I finally stop at the coastline, far outside the city, where no one can see me. I leave the Break, but the transition back to reality doesn't ease the agonizing pain in my chest.
How did I manage to get myself into this mess for no reason? And it all started with an innocent decision "to grab a bite at a street cafe"! Damned "Purity"! Or rather, damned Izao, who at almost seventeen, failed to realize life isn't just black and white but filled with grayscale. To make matters worse, the most stubborn part of him lingers in this blade for me to deal with. Do I have to walk around with my eyes shut now to avoid bearing witness to any injustice?
I massage my chest with my right hand.
The pain persists.
I need to regain my composure.
I sit on a rock where the waves barely touch my feet.
Although, I am partly to blame. The actions of "Purity" are understandable. I'm not sure if the white blade can be considered fully sentient; it simply responds to external stimuli according to its internal rules. Why didn't I just disregard my thoughts and reasoning, and comply with what the wakizashi demanded? Principles? Those have seldom held me back. Is this world truly transforming me into some sort of knight who values beliefs over life?
Ten percent of prana isn't negligible; how many times have these remnants saved me from defeat? At least twice. Plus, I'm uncertain whether my heart could withstand severing a couple more ties with the wakizashi in such a fashion. No Projection would save me. I took the weekend off, hoping for a break from academics, from raig affairs, just to engage in some leisurely drawing. I just wanted to unwind...
To quell my fury, I start breathing rhythmically, syncing with the ocean waves lapping the shore.
There's no point in resenting "Purity." It's happened before, more than once, and from what I recall, it didn't do me any good. The wakizashi is what it is, and I can't change its nature. Cursing it is as pointless as blaming the ocean for being wet. I once contemplated finding a way to shatter the snow-white sword, but now I realize that its destruction, if even possible, would lead to my demise. "Purity" is like a bridge linking my soul to this body. Break that bridge, and the connection between soul and body shatters. It's not a raig sword, "Purity" is a fragment of someone else's soul that's taken the form of a blade.
I lower my hand, allowing the incoming wave to dampen my fingers. The pain in my chest gradually subsides. It won't disappear anytime soon, but it's not as piercing anymore. I try to set aside my irritation and anger. I can't rid myself of "Purity" unless I die.
Should I lock myself within four walls and avoid going anywhere so as to not get tangled up in some mess due to the wakizashi? That's also not an option. I have no choice but to carry on living as I did before. I shouldn't direct my anger towards the white blade; it can't change its nature. But I can change my reaction. My primary objective should be saving the world, not upholding personal beliefs.
Actually, it might be more convenient to live this way, letting "Purity" make the decisions in contentious situations. Perhaps this is true, but the mere thought of such a possibility causes a sharp repulsion within me.
Ah! "Word," of course, also complicates my life, but its formal understanding of lies allows me to find loopholes in tricky moments. Unfortunately, this tactic doesn't work with "Purity." If there were mediums in this world who could communicate with the spirits of the deceased, I would undoubtedly summon Izao's spirit and try to explain to him that the world isn't just black and white and not all questions can be answered with a simple "yes" or "no." It's a pity that this world has shapeshifters, sensums, reincarnates, and Break Knights, but no one "brought" mediums into existence.
What a shame.
I glance at my watch. So much has happened this morning that I expected the sunset to be upon us, but it's only three in the afternoon. Should I return to the hospital to see how the whole saga with Tedd and the Red Panda clan concludes? I let out a nervous laugh at the thought. What a "fantastic" idea. As if one heart attack wasn't enough for me today. No, they can sort it out on their own.
However, a visit to Zanh Kiem might prove beneficial. Let the sensum examine me; perhaps he can provide some assistance. It feels as though the severing of one of the threads that bind me to "Purity" has led to an actual heart attack. One that even transitioning to the Break and back can't alleviate. The pain in my chest persists, stubborn and throbbing.
In line with Murphy's law, Zanh Kiem was not present at the Abode of Knowledge, nor did he respond to my messages. This isn't unusual; the Maker has more pressing matters to attend to than playing nanny to me. But it's slightly disappointing - when I genuinely need him, he's nowhere to be found. Or perhaps it's because I must confront "Purity" on my own, and the sensum, feeling this, has no intention of aiding me in this matter?
Heavy thoughts weighed on my mind as I returned home. I spread my drawings out on the table, but my will to continue working on the comic had evaporated. I studied the illustrations aimlessly for what felt like five minutes before finally stuffing them into a folder and shoving it into a desk drawer. Exhausted, I flopped onto the bed without bothering to remove anything but my shoes.
