After another round of brutal drills set by Sergeant McEvoy, Bren collapsed onto the training yard floor, sweat dripping into his eyes, chest heaving like he'd run through fire.
His whole body ached. Every breath scraped his ribs like broken glass.
[SYSTEM NOTIFICATION]
Skill Levels:
Strength: Level 50
Resilience: Level 40
Agility: Level 40
Endurance: Level 40
Willpower: Level 30
Mental Resistance: Level 20
"Ugh, still not good enough..." Bren thought.
"Pathetic."
The voice stirred from deep within, laced with disdain. "If your mind shatters before your body breaks, you'll die long before your enemies lift a finger."
Bren gritted his teeth and wiped sweat from his brow, fingers trembling. His vision swam. He ignored that Nythor was there.
"I can't believe my Mental Resistance is at twenty... why is it so damn hard to raise?"
He knew why. That stat wasn't just about enduring illusions or resisting demonic corruption. It was about fighting himself. Every self-doubt, every creeping fear, every time he looked in the mirror and saw something he wasn't sure was even human anymore.
"Get up," he told himself. "Come on. You've survived worse. You walked out of the Trial of Death, remember?"
His body didn't care. His limbs were like lead, his bones pulsed with pressure like they might crack if he moved wrong.
"You call this training? This is nothing. The battlefield will show you pain so pure, you'll beg for this moment again." Nythor's voice carried no sympath, only expectation.
Bren slowly sat up, one knee bent, his arm draped across it. He closed his eyes and took some deep slow breaths.
Later that morning, the squad began gathering near the training grounds, preparing for the next scheduled round. Bren approached, towel over his shoulder, shirt clinging to his frame with sweat. As he neared, he caught Leia's voice, low but clear, speaking to Kovan.
"I had to tell Silas. He needed to know."
Bren froze a few steps away. The words hit like a gut punch.
"You told him."
His voice wasn't angry. It was quiet, wounded.
Kovan's gaze flicked between them, torn and uncertain
Leia met his gaze, guilt flickering behind her green eyes. "I had to."
"We're supposed to be a team."
"We still are," she said softly as she looked to Kovan who also nodded. "And that's why I did it."
Bren didn't respond. He just walked past them... quiet, shoulders tight with hurt.
Kovan watched in silence, unsure, the tension curling in the space between them.
Myla was waiting by the gate, her arms folded across her chest. She looked up as he approached.
"You okay?" she asked. Her voice was small and hopeful.
Bren paused before her. He didn't answer right away. His fingers trembled.
"I don't know," he said honestly.
Myla reached for his hand. Softly. Gently. Like touching something fragile that might shatter at the slightest pressure.
The golden-violet thread shimmered into existence between them.
"You came back," she whispered. "That's what matters."
"But what if I can't next time?"
"Then I'll be there," she said, voice breaking. "We'll all be there to pull you back."
He couldn't promise anything. Couldn't even speak.
But he didn't let go of her hand.
And for now, that was enough.
Later that night...
Bren tossed and turned in his bed as he tried to sleep.
Tried.
But sleep refused him.
The dreams came anyway. If you could call them dreams...
Darkness swallowed everything... light, sound, time. An endless void, silent and cold as death. But it wasn't empty.
It never was.
Nythor stood across from him, cloaked in shadow and malice. Regal. Immense. The void bent around him like a throne. His eyes, two pits of endless night, glowed with cruel amusement. Shadows curled at his feet, slithering like living ink.
"You train your body," Nythor said, "but your mind? Still mine."
His presence was suffocating. Each word slithered under Bren's skin like ice water through veins.
"You won't last. You don't belong. Your weak will trembles every time you bleed… every time you fear."
Bren tried to step back but he couldn't move. The void had weight now... crushing, suffocating. Like standing in the gravity well of a star.
Nythor moved forward. Slow. Inevitable.
"Soon, you'll beg me to take over."
He raised one clawed hand, palm outstretched.
"And I…"
His fingers curled.
"…will oblige."
The shadows surged.
Bren screamed.
Suddenly he jolted upright in bed, breath tearing through his throat in ragged gasps. His hand gripped the blade he kept beneath the bed, white-knuckled tight, blood running down his wrist where the edge had bitten into his palm.
Chest heaving. Eyes wide.
"Again? He is making sure my body weakens from the inside out..."
His cabin was dark, real, but the air still felt… tainted.
He looked down. The blade was slick with red... his own blood.
[WARNING: RESONANCE INSTABILITY DETECTED]
Nythor's Influence: 43%
Memory Lock: Weakening…
He stared at the notification. His heart pounding, skin clammy.
"Forty-three percent... He's getting stronger."
