No. 8's eyes blazed, twin crimson embers in the gloom, his greatsword thrumming with anticipation. "You godsdamned psycho! Let No. 5 go!"
The Bishop's corpulent lips stretched into a grin that touched his ears, but it was No. 5's cyanotic mouth that twitched and spoke:
"But… Lord Bishop… is granting me… release…"
A viscous, gurgling sound bubbled from the corpse's vocal cords; bloody froth erupted from its mangled throat with each uttered syllable.
Like a cornered, wounded beast, No. 8 launched himself forward, his sword-point a silver streak aimed at the Bishop's throat.
No. 7's shouted warning was shredded by the raw fury of No. 8's battle cry. Gritting his teeth, he channeled a torrent of Tidal Force into his own longsword, the blade igniting with a cerulean, web-like luminescence.
"Run!" No. 7 bellowed at No. 6, then vaulted out, a heartbeat behind No. 8. His enhanced blade screamed as it sliced the air, carving an intersecting arc with No. 8's descending greatsword.
The Bishop's laughter exploded, a wet, booming sound. He swung No. 5's corpse like a ghastly, pale flail, smashing it into No. 8's chest with sickening precision.
An awful, wet crunch of shattering bone—No. 8, spewing a crimson spray, was hurled backward. His greatsword, torn from his grasp, slammed into the stone wall, quivering. Blood fountained, spattering No. 7's face, momentarily blinding his right eye.
No time to wipe it clear. Harnessing his forward momentum, No. 7 dropped his center of gravity, his blood-slicked blade scything upward from below, the azure light at its tip flaring with savage intensity.
The Bishop's gold-embroidered sleeve lashed out, a golden blur that ripped the air.
CLANG!
Sparks erupted as metal met… something harder. The blade bit into the Bishop's forearm, yet the impact rang like steel on granite.
Blue light pulsed beneath the opulent fabric, briefly illuminating faint, scale-like patterns mottling the skin beneath. Still, the blow tore a ragged gash. Dark beads of blood welled and dripped from the sword's edge.
The jarring recoil sent No. 7 airborne; the sheer force stole his breath, and the coppery tang of blood filled his mouth. Twisting in mid-air, he used the momentum, boot soles skittering against the stone, to land beside No. 8.
No. 8 thrashed, trying to rise, fresh blood bubbling at his lips with every ragged breath.
"My skin… it actually yielded…" The Bishop raised his injured arm. The flesh around the wound pulsed, knitting itself shut, staunching the flow. "As expected of you, No. 7." His own voice, for the first time—a low, syrupy drawl, thick with unholy pleasure.
No. 7 seized No. 8's collar, hauling him upright. The rough movement elicited a sickening, grinding protest from No. 8's fractured ribs. "Run!" He half-dragged, half-shoved No. 8 forward. No. 6 stumbled after them, her fingertips, aglow with a faint blue light, pressing against No. 8's savaged side.
"Hold on!" No. 6's voice cracked, laced with tears. Tidal Force lanced into No. 8's body like an ethereal needle, forcibly resetting the splintered bone. No. 8 choked back a groan, the bloody froth from his lips smearing the back of No. 6's hand.
A flash of irritation crossed No. 7's face. He'd told her to run; the girl was as stubborn as a mule sometimes.
"I can still fight…" No. 8 wrenched himself free, glaring back down the Stygian corridor. The Bishop's bloated figure swayed towards them with an unhurried, almost leisurely gait. No. 5's desecrated corpse lay discarded on the distant floor, a dark stain spreading around it.
"Fight your arse!" No. 7's fist slammed into No. 8's uninjured right side. "He crippled us in two moves! Your sword's gone! What'll you fight him with, your teeth?"
Dragging them both, No. 7 sprinted. His Tidal Force-infused legs moved with preternatural speed, leaving a trail of blurred afterimages. Yet, the hulking shadow behind them maintained its relentless three-pace distance. The Bishop even found time to tap a leisurely rhythm against the wall, humming a discordant, off-key hymn:
"Lost little lambs~ The Shepherd seeks them~"
Suddenly—a pinprick of silver-white brilliance in the oppressive black ahead. Moonlight!