Technically, I had the rest of the day free, but I had no desire to do anything at all. I didn't even want to venture outside after everything that had transpired. Instead, I found myself lying motionless on my back, absently rubbing my chest. The pain had subsided for the most part, but an uncomfortable sensation lingered, as though an invisible tourniquet was coiled tightly around my innards. My thoughts meandered sluggishly, barely managing to turn over in my mind, but I found a strange comfort in the slow pace. My anger at the "Purity" had run its course, leaving me feeling drained and empty.
The hands of the wall clock marked the passing of time in a smooth, steady rhythm. Watching their ceaseless movement was oddly calming, almost meditative.
After nearly an hour spent in this state of inertia, I finally rallied my strength and sat up when the clock struck four. The sudden movement shot a stab of pain through my chest. Had I really worked myself into a mini-stroke? At just seventeen biological years old?
At this rate, I'd end up in a coffin long before the prophesied end of the world. This grim thought, paradoxically, brought a smile to my face and struck me as absurdly funny. I even chuckled, a mirthless, stifled sound that was cut short by a sharp pain in my heart.
Taking a moment to steady myself, I straightened my posture and focused on regulating my breathing. The pain initially subsided, but was quickly replaced by an uncomfortable, viscous sensation that seemed to permeate my entire chest.
Great. I'd probably done a number on myself and would likely need a trip to the hospital. This was not normal for a healthy person, and it reminded me too much of the symptoms I had foolishly ignored in my previous life, which had led to my untimely demise in a changing room. Dying now, like this... would be, to put it mildly, insulting. And incredibly, incredibly stupid.
Remembering the breathing exercises Zanh Kiem had suggested, I placed my hands on my knees and relaxed my shoulders. Closing my eyes, I directed my focus inward, towards the Spark. I concentrated on each inhale, and relaxed on each exhale. This simple routine helped to alleviate most of the pain, but the tugging sensation persisted, as if my soul was being slowly drawn out from my body. It evoked a feeling of familiarity... It was reminiscent of the call to a Breakthrough from the Break, but it was different, fainter and more prolonged.
I snapped out of my meditation, opening my eyes. Even though I was back in reality, the world's colors seemed slightly dulled, as if faded by half a shade. It was a subtle change, but noticeable. Instinctively, my hands clenched at my waist, where the hilts of my swords would be in the Projection.
Was a Breakthrough imminent?
The sensation was familiar, yet not exactly. Typically, it's an abrupt pull, but this time it was somehow different. It was confusing. For five minutes, I concentrated, trying to discern the unusual sensations. I delved deep into the feeling of viscosity and stretching, only to be jolted out of this inner contemplation by a sound that sent shivers down my spine - sharp, unpleasant, bone-chilling, it made the windows quake.
The unmistakable wail of the city's civil defense sirens.
This warning system is seldom activated; until last year, it was used only twice, once for a mega storm and another time for a tsunami threat. But this year, the residents of the capital have already heard this eerie wail five times. Usually, it follows the actual threat, but this time it seemed to be right on time.
Switching on the TV, I found the regular programming interrupted. Every channel was broadcasting the same urgent message: "Attention!!! A Breakthrough threat! A Breakthrough is approaching Wilflaes! Everyone must vacate the streets. According to the BKDW, a Breakthrough is imminent in the city! This is not a drill!"
I moved to the window. The scene outside was surreal: cars halting, people deserting the streets. Local residents were ushering random pedestrians into their homes. Within less than ten minutes, the road outside my window was eerily quiet, reminiscent of scenes from a zombie apocalypse movie. Only the wailing sirens and a pair of policemen at the crossroads disrupted this image, which was giving me an unsettling sense of déjà vu.
The tugging sensation in my chest grew stronger with each passing second. When I could no longer resist it, I surrendered to the force. I transitioned into the Break, morphing into a faint star as I punctured the ceiling and soared into the daytime sky of Wilflaes. Up above the sparse clouds, I joined a constellation of similar sky sparks.
As I assimilated, our small group commenced a meteoric descent.
A daytime Breakthrough...
Judging by the number of nearby falling stars, our ranks seemed about a third less than usual. Not all raigs could respond to the Call of the Break at this time.
Unlike the previous time, my flight as a faint star was short-lived. I had barely gained altitude before I was hurtling downwards. Apparently, the Breakthrough was starting in the northern part of the capital, specifically in the Victory Avenue area.
