Marcus reached out, giving YiChen a cautious shake.

  YiChen’s eyes snapped open at once—sharp, alert, as though sleep had never touched him.

  Marcus raised a trembling hand and pointed toward the window.

  YiChen rolled to one knee, rose soundlessly, and looked outside. A hiss slipped between his teeth.

  “…Mist Fiends.”

  His hand cut the air—swift, commanding silence.

  “Nursery. Kill every light,” he whispered, voice low and cold as the fog itself. “Stay with the nurses. Keep the infants quiet. Not a sound.”

  He moved down the corridor, rousing those sprawled on the floor one by one. His whisper was steady, unyielding:

  “Don’t speak. Mist Fiends are here. Get down. Eyes shut. Slow your breathing.”

  One after another, the faint glow of phone-lights blinked out.

  Bodies pressed flat beneath blankets.

  Nurses rocked swaddled infants, humming soundless lullabies into tiny ears, smothering each whimper before it could break.

  The corridor drowned in silence so absolute it hurt.

  ?

  YiChen crouched by the window, hidden in shadow, gaze locked outward.

  The parking lot had vanished into fog.

  Black shapes slithered from beneath cars—gelatinous, pulsing, weaving into cords that crept steadily toward the hospital.

  The ones at the front suddenly reared upright.

  Maws split into cross-shaped fissures, dripping black ichor, sniffing the air with obscene hunger.

  YiChen’s pupils tightened. He counted.

  —Twenty-one.

  Too many.

  Then he saw it.

  Smaller, but veined with crimson threads wrapping its body like a sash.

  The leader.

  Mist Fiends never moved alone. They swarmed in tens, in scores—half-real, half-fiend, their minds lashed into one hive.

  Slay the crimson one, and the rest would unravel.

  This narrative has been unlawfully taken from Royal Road. If you see it on Amazon, please report it.

  But behind him lay nearly seventy survivors.

  More than twenty were infants.

  Head-on battle meant massacre.

  No—if the Fiends never marked this place, if the wards held, if every breath was silenced…

  That was the only way through.

  ?

  The black sludge oozed up the glass, smearing the panes into warped shadows.

  The air turned razor-cold.

  On the floor, survivors lay rigid, breath shallow, hearts hammering like frantic drums. The presence slid over skin like a serpent made of ice.

  Teeth chattered once. Too loud.

  The pressure deepened.

  YiChen’s grip whitened on the axe, gaze locked on the crimson-veined Mist Fiend.

  The still blade waits—

  and chooses when to strike.

  ?

  The Fiends halted.

  The crimson one twisted its head a full one-eighty. Milky eyes fixed on the window.

  YiChen lowered his lashes, spirit sinking deep, still as stagnant water.

  One heartbeat. Two. Three.

  Then—scrape. A wet drag of mucus against glass.

  The leader crawled away.

  The corridor froze with it. Even the air seemed shackled. Faces pressed into blankets, silence stretched to the breaking point.

  Until—

  “Waaah—!”

  A baby’s cry split the stillness.

  YiChen’s pupils shrank. Damn it.

  The Fiends whipped around.

  The crimson leader slammed against the window—smack, smack, smack! Gelatinous bodies hurled into the panes, tendrils worming into seams, cross-maws sniffing greedily.

  “Everyone, back!”

  YiChen’s roar cracked the hall as he seized the axe.

  Chaos erupted. Women shielded cribs. Nurses bent low over infants. Men grabbed IV stands and chairs, forming a trembling line.

  “Move the wounded into the nursery! Logan—front line!”

  Craaaack—

  Spiderweb fractures split the glass.

  A tendril punched through. Talisman light flared, scorched it back—then sputtered to ash.

  The wards would not hold.

  Craaaash!

  The window burst inward. YiChen’s axe cleaved a silver arc, splitting the crimson Fiend in half. Black ichor sprayed, hissing holes into the paint.

  Shrieeeek!

  The halves writhed, knitting back together around the pulsing core.

  The pack surged in sync—claws raking, maws shrilling.

  YiChen was lightning. Axe split one, crushed another, fist shattered a third’s core. But the swarm learned fast. They darted, feinted, retreated—wolf-pack tactics.

  A claw tore his nape. Teeth sank into his arm. Blood burned. He slammed the beast down, axe pinning it through the skull.

  Drag this out… and I lose.

  At the rear, the crimson one crouched, wound sealing fast. Its eye rolled once—then shrieked.

  Six Fiends leapt together, claws spread for his throat.

  “YiChen!!” Elena’s scream cracked the dark.

  And then—

  Gold flared at his fingertips.

  Shixi.

  Instinct seized him. YiChen thrust the spark into his spirit—

  Vnnnnnnnn!

  The world froze.

  Fiends hung mid-leap. Ichor halted mid-drip. Elena’s mouth—open in terror—stilled, lashes frozen mid-tremor.

  Time itself… stopped.

  YiChen’s breath caught. For two stunned beats, he only stared.

  Then training took over.

  Step. Axe. Slash.

  The first core cracked.

  Pivot. Cleave.

  The second burst.

  Three strides—he was before the crimson one.

  “—Die.”

  The axe roared. The core split like molten glass.

  He spun on, blade a storm. Each strike drilled into a core with surgical precision.

  Snap.

  Time lurched.

  BOOM—BOOM—BOOM!

  Cores detonated together, thunder rolling the hall. Black mist erupted like fireworks of ink.

  The crimson one convulsed, body splitting apart in floods of light—then burst in a rain of blood.

  The swarm unraveled. Sludge spattered walls and floor, sizzling into silence.

  ?

  No one moved.

  The corridor reeked of ichor and smoke.

  A whisper broke, hoarse:

  “Did… he even move just now?”

  No answer.

  YiChen stood where he was, axe dripping, chest heaving. Pain burned his wounds—yet sharper than pain was the shock flooding his veins:

  Shixi.

  The golden spark had given him power—

  to command time itself.