Elsewhere beneath the stars near the guild's clearance in the woodland, Kovan strode past a tent, heading toward the deeper woods for a walk. But a voice made him slow.
Lily.
She was speaking in hushed tones to a man in Starfire insignia, her expression cold. Calculated.
"Tomorrow," she said. "The cities fall. The demons are already moving. City by city." She smiled.
The man nodded. "This is it. The Lords will come."
Kovan stood frozen in the shadows, every instinct screaming.
His eyes narrowed. Jaw locked.
But he didn't wait.
An hour later, the door to Bren's cabin slammed open.
"They're planning something," Kovan said, breath sharp. "Lily, she's involved. It's big. Cities, towns... mass demon outbreaks. Coordinated."
Bren was already halfway into his boots.
"We tell Silas," he growled. "Now."
They bolted from the cabin without another word, heading straight for Silas' office.
Silas listened, arms folded, eyes unreadable.
"You did the right thing coming to me," he said after a long pause.
But then he turned to Bren. Cold. Final.
"You're not going on this mission."
Bren blinked. "What?"
"You're unstable. The last incident... your mind is compromised. I need people I can trust in the field."
The words hit harder than he expected.
"Not trusted..."
His fists clenched. His jaw, tighter. His head low.
Kovan's gaze shifted between the two.
Silas immediately left and began barking orders to Sargent McEvoy and his aides. Within 30 minutes, his elite team, Hunters from Forest Vale, were summoned. They were armed, and deployed to the closest city.
As the trucks and vans loaded the elite Hunters, Bren and Kovan watched on on the sidelines.
"Don't beat yourself up. You will get the hang of you abilities..." Kovan said trying to lighten the moment.
"What's the point? He's already told me I can't be trusted..." Bren mumbled.
The Hunters disappeared into the night.
Harrowreach, Outer City Streets – 2:14AM
Neon lights flickered across cracked pavement as Forest Vale's elite unit stepped into chaos.
Harrowreach burned.
Smoke coiled from shattered storefronts. Cars lay overturned, some crushed beneath taloned footprints the size of warhounds. Screams echoed in the distance, then abruptly cut off.
Sergeant Maeko raised a fist, halting the squad at a fractured intersection. The air thin, warped.
"Two portals opened near the tram station," she said, voice sharp. "Both unstable but one is rouge. That one's bleeding demons onto the street."
"What grade are we dealing with?" Varric asked beside her, tightening his gauntlets.
"Mixed-class. Lesser types confirmed. But one reading's… ancient... I don't like it."
The second rift pulsed midair, like a wound ripped through reality. Red-black lightning licked its edges. Then, it tore open wide.
They came in waves.
Small, twisted forms poured out first... leapers, screamers, bone-spined freaks speaking in broken tongues. Then, the ground shook.
A hulking demon followed, dragging a butcher's cleaver that sparked against the pavement. Its face was half-mask, half-skull. A molten core glowed through ribs cracked open like a furnace.
[DEMON GRADE: B+]
Designation: Cleavehound – Subclass: Butcher Wretch
"Formation Alpha!" Maeko ordered. "Varric, lock it down!"
Hunters surged forward, blades glowing with sigils, cloaks flaring. A glaive cleaved a leaper clean through. A caster spun burning chains and snapped them into a trio of fiends, lighting the alley in firelight.
Varric vaulted over debris, landing blow after blow on the Cleavehound but, it barely flinched.
Then it roared.
A shockwave blasted them back, cracking glass and splitting concrete. Maeko hit the ground, blood on her lips.
"That thing's not normal!"
The rift flared again.
From within the distortion, a second figure emerged.
No footsteps. No sound.
It didn't walk.
It floated.
Six arms folded in prayer. A flowing robe of skin and teeth. No face... just a dark void behind a ceremonial mask of bone. The very air grew still.
[DEMON GRADE: S]
Designation: Silent Priest – Alignment: UNKNOWN
Warning: Reality-distortion signature detected. Engagement not advised.
Even the leapers paused, hissing nervously.
"Back!" Maeko barked. "Fall back now! Get a message to Forest Vale! This isn't a fluke, this is a coordinated assault!"
The Priest raised a single hand.
Reality cracked.
And the Hunters ran.
Forest Vale Headquarters
Bren stood by the doorway, fists trembling.
As time passed squad 12 waited for an update.
Bren turned slowly. He looked to Myla, Kovan and Leia. All stood waiting along side him.
"Screw waiting," he muttered, voice low.
They looked at him surprised, but not shocked.
"If they won't let me fight the demons on the outside…" His eyes darkened, something else flickering behind them.
"…then I'll fight the demon on the inside."
A whisper curled through his mind. Smooth. Sinister.
"Now this is more like it." Nythor's purr echoed in the silence that followed.
The night remained still.
But war was coming...