<h2 style="text-align: center">Chapter Twenty-four: Beneath are the Dead</h2>


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    Looking over the field of death before him, where burning stone rained from the heavens, shattering men into splatters of flesh and shards of bone, Chronifer found himself wondering—why had he chosen this path? What had led him here?


    He had considered politics once, but the idea never sat right with him. His mother had told him that some politicians wielded immense personal power, but their strength was rarely their own. Power in politics came from influence, alliances, and the warriors they commanded or worked alongside. It was a power built on dependence, and that did not appeal to him.


    The same reasoning had kept him from the path of a crafter. Many crafters were formidable in their own right, their creations capable of shaping entire battlefields, but their strength was tied to their tools, their resources, the systems they operated within. He did not want power that could be broken, stolen, or lost. He wanted something absolute—power that was his alone, beyond the reach of others.


    There was also his family. Warriors, renowned across the multiverse, their legacy was one of battle and blood. Walking the path expected of him offered more than straying ever could. And while he did not crave approval, he loathed the thought of standing apart for the wrong reasons—of being the one who did not belong.


    But more than anything, he had wanted strength that could never be stripped away. A power so unshakable that even if he lost his clan, even if the Spiral turned its back on him, he would remain whole. He would not return to weakness. He would not be John again—fragile, power built at the mercy of others.


    That was why he had chosen the warrior’s path. That was why he was here.


    But standing amidst the ruin of the battlefield, he found no solace in that knowledge.


    The justifications, the logic—it had all made sense before he arrived. But now, with the stench of burning flesh in his lungs, with screams drowned by the roar of destruction, only one thought remained.


    Was his wants worth chasing through this hell?


    The answer came not as certainty, not as resolve, but as a cold, suffocating weight in his chest.


    Fear. Crippling, undeniable fear.


    “We can break through that thin line.” The man with the burned face pointed. Then his voice snapped. “Fuck—RUN! It’s closing! If we miss this, we all die!”


    Chronifer didn’t feel himself move—only knew that he had to.


    If he stopped, he was dead. If he fell behind, he was forgotten. He would not die nameless in the mud.


    So he ran.


    Cutlass in hand, legs pumping, faster—faster. His body howled in protest, hunger clawing at his insides, stomach knotted and twisting with each pounding step. Every footfall was pain, sharp and relentless.


    Yet, he did not stop.


    Not when the slope became too steep, the ground shifting underfoot. Not when the clang of steel and the guttural screams of the dying closed in like a noose. He ran, lungs burning, heart hammering against his ribs, until the moment they reached the enemy line.


    He fell into a stance his father had favored—wrong, awkward, just like it had felt at the Jade Tower, like it had during the fight with the Yongul bandit. But it worked. His blade cut a man down to his side, shearing through flesh and bone. That was all that mattered. Kill. Stay alive.


    Then the crush of bodies hit. Soldiers slammed against each other, armor scraping, breath hot and ragged. Movement became hell, standing was worse. The charge had stalled, the enemy pressing back, their red-painted armor a blur in the chaos. Somewhere, one had slipped into their ranks. Chronifer saw him too late.


    The soldier thrust with his lance. Chronifer roared, hacking his throat open. Blood erupted in a gushing spray, hot and thick, filling his mouth, searing his eyes.


    He saw red.


    Not remorse. Not guilt. Just fear—fear of dying here, fear of being nothing. It stiffened his limbs, choked his breath. But it drove him forward all the same.


    A hand clamped around his leg.


    Not land beneath him— only bodies. He looked down and saw the dead and dying, crushed beneath the living. A soldier in red held fast to his ankle. Chronifer did not hesitate. His cutlass came down. Flesh split, bone cracked.


    Then came the sound.


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    A thousand whistles, like the wind screaming in death.


    Men dropped. Shields snapped. An arrow punched through a soldier’s skull, bursting out his eye. Chronifer snatched the shield before the body hit the ground. Another arrow slammed into it. Then another.


    Pain. A burning spike in his side. A graze


    He screamed, turning to his attacker. A giant of a man, taller than any he had seen in this cursed world. Before the warrior could strike again, an arrow speared through his skull. He fell like a toppled tree.


    “Scatter! Scatter!”


    The voice. The man with the burned face.


    Why—


    No time for thought, only feeling. Heat. He looked up. Understood.