This avenue, starting at the very Hill where the Duke's Castle stands, stretches across the entirety of the old city, finally ending in a small, round square adorned with a triumphal arch. If my memory serves me right, this arch was erected nearly a century and a half ago, commemorating a victory over our southern neighbors. This major thoroughfare of Wilflaes boasts three lanes running in each direction, flanked by spacious sidewalks wide enough for seven people to walk abreast, and a wide central walkway adorned with parallel rows of cherry trees. The surrounding architecture is grand and imposing: six-story buildings with ceilings soaring to at least four and a half meters, their facades adorned with intricately carved columns. It's a beautiful place that I tend to avoid, as it somehow stirs up memories of my past life. I'm not sure why it triggers such a response, but I suspect it has something to do with the architecture's resemblance to the Stalinist style[1].
Assuming my Projection form, I survey my surroundings. Twenty-four other raigs rise to their feet beside me, even fewer than I initially thought. I quickly assess the familiar armors. Maya, Crixus, Halley, Rex, Mersk - they're all here, which is a relief, as they make up the primary strike force. The only high-level knight missing is Ungor. My eyes continue to scan, eventually landing on the solitary figure of Baenre, who, for some reason, stands alone. Noticing my questioning gaze, the Padawan shrugs, guiltily spreading his arms in a helpless gesture and shaking his head. It seems Dobrynya won't be joining us.
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A daytime Breakthrough... just as I suspected: if it occurs, many are unable to join its repelling, as it would risk exposing their secret identities.
Among the raigs who responded to the Call, I don't see any newcomers. No one freshly initiated. This is unusual, as every previous Breakthrough typically brought "fresh blood" into the ranks of the Knights. Even the last one, which deviated from the "schedule," introduced two new faces. One of them, clad in knee-length chainmail armor with laminar inserts across his chest and wielding a classic Viking sword, currently grips the hilt of his blade with uncertainty, casting nervous glances around him. Maya told me he adopted the name Sigurd, and it suits him. If he had a round shield with an umbon, he would be the spitting image of the scourge of medieval seas and coasts. His helmet, with its face-type visor depicting a grinning muzzle, only adds to the authenticity of his persona.
Based on the protocols we've established, Leonidas usually handles newbies in these situations, but he's absent today, just like during the last Breakthrough. Rex had to replace him the previous time and dealt with the task well. However, it seems imprudent to assign a knight who recently advanced to the third level the role of babysitting, especially considering our limited numbers. Regardless, considering that the brunt of our losses typically fall on the rookies, it's necessary to assign someone more seasoned to the newcomer.
While I was still evaluating the situation, Crixus had already started giving orders. I chose not to intervene. I couldn't deny his quick thinking and leadership skills. He would have made a stellar commander had he been more level-headed in battle. But his tendency to lose his cool in combat meant I couldn't entrust him with full command yet. Ideally, power in BKDW should be shared. Halley could take on the role of a civilian administrator, "wartime" affairs could be left to the Corsican, and Maya could handle personnel matters... But now wasn't the time for such considerations.
I shift my focus to Maya and immediately feel a sharp pain in my chest again. What's wrong this time? I'm in my Projection, and this shouldn't be happening. I tighten my grip on "Purity," which feels unusually cold and seems eager to slip from my grasp. I'm not certain I'd be able to wield my snow-white blade in the upcoming battle - at this moment, my faith in my weapon is wavering, which was more than a little concerning.
Maya catches my gaze and raises an eyebrow questioningly at Crixus. I shake my head - let the Corsican take the lead. For one, he was doing a decent job so far, and secondly, I'm' intrigued to see how he'll handle it. Maya seems a bit discontented as she shrugs her shoulders but doesn't voice any objections. I know I need to speak with her again, but now is certainly not the right time or place. Besides, the air above the triumphal arch has started to quiver, and an unnaturally opaque fog is forming - as thick as fresh milk.
Following Crixus's orders, we retreated to the southern part of the square, forming a semicircle. The Corsican and I were at the center of the formation, slightly ahead of the others, while Rex, Halley, Mersk, and Maya reinforced the flanks.
"It's about to start," Crixus said, nodding at the air vortex above the gate.
"You've forgotten something," I replied, perhaps a bit more bluntly than necessary, but I wasn't in the mood to coddle his feelings.
"What?" He was clueless.
"The Breakthrough location is already known," I said, pointing to the center of the square. "We need to alert the city authorities."
"Egrh..." was the only response that slipped out from Crixus's tightly pursed lips; he had indeed forgotten this crucial detail in our preparations for repelling a Breakthrough.
Knowing the exact location of the Breakthrough would allow the authorities to conduct a targeted evacuation of civilians, and start deploying special units and troops to the square in case we fail our "task."
