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Chapter 64

A mistake

The Deadline creature moved with a chilling quiet, its melting yellow skin drooping into the ground and turning into water upon contact. It stood at seven feet tall, bulky and monstrous, a formless nightmare of a body that looked unstable even while standing. It was constantly melting, constantly dripping like thick wax sloughing off a candle that never burned out.

Its frame lacked symmetry, lacked sense—there were no facial features, no eyes, no mouth, just a bulbous mass that seemed to sweat itself apart. Its melting flesh slipped off constantly, sliding down like thick, diseased syrup, only to splash onto the sand and liquefy into clear water the moment it touched the ground. Again and again. Its skin never stopped.

The creature had no hands. Instead, it was equipped with five crooked legs—four of them on its lower body, used to walk, to crawl, to dash if needed—and the last one twisted unnaturally from the top of its head, like some obscene antenna or deformed limb. The fifth leg, a grotesque display of asymmetry, twitching faintly as though it had a mind of its own. It moved like a waving stalk, reacting to things that weren't visible.

A living mistake. Something a deranged god might mold from wax and rot and then shove into the world just to see what it would do.

It did not roar. It made no sound at all.

It was silent as it used its four legs to crawl forward. Each thump of its limbs landing on the strange brown sand was heavy, yet eerily muted, like sound itself was afraid to acknowledge its presence. Every step was deliberate, its dripping, deforming body twitching as yellow flesh slid away, melted, reformed—and repeated.

Despite all that melting, it never seemed to shrink. Its mass remained constant. Its form, undefined and yet somehow intact.

It was nightmare fuel. A twisted thing you would place behind the wheel of a car just to crash it. A weapon of sheer terror, driven by madness.

It crept forward—quietly.

And in its path was a target:

An older woman, injured, collapsed on the sand. Her blond hair was tangled and slick with sweat and dirt. Her amber eyes were wide and desperate, flicking around as if searching for some last-minute escape. Panic lived in her breath, her chest heaving as she backed away with trembling arms.

Her weapon lay beside her–corroded beyond use. The blade had been warped by acid-like corrosion, its structure eaten through until it no longer resembled a weapon at all.

She whimpered. A quiet sound. Helpless.

And the creature crawled closer.

Rapid now. Its pace became erratic, crazed—like a bull in a blood frenzy.

There was no stopping it.

It was unstoppable. Unfaltering. Unthinking.

Until—suddenly—it was.

Just as it lunged forward to end her, a blade burst through its back.

Metal tore through its flesh with an unnatural crunch, the point emerging from its chest, pinning it in place.

The creature froze.

A voice followed. Clear, theatrical, commanding:

"In the name of justice, do not move. Do not think. Submit... Submit to good... Submit to me... as many will... for I... am justice!"

Its entire body seized.

If one looked closely, they would notice just how damaged it already was—its legs bent at wrong angles, several small and large holes riddling its drooping flesh, steaming wounds layered upon each other.

The sword added one more.

Then, as if on cue, a barrage of attacks rained down from unseen directions—slamming into the creature's mass one after another. Blunt strikes. Sharp blades. Elemental bursts.

It didn't even have time to scream.

The devilborn eventually disappeared, into the nightmare it came from.

Mist swirled behind the space where it had stood.

From it, a figure stumbled forward.

He looked drained—almost emptied. His skin pale, his movements sluggish. His body trembled with every step.

He dropped to his knees beside the woman, his breath ragged, eyes filled with emotion.

He pulled her into his arms, gently, firmly, as if sheltering something precious.

He whispered:

"It's okay. I got you. I would never let those things lay a hand on you."

The woman didn't look relieved. Not fully.

Her brows drew together. Her eyes filled with something… not quite betrayal, but close.

Because she had called for help.

And no one had come.

Not until now—when it was almost too late.

She pressed her face into his chest, tears stinging her eyes. Her voice cracked:

"But why didn't you respond earlier? I was begging for help."

A long pause.

The air was still.

Then, his voice again:

"Look at me."

Slowly, she looked up.

His eyes met hers.

Bright. Piercing. Honest.

"It was a mistake," he said softly. "I would never willingly put you in danger. Understand?"

There was something in his eyes—regret, pain, and sincerity.

She stared at him.

And slowly, she nodded.

She chose to believe him.

His words.

His presence.

His green eyes.

She chose to believe Ryan.

A mistake.

From the fog emerged Hen, his presence as calm and unreadable as ever, flanked by three others whose silhouettes slowly resolved into clearer forms with each step. One of them—a younger man, clearly shaken but exhilarated—shouted out:

"Holy shit! It worked!"

His voice cracked with disbelief, echoing faintly across the battlefield like a crack of glass breaking through tension. Relief poured off of him in waves, like someone who'd just realized they were still alive after bracing for death.

The blonde-haired woman—still catching her breath—straightened her posture slowly, wincing slightly as her body reminded her of the pain she'd endured. Dust clung to her uniform, and her legs trembled, but she held herself up with the weight and pride of experience.

She was the real leader of this group.

She was sure of it.

But lately…

Lately, something had been gnawing at that certainty.

She couldn't point to a single moment, a clear decision, or a confrontation. No loud challenges. No overt undermining. But something was shifting. Subtle. Quiet. Like an invisible thread unraveling her authority thread by thread. She could feel it in the way the others hesitated. In the way their eyes occasionally drifted—not to her—but to someone else.

She exhaled sharply through her nose. Not now.

Another man stepped forward from the group—older, rugged, and clearly second-in-command by the way the others moved around him. There was a quiet assurance in the way he carried himself. He didn't need to bark orders or puff his chest. He just existed with authority.

He made a beeline toward her. His eyes flicked across her form—checking for wounds, damage, anything missed. A protective glance from someone who had shared the field with her more than once.

"Are you alright?" he asked quietly.

She gave a single nod. Nothing more.

He returned the gesture—just as brief—before his gaze slid, almost reluctantly, toward Ryan.

There was a pause. Just a heartbeat. But it said enough. The tension between them didn't need words. It hovered in the air like smoke that refused to clear.

She looked down at her corroded weapon again. Useless now. Just another reminder of how close she'd come to death.

Her lips pressed into a thin line.

She sighed. The breath was long, quiet, and bitter at the edges.

"I wish we had a healer," she muttered under her breath, more to herself than anyone else.

Then louder: "Let's go back."

The others didn't argue.

There was no need. The mission was done. The creature had been dealt with, and whatever damage remained—physical or otherwise—could wait. It was a creature that had only just turned into a Devilborn—unstable, malformed, and still relatively weak.

But even in that state, it was dangerous. For most teams, a fight like this could've ended in casualties. The only reason they managed to handle it was because of their team's overwhelming focus on offense. That was their strength. And because of that, they weren't often called for the more delicate, compulsory scouting missions.

They were reserved for situations like this direct assaults where firepower could do the talking.

They began to move, one by one, their boots thudding softly into the strange brown sand. The fog was already beginning to curl back around them, swallowing the place where the Devilborn had fallen.

As if the land itself didn't want to remember what had happened here.