I was Drafted Into a War as the Only Human

Chaos had erupted in the temple of Nyxaris.

Caelgorr the Hollow had returned from the dead, a towering nightmare of shadow and flesh looming before the shattered statue of the goddess. His body was a grotesque blend of ink-black muscle and smoke, with thick limbs writhing from his chest like tendrils of hate. The eyes along his front pulsed—open and watching—while those on his back remained sealed shut, as if hiding some deeper curse.

The temple trembled with every shift of his monstrous weight. Cracked braziers flickered madly, casting jittery light across fractured columns and blood-slick floors. Each flare of flame painted Caelgorr in jagged silhouettes—his split-open face, crowned with curled horns, looked carved from nightmares.

The air grew colder. Not wind-chill cold—but marrow-deep, spirit-numbing cold. It clung to Lucy’s skin, leeching warmth as Caelgorr stirred.

Lucy activated his Soulthread.

Emotion surged into him from every direction, each thread humming like a taut wire. Panic throbbed from Gindu, and pain and coldness were felt from Eri. Llarm’s fear was tempered by resolve, and Bruma—Bruma still pulsed with life, barely. He felt her collapse against a shattered wall, blood flowing freely from the stump of her arm, her breath shallow but present.

But two threads stood out.

Caelgorr’s: a black maelstrom of hatred, carnage, and gleeful destruction.

Fenric’s: not fear, not rage—ecstasy. Wild, unhinged joy, hunger sharpening his every movement like a blade. The scent of Caelgorr’s black ichor had driven him into bloodlust.

If Lucy could feel his own thread, he’d know it was vibrating with dread.

Then he felt the pressure—the fog, trying to force its way back inside, like hands pressing against a glass wall.