The Squadron Leader's Aura

The night wind had died, and the valley mouth sank into deathly silence. The stench of blood and acidic fluid had not dispersed; instead, it condensed into a pungent dampness in the air, clinging to the skin as if it were burning it. The muddy ground was riddled with deep craters, corpses lay scattered everywhere, and shattered wooden stakes, rocks, and debris were tangled together. The entire valley mouth looked like a torn-open pit of blood.

The squad captain's corpse still lay across the center of the breach, its massive shell rigid and the crack in its neck already dried out. The soldier ants did not dare approach, merely wandering at a distance as their low growls rang out in disorder. Having lost their command, they were like a scattered pack of beasts—restless, yet afraid to charge recklessly.

Yet deep within the forest, that oppressive presence had not faded. Instead, it grew heavier. Low hisses came one after another, their rhythm like invisible drumbeats. The mist churned with them, like a disturbed surface of water. Tree shadows swayed in the night, dark and oppressive.

Ryan leaned against the rock wall, his twin blades planted at his side, his breathing ragged. Blood from his shoulder had soaked through his sleeve, and his arms were numb and sore from the prolonged vibrations. Every time he tightened his grip around the hilts, searing pain shot through the webbing between his thumb and forefinger. His strength was nearly exhausted, and his vision kept darkening, but he continued staring fixedly ahead.

After the wind stopped, even the soldier ants' hissing fell silent. Beyond the valley mouth, only distant footsteps remained—heavy, slow, yet steady. With every step, the ground seemed to tremble faintly. The sound drew closer, and the pressure intensified with it.

The mist was