The scene witnessed by San and his companions was not just a preparation for battle, but an organized and awe-inspiring display of the art of war as practiced by the human kingdom against the curses of the earth.

  The guards divided into two identical groups. They stood in two opposing arcs, like metallic jaws about to snap shut. The distance between the arcs was about ten meters, forming a deadly corridor leading towards the destroyed gates of the academy. And in the gap between the arcs, at the center of this killing formation, stood the Commander and the silver-helmed guard. They were the fulcrum, the axis inside around which everything would revolve.

  There was no speech, no spoken commands. Just a gesture. The Commander raised his right hand, then clearly signaled not to enter the academy. Then, with a quick movement, he struck his clenched fist against his chest plate. The sound was clear, metallic, like an alarm bell.

  And that was the signal.

  The guards began striking their swords against their shields. The blows were not random, but a rhythmic, heavy, escalating beat. Clang-clang-clang... clang clang clang... clang-clang-clang clang! The sound of metal on metal transformed into primitive war drums, rippling through the stagnant air, piercing the silent walls of the academy. The objective was clear: Provocation. Luring whatever was inside to come out.

  And expectations were not disappointed.

  After only a few seconds, the response came. From among the broken windows, from under the rubble, and from the deep shadows inside the courtyard, the curses surged forth. They were the size of large dogs, but with discordant shapes: some crawled on six rough legs ending in claws, some flew with tattered leathery wings emitting a whirring sound like rats, and others rolled like spiked balls. They moved in a single, furious tide, driven by rage or hunger or hatred of the sound, heading directly towards the source of the noise—towards the metallic arcs and the guards within them.

  The first wave of curses entered the corridor between the arcs with astonishing speed. At that moment, in one harmonious movement as if they were a single mechanism, the guards struck.

  But what San saw made him stare in disbelief.

  The swords did not touch the curses. There was no need. Half a meter, sometimes a full meter from the steel blade, the bodies of the curses began to crack and separate as if cut by an invisible blade. It was as if the swords possessed invisible blades, extensions of a killing force that transcended the physical. At first, San thought the guards were simply striking too fast, that speed had deceived his eyes. But when he saw the corpse of a flying monster split cleanly in two while the sword was still a full arm's length away, he understood.

  It was the aura. Not like the dense, mysterious aura surrounding the silver-helmed guard, but something different, thinner, more focused. A faint glow, barely visible in the daylight, sheathed the tips of the swords. It was as if the Commander's power—or perhaps a trained collective technique—had extended through them, transforming their weapons from pieces of steel into killing tools with extended range. They were no longer just swords; they had become swords with the range of spears at the same time. Anything entering the range of this killing arc would find death waiting before it could even reach the shields.

  With such a strategy, the chance of anything entering the arc to survive was almost nonexistent.

  The curses continued to flow, and the guards continued with their synchronized, lethal strikes. It was a minute or two at most, but it was two minutes of organized annihilation. Black, viscous bodies were torn apart, limbs flew, acidic fluids sprayed into the air and hissed upon contact with the ground. The smell of burnt flesh and the strange chemical odor of the slain monsters filled the air. More than fifteen curses were killed before the flow suddenly stopped, just as it had begun.

  Silence returned. Only the heavy, regular breathing of the guards and the distant, strange chirping of a bird.

  The Commander signaled again. This time, a gesture forward. The two groups advanced, maintaining their formation, towards the academy gate and entered.

  And what they found inside the courtyard froze the blood in the veins of all of them, even the most hardened among the guards.

  The courtyard, which days ago had been a training ground, then transformed into a slaughterhouse, had now undergone another transformation, more horrifying and repulsive.

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  Hundreds of corpses. They were not lying on the ground. They were not scattered. They were suspended. From the low roofs of the surrounding buildings, from the broken wooden beams, and from window frames, hung glossy black ropes, made of the same waxy substance as the monster. And at the end of each rope, there was a body. Humans. Guards, the Lost, staff. They were tied by their legs, waists, or necks, dangling in the cold air. But the arrangement was not random. The corpses were arranged in a wide circular pattern, its center roughly the middle of the courtyard. It was a circle made of the dead, its circle imperfect because the corpses were not all at exactly the same height, but the pattern was clear and deliberate.

  The smell... was heavy, putrid mixed with a sharp, metallic chemical odor. There was a terrifying symmetry to the scene, like a demonic art exhibition or a perverse religious ritual.

  When the Commander saw this, his hand gripping the sword clenched harder, veins appearing under the skin. "This is an intelligent curse," he said, his voice low but carrying a note of bitter admiration, like a hunter acknowledging the skill of his prey.

  San suddenly remembered what he had read in the book in his room. There was a small chapter on "Rare Behavioral Patterns." Some cursed monsters, very rarely, exhibit intelligence that goes beyond basic aggressive instincts.

  The Commander asked, without taking his eyes off the horrifying circle: "What was the threat level of this curse determined to be by the academy guards?"

