Chapter 2: The Smell of Death
Tengukensei awoke to the sound of the world tearing itself apart. His head rang like a struck bell, and every breath came shallow, wet, and labored. Around him, the trench churned with chaos. Mortar shells lit the horizon in bursts of orange and white. The screaming of men and the unearthly roar of monstrous machines filled the air. His fingers clawed through the muck beneath him, instinctively reaching for his blade.
“Get up, Tengu!” Woolah's gravelly voice cut through the din, the little kobold’s sharp claws pulling at Tengukensei’s arm. “We’re not dying in this hole. Not today!”
Tengukensei staggered to his feet, his vision swimming. Shell shock made his limbs heavy, his ears numb, but Woolah shoved him forward, gripping a long, bloodied blade in his tiny hands. The trench was bedlam—Kaiju warriors and wizards fought hand-to-hand against the Western Group’s shock troops. These were no ordinary soldiers; they wore blackened armor reinforced with strange mechanisms, their faces obscured by cold steel masks that hissed with vents and tubes. They moved like clockwork beasts, precise and relentless.
One of them lunged at Tengukensei, its clawed gauntlet aimed for his throat. His body reacted before his mind, his blade flashing in a clean arc. The gauntlet clanged uselessly to the ground, severed. With a cry, Tengukensei drove his katana through the soldier’s chest, twisting until sparks and blood poured out.
“Focus!” Woolah barked, his kobold agility making him a blur as he darted between the feet of another advancing shock trooper. Woolah plunged his blood sword into the weak joints of the soldier’s leg, bringing him to his knees. The little warrior leaped onto the soldier’s back and slashed at his neck until the armor hissed and collapsed, the man inside choking on his own blood.
Further down the trench, Sachiko let loose a guttural roar. Her Oni blood had fully awakened, and her hulking form loomed above the others. With a massive broadsword, she smashed one of the shock troops into the muddy wall of the trench, his armor caving inward like a tin can. Around her, the Kaiju Clan rallied, their cries of “Banzai!” echoing above the noise.
Nuke stood atop the trench, his metal body immune to the hail of arrows. His robotic voice called out, “Machine bow ahead—take it down before it wipes us out!”
Tengukensei glanced across the quagmire of no man’s land. The machine bow was visible even through the storm of arrows and mud—a monstrous construct of spinning gears and glowing runes. Its massive bowstring snapped back and forth with unnatural speed, unleashing volleys of arrows that shredded anything in their path. Kaiju warriors attempting to cross were torn apart, their bodies falling in heaps into the muck.
“We have to disable it!” Tengukensei shouted. Woolah nodded and dashed ahead, his small form barely visible in the chaos.
Tengukensei followed, his movements deliberate and practiced despite the weight in his chest. The two darted between the craters left by mortars, using the chaos as cover. Woolah reached the machine bow first, climbing its metal frame like a spider. Tengukensei followed, plunging his blade into the enchanted machinery, sparks flying with each strike. Woolah ripped out glowing crystals and tore at wires with his claws until the construct sputtered and ground to a halt.
But there was no time to celebrate. A piercing whistle rang out across the battlefield, followed by the unmistakable hiss of alchemical gas canisters being launched into the air.
“Gas!” Nuke bellowed from the trench. “Masks! Now!”
The Kaiju Clan scrambled, pulling crude, hastily fashioned gas masks from their pouches. Tengukensei barely managed to strap his on before the greenish-yellow cloud rolled over them, its vile stench penetrating even the thick leather of the mask. He looked around at the others. Woolah had his mask on, but his small eyes were wide with terror. Sachiko struggled to fit hers over her enlarged face, while Nuke’s metallic body whirred as his internal mechanisms adjusted to filter the poison.
The enemy soldiers caught in the gas were not so lucky. Their screams pierced the night as the poison seared their lungs and melted their skin. Tengukensei watched in horror as men collapsed, their bodies writhing in the mud, their faces contorted in agony. Some clawed at their own throats, blood and foam pouring from their mouths. Others simply fell silent, their lifeless eyes staring up at the rain-soaked sky.
Even Kaiju warriors succumbed. Those too slow to don their masks dropped where they stood, their bodies twisted and broken by the alchemist's foul creation. Tengukensei’s eyes burned behind the lenses of his mask, tears streaming as the gas clung to his clothes and seeped into every exposed crevice.
Then he saw Woolah, the kobold’s small frame tangled in a desperate struggle. A figure loomed over him—a Dark Rune Commander, his blackened armor etched with glowing runes of malice. The commander had Woolah in a garrote, the serrated wire biting into the kobold’s neck. Woolah clawed wildly, his movements becoming erratic as blood spilled into the mud.
“Woolah!” Tengukensei yelled, but the gas robbed his voice of strength.
The kobold’s eyes flared with a berserk rage. With a feral snarl, Woolah slammed his clawed hands onto the commander’s gas mask, his small fingers ripping at the straps and smashing the lenses. The Dark Rune Commander let out a guttural scream as the poison gas flooded into his exposed face. His skin bubbled and blackened, but before Tengukensei could strike, the commander staggered back and retreated into the green haze.
Woolah fell to his knees, gasping, as the commander vanished into a reinforced bunker bearing the emblem of the Legion of the Horned Phantasm—a jagged, evil sigil known across the Runiverse as the mark of an ancient and wicked soul. Tengukensei’s blood ran cold. The Horned Phantasm’s legion had brought terror and destruction wherever it appeared, and now it was here, commanding the Dark Rune soldiers and working alongside the intelligence and commando units of the Blue Wizards.
