “It’s… weaker than before.”

  Celeste nodded. “That’s normal. The gods are generous, but they aren’t endless.” She set the cloth aside and leaned against a fallen tree. “Mortana is pleased with your service. But she’s not going to keep paying you for doing what you should already be doing.”

  Roland frowned, rolling the thought over in his mind. “So she expects me to keep purifying souls, just… without reward?”

  “Not without reward,” Celeste corrected. “Just without constant reward. The gods want devotion, not hired hands.” She shrugged. “They reward you early on, encourage you to keep going. But eventually, they expect you to serve because it’s right—not because it’s profitable.”

  Roland exhaled, shaking his head. “Makes sense, I suppose.”

  Celeste grinned. “It should. You’re a knight, aren’t you? Isn’t honour supposed to be its own reward?”

  Roland shot her a look. “Honor won’t help power enchanted weapons.”

  Celeste laughed, tossing her rag at him. He caught it with a smirk but let the thought settle.

  The gods would still grant him gifts, but not for this. Not anymore. If he wanted more divine payments, he needed to prove himself in other ways.

  Roland and Celeste moved through the trees, their steps silent as they neared the edge of the outpost. The air was unnatural but not like the chaos-filled air of before. Ahead, the Veil Gate loomed, a gaping wound in reality, its edges shimmering with an eerie, violet glow.

  But this gate was different.

  Unlike the last, which had been little more than an overrun ruin, this one was fortified. Crude barricades—wood, stone, and rusted metal—had been erected in a wide perimeter around the gate. Corrupted figures shambled between them, slow but numerous, their bodies warped by whatever foul magic had claimed them. The corruption had spread through their forms unevenly; some bore little more than dark veins and vacant eyes, while others had twisted limbs, blackened flesh, or hunched, monstrous shapes.

  And at the heart of it, nestled beside the gate, was the real problem.

  A Dragle.

  It was a massive creature, ten meters long from beak to tail, its body draped in shadowed scales. A beast born of Viridara, meant to be a guardian of the skies. But this one had been lost to the corruption.

  Its once-proud feathers were tattered and sickly, dripping with dark ichor. Its talons, curved like hooked blades, clenched at the earth as if barely restraining its restless energy. Its wings, broad and leathery where once they might have been vibrant with plumes, twitched in agitation. The worst of it was its eyes—glasslike, glowing with an unnatural violet hue, locked onto the gate as though awaiting orders from whatever force still held its leash.

  Roland exhaled slowly, scanning the outpost with a soldier’s eye. “We’ll have to clear the camp before we get to the gate.”

  Celeste gave a quiet nod. “Obviously.”

  Roland gestured toward the barricades. “Fire could do the job for us. Burn them out.”

  Celeste frowned, her arms crossing. “And what happens when we can’t control it?” She turned her gaze toward the surrounding trees. “The corruption has already spread enough. If we let the fire get out of hand, we could burn more than just the camp.”

  Roland considered that. She had a point. Fire didn’t discriminate. If the wind shifted, they could end up destroying more than they intended.

  But the alternative was a direct fight against all of them.

  He glanced back at the Dragle, watching as it flexed its wings, claws scraping against the ground.

  They couldn’t afford to be reckless. Not with that in the equation.

  He turned back to Celeste. “Then we control it. A few small fires, drive them toward one side, force them into a bottleneck where we can cut them down.”

  Celeste sighed, rubbing the bridge of her nose. “Fine. But small fires. If I have to waste my energy putting out a forest fire, I’m blaming you.”

  Roland smirked. “Fair enough.”

  Roland knelt, pressing his palm against the dry grass. The earth was cool beneath his fingers, the scent of soil and old leaves mingling with the ever-present stench of corruption. He exhaled slowly, recalling the lessons of his youth—memories of controlled burns, of standing with the others from his village as they set small, deliberate fires to prevent greater ones.

  “We start small,” he murmured, grabbing a handful of dry grass and crushing it between his fingers. “The trick isn’t just lighting it—it’s managing it. You have to watch the wind, feel how it moves. Fire doesn’t spread randomly, it follows the air, the dry spots, the breaks in the land.”

  Celeste crouched beside him, listening intently. Fire wasn’t her element—she was more comfortable with poisons, with healing, with the flow of life itself. But she understood the importance of learning.

  “So we contain it?” she asked, tilting her head.

  Roland nodded. “If we start with a slow burn, it’ll push them where we want. We control the direction, then we control them.” He looked up at her, a small smirk tugging at his lips. “You think you can handle that?”

  Celeste snorted. “I think you just enjoy bossing me around.”

  Roland chuckled, then grabbed his flint and steel, striking it against a strip of cloth. A small spark caught, embers curling into the grass. Celeste watched carefully as the flame flickered to life, then slowly spread outward.

  Celeste extended a hand, her fingers brushing the earth as she whispered a quiet prayer.

  "Root and bloom, wither and thrive, shape the path where flames shall dive."

  The ground responded instantly. Patches of vegetation shrivelled, drying into brittle tinder, while others flourished, thickening into green barriers. The fire leapt hungrily along the dried path, racing forward in a controlled line, unable to spread beyond the lush, living plants.

  Roland raised a brow. “Clever.”

  Celeste winked. “I Know.”

  The fire moved just as planned, creeping toward the outpost in careful waves. It was small at first, just a flickering light in the underbrush, but soon the scent of burning wood and smouldering barricades filled the air.

  Then, the corrupted noticed.

  The creatures reacted instinctively, their twisted minds recoiling from the flames. They did not think—they only feared. And that fear drove them exactly where Roland had wanted.

  With guttural cries, they turned and ran, stumbling over each other in a desperate attempt to escape the growing heat. Smoke curled into the sky, turning the air thick, obscuring their vision.

  And there, waiting in the haze, stood Roland and Celeste.

  The corrupted never stood a chance.

  Roland’s blade found the first one before it even realized it was running toward its death. His movements were precise, guided by his Soul Gaze, each strike flowing seamlessly into the next. A slash across the throat, a sidestep into a downward cleave, a quick reversal into a piercing stab. The creatures barely had time to react before they fell.

  Celeste moved just as fluidly, cutting through flesh and rot with brutal efficiency. They had fought together long enough now that words weren’t needed. She saw where he would move, and he saw where she would strike.

  Within minutes, it was over.

  The fire had done its job. The corrupted had scattered and been cut down. The souls moved on

  And now, the real fight could begin.

  Roland turned toward the gate, his gaze locking onto the massive, hulking form of the Dragle.

  The corrupted guardian had not fled.

  It watched.

  Its long, sinuous body tensed, talons flexing against the dirt. Its hollow, violet-glowing eyes fixed on them. The flames crackled around them, reflecting off its darkened scales.

  It opened its beak.

  And it screeched.

  The sound ripped through the air, shaking the very ground beneath them.

  Roland tightened his grip on his sword.