The moment the Corsican shifts into reality and starts dialing Rock's number on his cell phone, I summon Baenre to me.
"Yes, sensei?" The guy springs up to me.
"Do you see the newcomer from the last Breakthrough?" I nod towards Sigurd. "He's your responsibility today. Keep an eye on him." Judging by his posture, he's not thrilled with my words, but I insist. "That's an order!"
"Yes, sensei!"
In reality, by raig standards, my student is almost as new as Sigurd. However, thanks to my training, Baenre does have some knowledge. Plus, while looking out for another, the Padawan will likely proceed more cautiously, knowing he's accountable for someone else.
The milky vortex above the gate speeds up, and "Word" leaves its sheath. The rest of the Knights immediately follow my lead, drawing their weapons. I observe the ghostly air of the Break hovering above the triumphal arch, a fleeting thought crossing my mind that this Breakthrough differs from the previous ones. Firstly, we sensed its approach in advance, and secondly, it seems to be giving us time to prepare, not rushing things. It's a bit odd. Just as this thought crosses my mind, the silence is shattered by a piercing cry from Kael, quickly echoed by Thora.
The danger doesn't come from where we expected. While everyone's attention is fixed on the vortex above the gate, the asphalt across the entire square cracks and shatters. It parts as if releasing hordes of monsters from their subterranean prison. Monsters that suspiciously resemble typical zombies. Or more precisely, what we've come to expect from movie zombies. Half-decomposed bodies covered in sores, some adorned with tattered clothing, others completely bare. However, these creatures had one distinct difference from cinematic "living" dead: they were extraordinarily repugnant. It was even difficult to look at them – as if they were something so unnatural that the eye instinctively tried to avoid them.
The sisters' cries came at just the right moment as the ground silently split open and creatures started crawling out from beneath the asphalt all over the square, including right under our feet. They emerged silently, impassively, but with a clear purpose. One of them didn't even manage to fully emerge from its pit before it was already reaching out with its unnaturally long and twisted nails towards me.
"Word" traces a brisk arc, slashing into the undead creature. My attack is direct and unadorned - a backhand slash, aimed to sever the collarbone and carve a path to the heart. I'm already prepared to pivot and decapitate with a reverse motion if the initial blow fails to put the creature to rest. I'm accustomed to my azure steel sword effortlessly cleaving through the entities of the Break, and this overconfidence nearly costs me now.
"Word" collides with the undead but does not bisect it; it penetrates only to the depth of my palm before becoming lodged. This strike, seemingly, does not hinder the zombie or rather, does not impair its functionality - it continues to stretch its grotesque appendages towards me. It's not the only one set on grabbing me - three more creatures are already emerging from beneath the asphalt nearby, targeting me.
With a struggle, I wrench the sword from the body of the undead and sever the digits of the creature reaching toward me. Before darting away from the impending assault, I thrust my sword into the eye socket of the nearest zombie. The icy blue steel plunges effortlessly into the pallid, decaying matter that was once a human eye, burrowing deep into the skull. The zombie freezes instantly, an unnatural shudder ripples through its form, and it disintegrates into flaky ashes. Ashes that do not settle but are instantly whisked into a spiral, sucked into the vortex hovering above the triumphal arch.
"Decapitate them!" bellows Maya, her voice rising above the surprised exclamations of the raigs.
"Hits to the eyes work too!" I echo her call.
Launching into a soaring leap, only possible in the Break, I survey the scene below. The undead are swarming, an unending horde; as soon as one fully emerges from an asphalt crevice, another follows suit. There are far too many. The entire city square is virtually furrowed by earth fissures. These zombies are not as sluggish as one would expect from walking corpses; they move at a pace no slower than an average human. Within mere seconds, not dozens, but at least a couple of hundred have surfaced.
A chilling realization dawns on me: if these undead decide to scatter throughout the city, we simply won't have the capacity to secure the entire perimeter of the square, let alone contain such a horde. Yes, we're faster, and once we adjust, each strike of a Knight's spiritual blade will permanently lay one monster to rest, reducing it to ash. But each vanquished zombie is immediately replaced by another. And to strike in such a way as to sever a head or pierce a skull with a single blow is far from as straightforward as it seems. Even the experienced Rex required three sword strikes to take down the nearest zombie.
I touch down between four monsters. "Word", sweeps through the air in a broad arc. I had anticipated that this technique would decapitate three zombies simultaneously. However, things don't go exactly as planned. The first zombie disintegrates, but the others don't conveniently offer their necks. Instead, they bare their teeth in silence and charge. I alter the course of my blade, piercing the heart of the nearest zombie, but it doesn't slow down.
