Chapter 62: Progress (GT bonus - )
"Why can’t SCAR be patient? At least wait until the start of the damn tournament." Zephyr muttered the words under his breath as he limped through the cracked corridor, each step jarring pain through his ribs. His destination— the school infirmary—or what was left of it. Blood soaked the right side of his uniform shirt, and though he’d managed to bind most of his wounds with torn fabric, the wooden shard still protruding from his chest remained untouched. He knew better than to remove it without medical support; the moment it came out, the wound would bleed freely—no, violently—and he had nothing on him to stop the inevitable flood.
The hall around him was barely recognizable. The usual polished stone walls were cracked, littered with debris and dust, the faint smell of antiseptic now replaced with burnt copper and something fouler—corruption. The once-sterile air had grown heavy with it.
SCAR.
The name alone filled Zephyr’s gut with a cold unease. They weren’t a typical terrorist group—not anymore. What began as anti-government insurrectionists had evolved—or devolved—into something else entirely. Their members practiced forbidden techniques, art forms twisted beyond Aether’s natural boundaries. Cursed Arts. He didn’t know how he understood this. He just did. As if the knowledge had been there all along, buried, waiting to surface.
And among these dark techniques was Miasma—a foul alchemy of flesh and Aether corruption that mutated humans into unspeakable horrors.
Zephyr’s jaw clenched. "Damn it..."
His vision swam momentarily, pain lancing through his torso. He had been crouched in this ruined corridor for the better part of an hour, monitoring the two Miasma-born abominations that patrolled the infirmary’s crumbling entrance. He couldn’t risk a direct fight—not in his condition. Every movement sent fire blooming through his chest, and his gun was still cooling down.
The creatures were grotesque parodies of the humans they once were—bulging, uneven limbs, skin drawn tight across spined mutations. They moved with twitchy, uncertain steps, as if constantly adjusting to a body that didn’t belong to them.
Zephyr’s plan had been simple— wait for an opening, slip into the infirmary, patch himself up, and retrieve any medical nanites or stabilizers he could. After that, he’d hit the training depot, restock his gear, and finally figure out what the hell was going on.
"But where the hell are the instructors?" His thoughts echoed with frustration. There hadn’t been a single faculty member in sight since the attack began. Either they were dead, hiding, or worse—converted.