Chapter 12

Even though Dane's eyes were shut tight, he saw white. The flame that momentarily illuminated the monstrous creatures exploded with a bang. Inhuman screeches littered the cavern in pangs, dizzying Dane. His shoulder burned agonizingly. His chest was worse.

Dane brought his hand up to his face, swept the monster dust off his face, and opened his eyes, blinking. He dropped his hand to his chest. He found it wet.

Heaving a shaky breath, he craned his neck, taking it in.

Men ran to the light, some on fire. Fiery ghouls chased them, uncaring for their half-crumbling state. The ground was scorched and hot to the touch. Dane found his back warm from the spreading heat. Smoke fumed from burning corpses, only to be cut by the edged cold wind that whistled through the cave.

The knight stood ahead of them all, but he did not cross the boundary. Wisps of flames weaved into bright orbs and picked off ghouls that got too close to the retreating men, Atticus among them.

Dane tried to get up. Pain lanced through his torso, keeping him down.

The fiery knight was dazzling, Dane thought, not because of his flames but because of his relentless effort. His armor had been broken through behind him, leaving a nasty slash across his back. It was already cauterized, still steaming. He stood tall as if the pain did not phase him. He was a picture of vigor in this hellscape. Piles of ashes lay at his feet, and he was set on having more.

Dane found his stubbornness and ground his teeth against each other, rolling onto his front and pushing himself up. His wounds sent waves of sharp pain coursing through his chest. He groaned silently and forced himself up to his feet. He would not let some nameless Awakened from ancient times outdo him, he thought vainly. Prideful rage fueled him onward as he picked up his sword and walked outside the boundary, wincing from pain. Blood leaked from his cuts fast. He would need to deal with it.

A man lay dead further ahead, on fire. The once-brown leather of his armor was black, and the sight of it fusing with his skin was not pretty. Dane held the blade over the fire until it was red and the heat could be felt on the hilt.

He retreated behind the boundary once again.

He pressed the blade to his five wounds, long and diagonal, starting from his shoulder. His skin sizzled, and he almost screamed. But he continued. Further ahead, Atticus had stopped running. He took calculating steps and cut the sullied corpses from a distance. His transparent sword was covered in black blood.

To distract himself from the pain, Dane summoned his runes. He trembled, half from pain and half from expectation. He knew that he would inherit a small arsenal of Memories after becoming a Sleeper, but this was the first memory he received. He hoped it would be armor. His grandfather, parents, and even his sister before him had received armor-type Memories as their first Memories. He wished to keep the tradition going. Besides, it was the most convenient Memory he could ask for now.

Memories: [Dead Medallion].

Dane cursed in his mind. He needed armor desperately. He was half tempted to strip a corpse of one.

He concentrated on the name of the Memory and summoned the runes.

Memory: [Dead Medallion].

Memory Rank: Dormant.

Memory Type: Charm.

Memory Description: [The corpses slept forever, never to wake. They were so pale and cold that if they were living, they would not recognize themselves.]

'A charm?' he thought. That wasn't so bad.

Charms could be utilized in many ways, even cosmetic ones. He summoned the Dead Medallion.

It was only dormant, so there were none of those ethereal sparks he had enviously watched his sister and her cohort summon a million times. It simply appeared in his palm. It was pitch black with an outer layer of silver that gleamed in the dim light. In its center was the engraved likeness of a ghoul, a Sullied Corpse with two amber reptilian eyes.

Its eyes seemed to lose their glow the longer he held it, and then Dane yelped softly. His body was losing heat, and his skin lost color as if the blood was drained from him. In a few moments, his hands were so pale they were blue and as cold as they looked. The blazing fire burned harder, and he bit his lips, drawing blood. The wind hit his chilly body. He shivered, feeling euphoric as it washed some of his pain away.

Dane suspected that the enchantment of the Memory was to help one act dead, but it was handy even after discarding that idea. It was great for fighting the heat. He knew that losing all the heat in his body could spell death for most, but that did not hold for him as a bearer of the [Nightwalker] Attribute.

He dismissed the memory lest he received strange looks from the retreating soldiers. He did not want to be perceived as a ghoul.

A few minutes later, his wounds were covered with burnt scabs. They stung when he moved, especially his shoulder, but it was bearable.

Soon after, Atticus and the knight ran into the dim light, leaving a few dozen Sullied Corpses behind alive.

Only twenty-eight of the host's original fifty remained, Dane counted. They were shaken, trembling as they lay on the ground. He recognized one of them. It was the one who had made him promise to apologize to a man's wife. He had lost his arm and bit down on a cloth as Sir cauterized the wound. Tears of agony streamed down his eyes. Dane pitied him, his eyes softening as he stared at the man.

Jackal appeared next to Dane. He had lost sight of her in the heat of battle. That was a good thing. He didn't wish to be distracted while shedding blood. "He'll never be the same…will he?" she asked, looking at the man. "I know him. He is my friend's brother," she said.

Dane shook his head silently.

She glanced at his wounds, he saw. "I'm sorry. You're going to…you're fighting for our lives. Thanks."

He smiled. "Don't flatter yourself. This is my trial. That's why I'm here."

Atticus groaned, lying on his back. Sweat rolled down his forehead, and he gasped for breath. Standing above him was a ghost, dark and featureless. It said something, but he was too far to hear. Sir walked past him and set a canteen of water down for him. He handed Dane one as well.

He drank greedily while the knight checked his wounds.

"I don't remember cauterizing this?" he questioned, confused.

Dane pointed at his sword dismissively, focused on the water. He was parched. He dreamed of drowning himself in water. It was a shame there was only a canteen's worth.

The knight looked at the sword, still a bit red, and back at Dane's scabs. "Huh," he said as he walked off, handing more canteens to soldiers.

Atticus stood up, gaining everyone's attention.

"The Tyrant has reached the Relic but is having difficulty controlling it…the Relic's Guardians have fallen…they've stalled it. We have at least two hours before it can gain control. We will rest for half an hour to catch our breaths…and then go."