The 29th Day. Initial Rank Mission: Darkwood.
Amidst the collective agony of every challenger, this had become the 'Month of Hell'. Time crawled with a sluggish cruelty that defied expectation.
Before descending upon the Darkwood, nearly every hunter had harboured the delusion that they would triumph with ease. Yet, those who once held such vanities now slept eternally beneath the roots of the forest.
After the skirmishes between man and the Raffbloom host finally ebbed, the tally of challengers had withered to fewer than two thousand souls. Of the Blood Floras, barely six hundred remained; the detritus of demon and man lay strewn across the Greatwood in a macabre tapestry of slaughter.
To a detached observer, the numbers might seem sustainable, yet the martial strength and demon-hunting stock of Laurasia had plummeted to a critical threshold—a precipice overlooking the extinction of their entire caste.
The ten thousand permitted to undertake the Bloody Hunt were the elite, each possessing a singular affinity honed within their respective Associations. These were men who could dismantle a city's sentry with a flick of the wrist; their calibre transcended the common definition of strength. Each hunter was a sovereign asset to the realms, far more than mere casualties on a war report to be struck out and discarded without thought.
Conversely, the Raffblooms were a nascent demonic lineage, having drawn their first breaths less than two moon-cycles prior. They were, in the most literal sense, infants finding their gait. The total eradication of their race would not earn so much as a fleeting glance from the high-tier generals of the Demon Legion.
Thus, every life bartered for a demonic kill was no mere digit upon a cold, emotionless parchment. The predicament of the survivors was far more dire than the headcount of the living suggested.
Had it not been for Seraph, who had extended his hand to preserve every company teetering on the brink, the toll would have been absolute. The interventions of the mysterious magis—who vanished before a single word of gratitude could be offered—had snatched many from the maw of death dozens of times over, preserving lives that by all rights should have been extinguished long ago.
The vast majority of the Raffbloom host had been decimated by Seraph's hand alone. Upon his Bloody Hunting scroll, the tally of the slain now exceeded seventy thousand—a staggering figure confirming that the young magis had, single-handedly, broken the back of the floral swarm.
This meant that even if the other hunters survived the ordeal, any hope of claiming the premier rank in this initial mission had utterly vanished.
Yet, as the bulk of the Raffblooms were consigned to ash, a far more sinister reality began to manifest throughout the 'Month of Hell'. At this hour, not a single standard specimen remained visible to the naked eye upon the forest floor.
This was no extinction; it was a violent evolution. They had ascended. Every Blood Flora that endured had transmuted into a specialised breed, possessing a lethality that dwarfed the specimens encountered mere weeks prior.
With the eradication of the low-ranking minions that once choked the Darkwood, the more formidable strains had risen to form the core of the floral army. No hunter had yet deduced the cause of this shift—whether it was a reactive mutation to the slaughter or a natural culling of the weak.
Though the swarm's numbers had dwindled, the peril had not receded; it had intensified. Each individual demon had evolved to a threshold of strength that now eclipsed the average hunter.
Originally, a demon hunter could engage a Raffbloom one-on-one, or even face three at once, and emerge victorious with relative ease. But now, despite being outnumbered by the human survivors, these high-tier flora demons continued to hunt as they always had—relentless, predatory, and virtually unchallenged.
Throughout the past month, the environment within the Darkwood had been systematically defiled; the Raffbloom swarms had bled a demonic miasma so potent it had transmuted the forest into a total demonic hive, stripping away every vestige of its former self.
In the nascent stages of the mission, a few challengers had managed to slip through the periphery and abandon the Bloody Hunting. Now, however, not a single soul could leaven the Darkwood's embrace.
A towering rampart of interlocking thorny vines had surged at the forest's edge, weaving a monstrous briar-wall that choked every avenue of egress. This monolithic fortification, appearing without precedent, had effectively severed the final rays of hope.
The forest floor was a mire of toxic sloughs. The air itself was glutted with poisonous fog and demonic fel. Sulphurous vapours and a stench more putrid than a slaughterhouse saturated the timber; the entire ecosystem had turned predatory, a toxic antagonist to all non-demonic life.
Had the challengers lacked antidote potions or protective mageia, their chances of enduring a month within the Darkwood would have been non-existent. Even Seraph was compelled to maintain his anti-toxin wards and pure respiration spells without cease, even amidst the vulnerable depths of a dreamless sleep.
The Raffbloom host had successfully terraformed the expanse into a sovereign realm of venom. To them, the toxic sloughs were a hearth; the poisonous mists, a roof; and the demonic miasma, their very life-blood.
The Darkwood had devolved into a terminal death-trap, a domain where humanity could no longer draw breath.
✧ . ✶ . ❂ . ✶ . ✧
Amidst the violet twilight, the air grew increasingly frigid.
Within the Darkwood, where light no longer graced the living or the earth, Seraph stood upon the crown of a desiccated Greatwood. This was his clandestine sanctuary; from this vantage, he could discern nearly every movement within the forest's depths.
At this hour, he remained atop the heights rather than within the timber's hollow. Above the canopy, a dense, toxic fog swirled—nearly impenetrable to the naked eye. His third mageia eye flickered with a faint, steady luminescence, while a vibrant green aura radiated from his frame, repelling the demonic miasma.
Curiously, the space around him bristled with blades and shortswords, their edges driven deep into the wood. They were not massive armaments, yet they numbered in the thousands. These weapons bore the scars of prior use; some were stained with the murky green ichor of demons, while others were tainted by the faint, crimson hue of human blood.
Suddenly, the harsh dissonance of grinding metal echoed from the distance. It was the unmistakable clangour of steel meeting steel—a violent confrontation between men, rather than the frantic struggle against the Raffblooms. Cries of mutual vitriol drifted through the trees.
"There," Seraph whispered, his gaze sharpening.
"Ventus Aura!"
"Ventus Aethus!"
"Venemextis!"
"Ventus Aerocultis!"
[Hummm...]
Beams of emerald mageia lanced toward the blades. Instantly, every weapon flared with light, shuddering as if roused from a long slumber.
Ching-ching-ching-ching!
Hundreds of mageia-infused armaments drifted into the air, untouched by any hand. Only emerald threads of power tethered them to the young magis, as if they were being manipulated by unseen, gossamer filaments.
The mageia artefacts drifted in a slow, rhythmic orbit around Seraph, each weapon exhibiting a temperament of its own.
Some lanced in erratic zig-zags, defying any predictable path. Others remained suspended in a chilling stillness, as if anchored to the very fabric of the firmament. Several whirled incessantly, caught in the grip of an unseen whirlwind, while a few darted amongst the Greatwood crowns with the mischievous caprice of a feral child. Others drifted with a lazy, opulent glow, pulsing as if glutted with raw power.