The corridor ahead writhed under their assault,
flesh splitting in long, steaming seams;
poison fog peeling back in turbulent waves;
the living tunnel convulsing against their intrusion.
And behind them—
Marcus could only hold Neol.
A faint golden glow seeped from Marcus's skin,
wrapping the entire squad in a thin, trembling shell of earthen light—
barely enough protection,
but all he had left.
He lowered his head, glancing at the boy in his arms.
Neol's once-pale face had turned a sickly gray.
His lips had lost all color.
His breath was a thin, uneven flutter against Marcus's wrist.
His body sagged heavier and heavier,
like warmth was leaking out of him with every passing second.
Marcus's chest twisted painfully.
He was the B-rank.
The shield.
The one who was supposed to protect everyone with his body.
And yet here, in this suffocating, living hell,
he was the most powerless of them all.
The others could carve a path with frost and fire.
He could only keep the boy from slipping away.
Neol had inhaled too much of the toxic gas—
his heartbeat weakening,
his skin cold as stone.
Marcus looked down again—
And felt it.
A tiny tremor.
A twitch.
As if a dying ember had flickered one last time.
Marcus stumbled, the world lurching under his feet.
"Neol…?"
His voice cracked despite himself.
No answer.
But the movement had been real.
He tightened his grip, bending close,
words trembling out of him before he could stop them.
"Neol… can you hear me? I've got you. I've got you."
Ahead, the other three were still forcing the passage open—
frost and flame colliding in violent bursts,
Ethan ripping weakened membranes apart,
living tissue splitting under the assault of clashing temperatures.
Marcus followed them,
keeping his balance as the tunnel lurched and twisted around them,
the golden glow around the squad flickering with every tremor.
He pressed Neol tighter to his chest,
voice dropping to a whisper meant only for the barely conscious boy:
"Stay with me… We're almost out. Just stay with me."