    A blazing boulder hurtling down.


    The impact was deafening. Earth cracked. Flesh burst. Blood sprayed in a brutal shockwave, bodies thrown like ragdolls. Chronifer flew.


    He crashed onto something soft. A body. A child. The boy’s neck had snapped on impact. Chronifer was on his feet before he could process it.


    Running. Past the burning stone. Past a man torn in half, screaming as he bled out. He did not stop. Could not stop.


    The whistling came again.


    His shield—gone.


    He dove, rolling under a corpse as arrows slammed down. Then up again, running. His vision swam. His legs ached. But the field had cleared—only a handful of them left, sprinting for camp.


    For the line of friendlies.


    The sound came again.


    No cover. No shields. Only death chasing at his heels.


    An arrow punched into his shoulder. Another into his calf. Then one through his palm. He stumbled. Nearly fell. But he ran. Stumbling, bleeding, gasping—he ran.


    Then hands grabbed him. Friendly hands. Hauling him into safety. Soldiers cheering, voices blurred, faces indistinct.


    He dropped to his knees.


    Tears blurred his vision. His body was pain. His heart was terror.


    And then—relief. Vast and consuming.


    He had survived.


    Darkness took him.


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    Chronifer woke up to pain. A deep, aching throb in his body, like his very bones were bruised. His dreams had been haunted—war, fire, blood—but waking brought no relief. He felt… clean. Too clean.


    He blinked sluggishly, his vision swimming as he glanced down. His clothes were gone, his skin scrubbed raw, his wounds stitched tight. Every breath pulled at the fresh sutures, each movement a reminder of how close he had come to dying.


    “You’re a tough kid, son,” came a calm voice from his side. “It pains me that they’ve brought kids into this.”


    Chronifer turned his head. A man sat beside him, thick-faced with dirty blond hair and a monocle perched over one eye.


    He tried to speak, but his throat was raw, stomach a pit of twisting hunger. He swallowed hard and forced out the words. “Will I… have to fight through that again?”


    The man shook his head. “Gods, no. You’ll be transported to Culona. That’s where all the kids go. But for now, you’re safe. You’ll stay here until it’s time to leave.” He handed Chronifer a bowl filled with apple slices and a cup of water.


    Chronifer hesitated before taking them. “…Thank you.” His voice was barely a whisper.


    It hurt—kindness. When people did him good with no ulterior motive, it gnawed at something deep inside him. He could understand cruelty, ambition, manipulation. Those, he could return in kind. But pure, unselfish good? That was something he doubted he could ever give back. And so, every act of kindness stung like a glimpse into what he could never be.


    He appreciated those who showed him kindness and wished them the best, but he knew he would never wish to be like them, or be able to give them the same treatment, hence the pain


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    Days passed in slow recovery. The general’s personal medical center became his world, a place of forced rest, bitter pain, and the gnawing weight of his own thoughts. He was not fully healed—his wounds still throbbed, his body still weak—but he was strong enough to move. And that was all they needed from him.


    The day came when he was told to leave.


    The cart rolled out of camp, pulled by thick-skinned beasts with horns like rhinoceroses. The children rode in silence, huddled together, watching as the waving hands of doctors and caretakers disappeared behind them.


    Chronifer didn’t wave back.


    He felt his heartbeat quicken as they left the safety of the camp behind. The fear came with him. And so did the nightmares of dying.


    The journey was not peaceful.


    They were attacked more than once—bandits and stray enemy soldiers, hungry for easy prey. The adults fought them off each time, but by the end, the group had thinned. The carts were abandoned. The path to Culona had to be finished on foot.


    Four children. Three adults.


    Step by step, they moved through the wilderness, wary, exhausted, haunted by the unseen eyes of predators in the trees. Every night was spent in tense silence, half-asleep with ears strained for danger. The darkness whispered of more battles, more bloodshed.


    And then, at last, they arrived.


    Culona.


    The moment they stepped through the gates, the silence struck them harder than any battlefield. No screams, no steel clashing, no catapults hurling death. Only a meadow of golden wheat, swaying lazily in the wind. The murmur of distant voices, the sound of life continuing on as if war had never existed.


    Yet, the fear inside Chronifer only grew.


    It felt wrong.


    Like he had walked into a trap.