Instinctively, my left hand draws "Purity" from my belt, and the ivory blade aims for the zombie's temple. It tries, but the grip of the wakizashi is as slippery as it is frosty. Consequently, my strike goes awry, and the nimble dead creature almost sinks its teeth into my hand. Today, it seems, "Purity" won't be much of an aid in battle. I have no choice but to perform a high jump and soar into the sky once again.
The situation is further complicated by a persistent chest pain that refuses to subside. It feels like it's hindering me, preventing me from reaching my full speed and maximizing my abilities. Even the Fan of Probabilities provides me with such a blurry and indistinct picture that I can't decipher anything amidst the chaos of faint, barely visible lines of possible outcomes.
After a ten-meter leap, it becomes clear that this Breakthrough has a strong connection with reality. The cracks in the ground from which the zombies emerge exist not only in the Break but also in the physical world; the square's asphalt is riddled with craters as though it has been subjected to a heavy rocket artillery assault. I watch as a zombie leaps onto an abandoned car, causing the antenna at the back to wobble slightly - barely perceptible, but it definitely moves.
As I tumble in mid-air, I size up my next target and grip "Word" with both hands.
The silver lining, it seems, is that the zombies make no attempt to flee the square; they mindlessly crawl toward the thin line of raigs, oblivious to everything else.
My eyes take in the scene.
Two creatures approach Maya from different directions. But she doesn't wait for them to strike. As I taught her, she takes the initiative, attacking the closest undead first. Her sword penetrates the creature's skull, terminating its unnatural animation. Using the momentum of her initial attack, Maya spins her body and strikes back. She swings widely, severing the reaching hands of the dead, then swiftly dispatches the zombie with a neat thrust. Before the creature's body can disintegrate, she executes a brief Sliding, covering five meters in a flash, and impales the back of the head of one of the four undead attacking Shiko with the tip of her sword.
Back to back, Thora and Kael operate like a four-armed beast, not only fending off the zombie onslaught but also striking back. How they manage to move in sync, avoid tripping over each other, protect each other's backs, and move in the same direction, I have no idea. But they somehow manage it. Their swordplay may be far from masterful, but they've grasped the basics. And that's more than enough for these foes, especially when the sisters don't have to worry about guarding their backs.
Before my feet even hit the asphalt, "Word" in my hands plunges into the gaping, grinning mouth of the nearest zombie. I land and duck, narrowly avoiding four hands greedily reaching for my neck. The Jedi Force Push is weaker than I anticipated, but it buys me just enough time, causing the closest zombie to stagger and miss its mark. That's all I need. Thrust, swing, thrust - and three of the walking dead turn to ashes.
A Sliding, another strike, and another dead body ceases its illusory existence. A grateful nod from Quintus, whom I've just aided, and together we carve a path through the ranks of the undead. Having pulled Quintus out of the horde to our formation, I take to the air again.
Calling our group a formation might be a bit of an overstatement. What we actually have is a sparse, stretched chain of young men and women clad in spiritual steel. This seemingly fragile chain of a little over twenty raigs stands firm, bending and trembling, but holds back the incessant stream of undead that continue to emerge from the earth.
The situation is most critical on the flanks. We simply don't have enough numbers to block a six-lane highway, more so including the broad central walkway. As a result, we can't stretch our makeshift formation from one row of houses to the other.
My gaze falls on Baenre. The Padawan is holding his own, having fought his way to Rex. Their trio, including the rookie Sigurd, is successfully repelling the undead onslaught. The issue is that we can only defend, not attack. We lack the manpower for an offensive, and even if we had it, it's unclear where to direct it. The zombie horde has no leader and no discernible point of entry.
On the bright side, we withstood the first, most unexpected wave and didn't lose anyone.
Wait a minute.
Someone is missing!
I land.
How untimely...
Force push - the nearest zombie sways, missing me.
I spin at full speed, clearing space around me, then leap as high as I can, not bothering to finish off the nearby monsters.
One raig is missing from the formation.
But who? I haven't seen anyone succumb to the zombies.
My eyes dart frantically across the battlefield in search of a breach.
And only when I almost touch the ground do I realize it. We lost a Knight before we even faced the first blow.
Crixus's unconscious body lies sprawled across the cracked asphalt, his arms spread wide. His right palm still firmly grips the unfortunate cell phone. It seems he didn't have time to call Rock and switch to his Projection before being struck down by one of the first undead that surfaced. The monster got him from the Break...
[1] TLN: Refer to https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Stalinist_architecture, but the images here should be better: https://chulga.livejournal.com/198763.html