Awakening of the Dead

blood and shadows

Chapter Five: Blood and Shadows — The Inferno Unleashed

Elior’s lungs burned with the cold, fetid air as he stumbled into chaos. The Academy grounds, once a sanctuary of learning and guarded tradition, had become a bloodied arena of nightmare and destruction. A jagged portal rent the air, exhaling a flesh-streaked wail and vomiting hundreds of demons—grotesque, malformed creatures hungering for carnage. Their eyes glinted with red malice, claws razored and dripping, teeth sharpened hellfire.

The air trembled with screams, clash of steel, and searing spells. The scent of iron and burning flesh thickened, mixing with dust and sweat in a choking maelstrom. The ground beneath their feet was churned in mud and scattered bones; fresh blood stained the cracked stone, painting a harrowing mosaic of desperation.

The Surge of Demons

They clambered in waves, a relentless tide. Quadruped beasts with jagged spines, flying horrors that shrieked and writhed midair, shadowy humanoid forms that melted into the darkness before striking with hidden blades. Each was a living nightmare, a puzzle of sinew and rage designed to tear down defenses and feast on terror.

Students threw themselves into the fray with frantic courage. Some conjured walls of flame, fiery chains that snaked around invaders’ limbs. Others summoned winds sharp as blades, slicing flesh from bone. Icicles bent with unnatural grace to impale and shatter. But the monsters howled around them, ripping spells asunder, clawing through shields, finding gaps behind trembling defense.

Elior’s heart was a frantic drumbeat, each beat pounding in his ears louder than the last. He ran, weaving through the battlefield rock and shattered masonry, shadows blooming thick from his hands and coiling into venomous lashes.

A demon lunged, claws tearing through robes and rending skin, drawing a scream. Blood spewed, hot and unforgiving. Elior spun, his shadow tendrils strangling the creature’s neck as it convulsed, eyes blanking in death. But no reprieve came—another beast pounced, fangs gnashing, raking crimson lines down Elior’s flank. Pain exploded through his side, breath catching, but the darkness writhed with him, dulling the agony and sharpening his fury.

The Bloody Ballet of Combat

The battle wove itself into a brutal ballet, every movement soaked in desperation and raw survival. Olivia, the fire-brand bully, earned his cruel title with savage bursts of flame that seared demons into cinders. Blood splattered his scorched skin as claws found their mark, but his fierce posture did not waver.

Nearby, a girl with silver eyes screamed as a three-headed monstrosity tore into her leg. She swung a shard of jagged glass, slicing flesh and tendon, but a claw smashed her head, and she crumpled bleeding into dust and shadow.

Elior darted forward, fists wrapped in black smoke coiling into blades catching the faint crimson glow of his wounds. His breath ragged, he carved through a snarling beast, blood spraying and mixing with sweat on stone.

A nearby scream turned his head—a friend, pinned under a fallen pillar, pale and gasping. Elior lunged, throwing all his strength into a surge of shadows that shattered the pillar like dry twigs, pulling the youth free. The boy’s eyes clung desperately as Elior caught him, sensing life slipping like sand through fingertips.

Around them, the air was raw with pain and terror. The battlefield was a slaughterhouse of agony: torn limbs, ragged screams, shattered spirits.

The Demon's Voice — A Conversation of Madness

Beneath the thunder of battle and the screaming souls, Elior heard it—the voice. Like a whip of ice lashing at his sanity.

"They fear you because you are the storm, Elior. Your power is theirs to dread and worship. Let them suffer. Let them burn in the shadow of your wrath."

His mind trembled under its weight, every promise a poison dripping in honeyed malice.

“No,” Elior gasped, rocking on his heels, blood dripping from his wrist. “I won't let you—”

"You cannot resist. You were born from shadow. Embrace the hunger... command the fire... let them kneel."

His vision blazed. The shadows around him thickened, swirling into terrible forms—faces of fury, mouths whispering seductions. His fists clenched, nails biting flesh as the voice climbed into a roar, promising dark power in exchange for burning recklessness.

Behind the chaos of the fight, his body trembled, muscles twitching as latent power surged—a raw, fevered heat beneath his skin. His veins throbbed with energy not entirely his.

"Give in, Elior. Let me burn them to ash. Prove you are no weakling."

His breath caught, hands shaking violently. The crimson in his eyes flared, the darkness warping and twisting around him in a violent spiral. He stumbled, shadow claws lashing uncontrollably, cutting deeper into the fiends, but also scraping his own flesh.

Just as the darkness threatened to consume him wholly, a steady hand gripped his shoulder.

Mr. Damon — The Cold Anchor

“Fight it, Elior,” the voice of Mr. Damon cut sharply through the storm in his head. “Do not be weak. Command the darkness. Tell it what you want.”

Elior’s breath hitched, body trembling at the collision of power and will.

“You don’t beg your demons,” Damon’s voice was cold, an unyielding blade. “You rule them.”

Clawing away the madness, Elior forced his voice—raw, aching, but resolute:

“Be quiet. I will not kill or burn. You will do as I command. Be still. Be silent.”

The shadows shrieked, then obeyed. The suffocating spiral of darkness around him receded, bones aching as his body righted itself. Pain blossomed from wounds and spirit alike, but the voice in his mind dimmed, silenced—for now.

“You did well,” Damon breathed, voice a faint echo. “But there is more to learn. Tomorrow, we begin true training.”

Elior nodded, collapsing slightly in exhaustion, drenched in sweat and blood, feeling every raw nerve whispering agony.

Aftermath — Quiet Before the Storm

The battle waned as surviving students pushed the demons back into the closing fissure. Blood soaked their hands and faces; their breaths were ragged with pain and desperation. The sounds of battle faded into a heavy silence broken only by moans and whispered prayers.

In the shattered courtyard, the devastation was raw and terrible—a fresh graveyard for innocence lost. Students wept for comrades, some slumped unconscious, others clutched wounds or tended to the fallen.

Elior, bruised and broken but undefeated, limped away. Each step was a scar drawn deep in pain and resolve.

That night, alone in his sparse home, Ace memories and fresh wounds tangled in restless mind and aching body.

He drifted into a fevered sleep plagued by strange red-robed figures chanting dark oaths, a flicker of distant dread.

"Drain the blood of the Kingdom. Magic must kneel. The Chosen must die."

He woke with a start, breath sharp, a whisper drifting on the cold wind:

"The Kingdom is in danger. They must prepare."