NABC Chapter 373 Marked by The Mist
Chapter 373 Marked by The Mist
"Come on... come on...!" Mikhailis muttered through clenched teeth, ignoring the sweat that dripped into his eyes. The power was immense, and it fought him every step, screaming as if it had a will of its own. But the runes pulled at it, devouring the roiling mist bit by bit, trapping it in a swirling vortex that crackled with ancient magic.
Rhea tried to limp closer, but Lira caught her arm. "Stay back!" the maid warned, voice high with concern. "If you get too close, the wards might take you in as well!"
Rhea pressed her lips together, glaring at the raw power swirling mere yards away. She hated standing by, hated feeling helpless. But her leg throbbed too fiercely to allow her to intervene. "Don't you dare die on us, Your Highness," she muttered, hand clutching her sword's hilt so hard that her knuckles turned white.
Cerys and Vyrelda positioned themselves to guard either side of the runic circle, blades at the ready, in case the mist entity rallied for another violent push.
And it tried, oh how it tried. Slivers of greyish fog snaked around the perimeter, searching for a gap, a weak link in the makeshift seal.
Mikhailis felt the catacombs tremble beneath him, as if the entire structure groaned in protest. Bits of debris rained down from overhead, each quake threatening to bury them all. Yet he didn't let go. He poured his will into channeling the Fragment, guiding the malevolent force into the runes, weaving it into a temporary cage. Each second felt like a lifetime—like dancing on the edge of a cliff with a hurricane raging at his back.
Then, at last, the tension snapped. The mist gave a final, unearthly cry that resonated deep in his chest, and then it vanished—drawn into the runic pattern on the floor, sealed away in a swirling knot of arcane light. A deafening silence followed. The floor ceased its glow, leaving only the faintest outline of charred lines where the wards had devoured the mist's energy.
Mikhailis collapsed onto one knee, panting. His chest ached, his mind throbbed, and the Fragment in his hand... it was different. A dark, twisting mark coiled around his right forearm, etched into his skin as though burned there. When he lifted his arm, the brand flickered faintly, echoing some remnant of the mist's presence.
Lira approached cautiously, placing a steadying hand on his shoulder. Her gaze flicked to the mark, concern tightening her features. "It left something behind," she whispered.
He sucked in a shaky breath, forcing a wry laugh that sounded more like a cough. "Yeah. Free souvenirs. I love it." He tried to keep his trademark grin, but it faltered under the weight of what just happened.
Rhea gave him a flat look, though her eyes held relief. "You nearly got consumed by an ancient mist horror, and all you can say is that?"
He managed a half-smile, wiping sweat and dust from his brow. "What'd you expect, a heartfelt sonnet?"
A low rumble echoed through the chamber, snapping them to attention. The fight might be over, but the catacombs were still dangerously unstable. Cracks spread across the walls, dust falling in thick clouds.
He tried not to think too hard about what that implied. The possibility that part of the mist's consciousness might still linger inside him was both unnerving and bizarrely thrilling. Get a grip, Mikhailis, he told himself, ducking to avoid a low-hanging slab of stone. Survive first, philosophize later.
Stone groaned again. Rhea hissed as another small quake nearly knocked them both off-balance, her injured leg nearly giving out. Mikhailis braced her, ignoring the dull ache in his own bruised torso. They pushed forward, step by agonizing step, while Cerys and Vyrelda cleared the path of the worst debris, chopping away any loose boulders that threatened to roll down at them. Experience tales at My Virtual Library Empire
Each breath burned with the stench of dirt and ancient rot. The catacombs felt like a beast in its death throes, raging and flailing with enough fury to drag them all to the underworld. Dust-laden air clung to their throats, making even short sentences an effort.
Despite the hazard, Mikhailis couldn't shut down the swirling questions in his head. He'd made a choice—a precarious, messy choice—to neither banish the mist entity entirely nor submit to it. Instead, he tried to mold it, confine it to a half-life within those runic wards. Yet he couldn't ignore the tug of that new brand on his arm, the subtle sense of a presence lurking just beneath the surface of his awareness, as if reminding him: We're not finished.
He forced himself to exhale, focusing on the immediate dangers rather than the uncertain future. The corridor sloped upward, a faint shimmer of what might be sunlight or maybe just reflected torchlight beckoning them.
Behind him, Rhea let out a shaky breath, her face twisted in pain, but she pressed on. He admired her grit—she'd thrown herself into the fight despite her wounded leg. He sometimes joked that she had more pride than sense, but in moments like this, he realized that pride was a bedrock of her survival.
Lira cast him a concerned glance. "You're quiet. Are you—"
"I'm alive. That's enough," Mikhailis answered curtly, though a corner of his mouth quirked in a small, weary smile. "We'll talk once we're out of here."
If we get out, he didn't add, but the thought hung in the musty air. Another quake rattled the tunnel, forcing them to cling to the walls. Cracks zigzagged overhead with ominous speed.
No more time for talk. Survival was everything now.
Together, they staggered onward, hearts pounding, the distant moan of shifting stone chasing them like a threat. Mikhailis clenched his hand around the Fragment, ignoring its cracked texture and the small swirl of power that still pulsed from within. There was no going back—he'd chosen a path that placed him between the mortal realm and the ancient force of the mist.
He just prayed he wouldn't regret it.
His breath hitched. Is this... me?