  Shin answered, his voice trembling slightly: "Class C, most likely."

  The Commander said, his words falling like stones: "Then its real threat level is that of a Class B monster."

  San thought about it. That makes sense. Intelligence is power. Intelligence raises anything to a higher level. Then he thought more deeply, more personally: How did four "scum" like us kill an experienced Class C fighter? Wasn't it with a plan? Aren't plans the product of intelligence?

  At that moment, the silver-helmed guard spoke for the first time since their arrival. Her voice was clear, somewhat metallic through the helmet, but decisive. "Should we go back and bring reinforcements?"

  The Commander refused immediately with a sharp shake of his head. "No. This is a ritual. It is opening its technique, or is about to. If we leave it now... I wouldn't be surprised if in the near future it reaches Class A. We cannot risk that. We must kill it now."

  Then he looked at the guard, and there was a silent understanding between them. "We will cooperate, you and I. With the soldiers surrounding it."

  They began to advance, with painful slowness, towards the center of the circle. Every guard was breathing shallowly, his eyes scanning the shadows everywhere. San, Shin, and Elena followed from a distance, maintaining a safe gap. The tension in the air was palpable, like humidity before a storm.

  But the monster was not there.

  There was no sign of the tall, waxy creature, nor any other threat. Only the silent circle of dangling dead, and the wind whispering among the corpses.

  Then the strange thing began.

  From the suspended corpses, glossy black droplets began to form at the edges of wounds or openings. They were not blood—the blood had dried or turned a dark brown. It was this same waxy black substance. The droplets, which looked heavy and viscous, detached from the corpses and began to fall slowly, not randomly, but with a strange guidance. Each droplet was heading towards the center of the circle, towards the empty spot in the middle of the courtyard where there were no corpses.

  There, in the emptiness, the droplets began to gather. They did not spread on the ground, but began to pile on top of each other, as if building something. A shape began to appear: an undefined mass, swelling and growing.

  And the Commander did not wait.

  There was no command, no shout. Just a lightning-fast movement. He raised his sword, not to slash, but to stab the air in front of him. And in that moment, the transformation occurred. The steel blade ignited. But it was not ordinary fire—it was intensely hot, to the degree that the air around it seemed to dance. Then, like a predator unleashed, that fire shot out like a moving rope, like a spear of pure energy, propelled at immense speed impossible to follow with the eye, directly towards the gathering waxy mass.

  The impact caused an explosion. Like a hand grenade. A muffled boom, a shockwave, and clouds of dust and black spray scattered everywhere.

  As the dust began to settle, the defense appeared.

  A shield. A glossy black shield, formed from the same waxy substance, thick and convex, stood at the site of the explosion. It had some cracks and smoke rose from it, but it was largely intact. It had blocked the attack.

  And less than a second later, an arm formed. Not one, but two. Huge black arms, each twice the size of a human arm, protruded from behind the shield. One grasped the shield, and the other... began to form into something else.

  And less than four seconds after the explosion, it was there.

  The cursed monster. But it was not as San remembered it.

  It was now standing in the center of the courtyard, smiling with its unmoving yet clearly expressive cracked mouth. And it was different. From its back, from the shoulder area, extended two long appendages, like tails or thick tentacles, slowly writhing in the air. One from its left shoulder, another from the right. And its size had grown. It now easily exceeded four meters, standing upright, raising its head to look down at them from above.

  Everyone prepared. The Commander and the guard took a step forward, the guards tightened their grip on their weapons, and their formation changed from an arc to a wider circle, surrounding the monster.

  But the monster did not attack.

  Instead, it did something no one expected.

  In its hands—the normal hands now—the waxy substance began to flow and form something new. In its right hand, a long black spear formed, with a sharp tip glowing a dark crimson. In its left hand, another spear formed. Then, with a movement swift as a snake, it did not raise the spears to attack them, but threw them.

  But not at them.

  It launched the first spear upwards and to the left, and the second upwards and to the right. They were heading towards two low buildings on either side of the courtyard. And at each building, before the spear struck, San saw something: waxy black ropes tied around the supports of those buildings.

  When the spears struck and severed those ropes, hell broke loose.

  From inside the building on the right, a flood of curses erupted. Dozens of them, heading directly towards them from the side.

  At the same moment, from the building on the left, another flood erupted. They were surrounded.

  It had set a trap for them. Not a simple trap, but a tactical maneuver. It had drawn their attention to the center, to the circle and the ritual, while it had corralled packs of curses in the side buildings, ready to release them once the ropes were cut. And now, they found themselves besieged not only by the main monster in the center, but by swarms of smaller curses from both sides.

  They had fallen into a trap. And the formation they found themselves in resembled, in a distorted way, the "arc" formation they themselves had used at the gate, but this time they were in the middle, and the monsters were forming the surrounding arc.

  And the waxy monster in the center was smiling, as if enjoying the spectacle.

  And the despair, already entrenched in their hearts, only increased, growing heavier and darker with every passing moment.