It cascaded over their faces. The instant they burst from the cavern's maw, the mountain wind, sharp with the bitter perfume of pine needles, scoured their lungs. Before them, a vast, natural stone platform jutted from the mountainside, bathed in an ethereal glow. Moonlight flowed over the mossy expanse like a silver river, a river that terminated abruptly at an all-consuming, pitch-black abyss. The night wind howled, whipping No. 6's unbound hair, while behind, the sibilant scrape of gold-embroidered robes against stone slithered ever closer.
"The door!" No. 7 roared, lunging for the massive wooden barriers flanking the cave entrance. Oak, three inches thick at least, riddled with wormholes, their iron hinges corroded to a deep, angry brown.
No. 8, still spitting blood, threw himself at the right-hand door. The moment his palm struck wood, blue light erupted—a desperate, final overdraft of his Tidal Force.
"One! Two! Three!"
They unleashed their power in unison. Veins on No. 7's arms bulged, turning a bruised purple. The ancient oak groaned a death rattle. No. 8, bellowing, threw every ounce of his remaining strength into the push, his boots gouging trenches in the stone.
No. 7 felt his own bones creak, his power a wildfire raging through his veins.
BANG!
The gap was a mere hand's-breadth when a gold-embroidered sleeve thrust through. The Bishop's fingertips, cold as grave dirt, brushed No. 6's cheek. "Little lambs, are we playing hide-and-seek?"
"Hold it!" No. 7 threw his back against the groaning wood, his boot soles striking sparks from the platform. No. 6 added her entire weight, a desperate, straining pillar. No. 8, a human barricade, wedged himself horizontally, his shoulder rammed against the most violently trembling section.
Each impact from the other side landed like a battering ram. The door shrieked under the relentless assault, timbers groaning in protest, its iron-clad seams beginning to buckle and split. No. 7 could feel the concussions reverberating through him—not mere physical force. Each blow pulsed with malevolent Tidal Force, tendrils of it worming through the splintering wood to claw at his insides.
"Fuck… fuck, FUCK, FUCK!" No. 8 screamed, a raw, agonized sound. Another impact, and his left shoulder blade dislocated with a sickening pop, yet he kept his right elbow jammed against the door bolt.
"Damn you to hell!" No. 8 roared, heaving himself upright to deliver a savage kick. The bloody mist erupting from his lips painted the air crimson. With that last, desperate surge of brute force, the door slammed shut. No. 7 snatched up a nearby two-meter door bolt—an iron-clad oak beam—and rammed it home.
The violent trembling ceased.
As if a celestial finger had pressed 'pause,' the world plunged into an abrupt, preternatural silence. The mountain wind itself seemed to hold its breath; the distant murmur of the river far below dwindled to nothing.
No. 8's ragged, shuddering breaths were agonizingly loud in the sudden stillness. Gritting his teeth against a fresh wave of agony, he slammed his dislocated left shoulder back into its socket with a wet pop. Cold sweat dripped from his chin, striking the stone platform with an unnaturally distinct tap.
"What's he doing? Think he'll go get help?"
A high-pitched whine filled No. 7's ears. He stared at the door, his fingers tracing the worn patterns on his sword hilt without volition. The sprint had torn at his lungs; his chest throbbed. His own hammering heartbeat was the loudest sound in this new, terrifying quiet. Too quiet. This wasn't right. The Bishop wouldn't just give up. Unless…
"No. 6," he called, his voice a low rasp. "See to No. 8's wounds."
Silence.
"No. 6?"
The moonlight on the stone platform seemed to leech the color from the world, growing stark and bone-white. No. 7 risked a sidelong glance. He saw No. 6, slumped on the ground three meters away. Her silhouette trembled in the spectral light. A faint, choked sobbing reached his ears.
"No. 6?" he called again, his head slowly, reluctantly turning. Only then did he register it—a faint, cloying scent of decay tainting the crisp mountain air. And over there… was that the flicker of firelight? His sword tip, as if with a mind of its own, drifted towards the direction of No. 6's horrified gaze.
Then, No. 7's own legs gave way, and he crumpled to the damp, cold stone.