A Waste of Time

Radiant Fortress, this grand bastion standing at the forefront of the Human Kingdom—symbolizing hope and defiance—was now shrouded in a stifling heaviness.

The crusade army had returned in utter defeat.

To escape the Evernight Territory, they had abandoned vast supplies and countless lives.

It was a retreat steeped in humiliation.

Most hadn’t even caught a glimpse of the Demon Clan—hadn’t seen what their foes even looked like—before being devoured by that merciless darkness.

All of it had been in vain.

All of it, a basket drawn from the well, empty as ever.

The most devastating blow came during the withdrawal from the Evernight Territory—

The Hero had detached from the group.

What remained were only the knight orders, zealots, accompanying mercenaries, adventurers, and assorted scions of wealthy families come to gild their names.

The scene was nothing short of hellish.

The pampered young lords and ladies, their minds unhinged by the terror of the night, had cast aside all caution.

They led their retinues in breaking from the main force.

Galloping wildly through the darkness.

Only to meet disappearance—or bodies impaled on stakes, propped upright beside the roads like effigies.

Sources of fresh dread for those who followed.

And amid the nocturnal exodus, even as the mages drained their mana dry, their illumination spells couldn’t blanket the column without gaps.

Those filthy, lowly denizens of Evernight still prowled the shadows.

Seeking fatal chinks in the armor.

Lunging forth to tear a bloody bite.

From a force of six thousand two hundred, the survivors numbered barely over ten thousand.

On the surface, the losses didn’t seem catastrophic.

But the vast majority returned bereft of sleep.

Their nerves frayed, spirits exhausted to the brink.

Many bore deep psychological scars—

Unable to close their eyes at night.

Daring to rest only under the sun’s ample light.

Others remained hypersensitive even in slumber.

Jolting awake at the slightest stir of wind or grass.

Beyond the crusade army’s wretched state upon return—

In the purification chamber, a soft yet resolute glow emanated from Lester.

It strove to dispel the darkness.

Yet the air hung thick with faint remnants of dark mana.

Stubborn as ink dropped into clear water.

It tenaciously clashed with the Holy Light.

In the chamber’s center, the elven Hero—the mage Mira—lay upon the cold slab of purifying stone.

Her once-radiant golden hair was now dulled with a layer of ashen gray.

Lifeless strands clung to her sweat-dampened brow, twisted in agony—

Her face was deathly pale.

Those once-vibrant emerald eyes stared vacantly now.

Gazing at the chamber’s vaulted ceiling, etched with intricate Holy Light runes.

Yet as if robbed of focus.

Her body trembled faintly.

From deep within, an excruciating void gnawed at her—like countless icy serpents devouring her marrow—

The indelible erosion of mana left by the Demon Lord of Evernight.

Lester, this esteemed middle-aged bishop, had beads of sweat dotting his forehead as well.

His hands hovered above Mira’s form.

From his palms surged dense Holy Light, tangible as substance.

Pouring ceaselessly into her.

Wherever the Holy Light passed, the faint purple-black mana patterns writhing like living things beneath her skin let out sizzling wails.

They were forcibly purified, scattered.

Yet these patterns seemed possessed of life.

No sooner scattered than they regrew, stubborn from deeper marrow and mana circuits.

Waging a brutal tug-of-war with the Holy Light.

“Urgh…”

Mira let out fragmented, pained groans.

Each surge of Holy Light felt like it rent her flesh asunder.

Her fingertips clenched unconsciously at the slab’s edge.

Her knuckles blanched white from the strain.

Outside the chamber, the atmosphere was leaden with tension.

Garen, the Hero of the [Radiant Blade], stood with a face as stormy as a thunderhead.

His grip tightened on the hilt of his signature [Radiant Blade].

Knuckles whitening.

Beside him, Sela—Mira’s elder sister, the elven Hero archer—seemed to feel her sibling’s torment in her bones.

Tears streamed down her face.

She clamped a hand over her mouth.

Her body shuddered with sobs.

Muffled whimpers escaped now and then.

Nearby stood the rest of the Hero squad’s three members.

The rookie Heroes, led by Captain Ren, all held their silence.

Their defeat had been so total that words failed them.

This wasn’t a loss from direct clash or inferior might.

It was utter failure in stratagem and cunning.

Time trickled by in the hush, pierced only by Sela’s stifled sobs.

Each second stretched like a century—

At last, the heavy stone door of the purification chamber ground open with a low rasp.

Bishop Lester’s figure appeared in the threshold.

His face etched with profound weariness.

“Bishop!”

Sela was the first to rush forward.

“How is Mira?!”

In the next breath, Garen and Ren crowded in as well.

Their gazes bored into Lester.

In response, Bishop Lester shook his head gravely.

A long sigh escaped him.

“I did all I could.”

His voice carried deep exhaustion—and a despair laid bare.

“The dark mana of the Demon Lord of Evernight, Vivian—its corrosion and tenacity far exceeded my expectations.

It’s burrowed in like maggots in the bone.

Deeply rooted in Mira’s core mana and circuits.”

He paused.

His gaze turned pitying toward the frail figure on the stone slab within.

The purification array around her lay inert, as if broken.

“Though I’ve purged the Demon Lord’s foul taint with Holy Light…

In the process, her mana circuits were destroyed as well.

“She lives, but she’s little more than a shell—

The Hero Mira is dead.

Only a crippled invalid remains, bereft of any combat prowess.

“Of course, with prolonged treatment, she might regain basic mobility.

But in any case, she can never fight again.

She’ll need… extended rest and the Holy Light’s shelter just to maintain this state.

I’ll discuss it with the elves—send her back to the Forest of Life for care.”

“Wh… what?!”

Sela reeled as if struck by lightning.

She staggered, nearly collapsing.

But Ren caught her swiftly.

“…”

Garen’s face darkened further.

He said nothing.

The other Heroes’ faces twisted with fury as well.

Yet none roared in rage.

They merely clenched their jaws.

And led the grief-stricken Sela away first.

Bishop Lester watched Sela’s heartbroken form, and the seething departure of Garen, Ren, and the others.

Pity deepened on his features.

He raised a hand slowly.

Signaling the attendant Holy Light priests to enter.

To tend Mira and console Sela.

And as the Hero squad drowned in their private agonies and furies—heedless of aught else—

In the deepest shadows of the corridor beyond the purification chamber, the darkness stirred.

As if coming alive.

It rippled ever so faintly.

That patch of shadow coalesced wordlessly, rising tall.

Until it formed a hazy humanoid silhouette—

No footfalls.

No breath.

Not even a whisper of displaced air.