“Are you alive, Woolah?” Tengukensei asked, pulling the kobold to his feet.
Woolah coughed and wheezed but managed a shaky grin. “Alive enough to kill that bastard next time.”
But the image of the commander disappearing into the bunker burned in Tengukensei, he reached into the void and settled his mind, the horned phantasm was marked by the tengu, death would be his only escape.
Entered by: 0xe9a1…78d3
Chapter 3: A Moment’s Respite
Death lingered thick in the air. The muddy trenches, once filled with the clash of men and steel, were now silent save for the occasional groan of the dying and the relentless patter of rain. Bodies lay piled in grotesque heaps, a grim testament to the chaos of the previous night’s battle. The gas had done its work, its lingering stench clinging to every breath the survivors dared to take.
Woolah sat slumped against a broken plank of the trench wall, his clawed hand pressed against his neck. Blood still oozed from the garrote wound left by the Dark Rune Commander. His small body trembled, not from fear but from sheer exhaustion and pain. A Kaiju medic—a burly half-troll with nimble fingers—knelt beside him, carefully stitching the kobold’s throat.
“Stay still, Woolah,” the medic growled as Woolah winced. “You’ll rip the damn stitches if you move.”
“Hurts like hell,” Woolah croaked, his voice hoarse.
“Hurting means you’re alive,” the medic replied, finishing the last stitch and slapping Woolah’s shoulder. “Now, try to keep that berserk nonsense in check next time. You’re not invincible.”
Woolah gave a weak chuckle but said nothing, his small body sagging with relief as the pain dulled.
Nuke, the towering robot warrior, stood nearby, his fey club resting against the trench wall. The weapon pulsed faintly with an otherworldly glow, its magical energy seemingly unaffected by the grime and gore of battle. His metal frame, dented and scorched from the fray, creaked as he moved.
“Alive is good,” Nuke said in his low, mechanical tone, his glowing eyes scanning the trench. “But alive is temporary. Prepare for the next engagement. There will always be one.”
The rest of the Kaiju Clan fared no better. Many sat hunched over, their faces pale and drawn. Their lungs ached from the poison gas, and their bodies bore countless scrapes, bruises, and deep gashes from the brutal melee. Some leaned against the trench walls, while others lay flat on the muddy ground, too tired to move. Sachiko, her oni form subdued but still imposing, sat sharpening her massive broadsword. The weapon’s edge gleamed wickedly, a testament to its deadly purpose. Her movements were methodical, her expression distant as she prepared for the inevitable.
The bombardment had ceased, a rare and precious lull in the relentless war. The Kaiju soldiers worked in grim silence, digging mass graves for their fallen comrades. The priest-warrior, draped in battle-worn robes, stood at the edge of each pit, his voice steady as he recited prayers to guide the souls of the dead to the afterlife.
“Rest now,” he intoned, his voice carrying over the quiet battlefield. “Your honor is eternal, your sacrifice never forgotten.”
The enemy dead received no such reverence. Their bodies were dragged to a pyre at the edge of the battlefield, where they were burned en masse. The flames roared as black smoke spiraled into the sky, carrying the acrid stench of burning flesh. To the Kaiju Clan, these men were not worthy of burial; they were filth, and fire was their only redemption.
As the sun reached its peak, the survivors gathered to consume their rations. The Eastern Alliance was renowned for providing sustenance far superior to the stale bread and salted meat of other armies. Despite their exhaustion, the soldiers ate heartily, their spirits lifted by the warm broth, rice, and pickled vegetables they shared. Woolah, his voice still raspy, managed a grin as he savored a small dumpling.
“Better than dying hungry,” he muttered, earning a chuckle from those nearby.
After the meal, the soldiers sought whatever shelter they could find. They huddled beneath tattered tarps, in shallow dugouts, or against the walls of the trench, seeking respite from the cold and rain. Some drifted into a restless sleep, their dreams haunted by the horrors of the battlefield.
Tengukensei, however, did not sleep. The enchanter climbed from the trench and walked the desolate battlefield, his gaze lingering on the bodies of the fallen. He carried a bundle of incense, lighting sticks one by one and placing them among the dead.
“Find peace,” he murmured, his voice a soft prayer.
When his task was done, Tengukensei knelt in the mud, his hands resting on his knees as he closed his eyes. He meditated, focusing on the ebb and flow of his chi, seeking balance in a world that had none. The battlefield fell away in his mind, replaced by the steady rhythm of his breath and the faint whisper of the wind.
As dusk approached, the battlefield grew eerily silent. The Kaiju Clan rested, their bodies and minds bracing for the march to come. Tengukensei remained in his meditative state, finding solace in the stillness, even as the weight of the war pressed heavily upon him.
At dawn, the call came. The Kaiju soldiers stirred from their makeshift shelters, their exhaustion replaced by grim determination. Woolah adjusted his armor, his stitched neck bandaged tightly. Sachiko hefted her massive broadsword, her eyes burning with resolve. Nuke stood motionless for a moment, his glowing eyes scanning the horizon before gripping his fey club tightly, its faint hum filling the air with energy. Tengukensei rose from his meditation, his chi restored and his mind clear.
Together, they moved forward, leaving the horrors of the battlefield behind. But the scars of the fight—the losses, the pain, the memories—clung to them like shadows. Ahead lay another day of blood and death, another battle in a war that seemed endless. Yet they marched, because to stop was to surrender, and surrender was a fate worse than death.
Entered by: 0xe9a1…78d3
