Miuson's grip tightened on the haft of his spear like a coiled spring. He didn't stop to think—he didn't need to. With a single, fierce whoosh, he launched himself through the doorway and into the white chaos outside.

Domitius' jaw snapped shut. For a breathless instant he simply stared after the blur of black hair and spear, then barked, "Miuson!" and went after him, boots pounding the floorboards as he followed the younger guard into the storm.

Inside, the sudden void of movement felt strange and exposed. Okun and Liam exchanged a quick, alarmed look. The kind of look that owed nothing to words—this was for real, the lesson was over for now.

Liam's eyes flicked between Mumu and Nini. Nini's tail was a stiff flag of tension while still coiled around him. Mumu's shoulders were still hunched protectively around Dama. Their stitched faces betrayed something like panic, and it tugged at Liam's chest with a sympathetic ache.

He exhaled, a dry sound, and the words came out with a rueful lift that barely hid the worry underneath. "Just our luck…"

Okun's face, usually placid, was a closed book for a second. Then, he inclined his head once—slow, deliberate—solid agreement settling in. "Unfortunate timing..." he said, the words flat with the weight of danger. "We've wasted enough time already. For now, training halts. We move to defend!"

For a heartbeat Liam's chest tightened. The notion of being pulled straight from a classroom of soul and into the raw teeth of an Oni's assault was immediate and simple: a rushing fear of not being ready. He could feel the weight of choice pressing against him—that death was a possibility.

However, the thought of Alexandra waiting somewhere, of all the faces in Enohay he might never see again, sharpened his resolve like diamonds.

He forced the breath out in a controlled exhale. The training had done something—had given him a taste of his own soulura, the hint of something he could wield. If that could buy even one life, then he would go. A small smile ghosted his lips—the kind that steadied more than it betrayed bravado. "If I get through this," he thought, "I'll be better…for her."

He moved to Dama's side. The boy still trembled, but his breathing had calmed measurably under Liam's practiced guidance. Liam offered a hand and helped Dama to his feet. "Come on," he murmured, with his trademark comforting smile, "I think the villagers need our help, buddy! We need to have a talk after, though."

Dama leaned into the support as he met his gaze, wavering but resolute in its own raw way. He swallowed. The terror hadn't left him—wouldn't, not so swiftly—but something steadied under it: the knowledge he wasn't alone. nodding his head with a determined look. "Yessir!"

With that, they both ran outside, with Dama calling for Mumu and Nini to follow. The two stuffed companions didn't need to be told twice before catching up with the duo.

Back to Okun, he moved to the doorway. As he did, a thought stabbed at his mind—an instinct rather than a deduction: "Why now? The Oni never came down the mountain. So why now? What drew it?" Okun's brows knit. The bell, the sudden surge—something had changed on the mountain. Something important enough that the Oni risked descending in force.

He had no time to answer the question properly. The answer, whatever it was, could be pursued after the storm. For now there were lives to hold. For now Briarstone had to stand. The village bell's echo still trembled in his bones. Orders needed giving, positions to form, people to protect.

-

The center of Briarstone is a churn of motion and raw noise. Men and women run past the wooden stalls and frosted eaves, breath pluming white as they shove children and bundles deeper into the village. The bell's echo still hangs in the air like a wound.

Along the main lane, a line of guards marches hard toward the north side — the mountain-facing edge — their boots clacking against packed snow, spears glinting dull in the pale light.

A sergeant, Sinolto, near the front barked orders without pause, voice swallowed and then thrown back by gusts of wind that smell of iron and old snow. "Advance! Protect the center—hold the line!" His words cut through the panic and men scramble to obey.

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Torches bob like frantic fireflies: a handful of guards clutch hand-torches to cut through the blizzard, their faces warped by pain from the storm and fear.

Crossbowmen take the knees and begin loading with grim efficiency, wooden stocks creaking as they brace for recoil.

Shields are shouldered; the front line plants spear tips at chest-height and turns to face the mountain where the weather itself seems to be shaping into a thing.

Clemens is pressed so tight between a pair of burly men that he can barely breathe. He's shoved, jostled, and carried along by the military rhythm—a pale, thin thing in the middle of a human tide.

His fingers wrapped uselessly around the haft of his spear, feeling like a child's toy in his shaking hands. He rode the motion, trying not to look the fool, feet scrabbling in the icy trenches until he found footing.

The battalion grinds to a sudden halt. Clemens rises on tiptoe, neck craned, trying to see what the others were staring at.

High above, the storming winds churned around a shape. It's enormous, impossibly large actually, a hulking silhouette hovering with an awful grace above the rooftops. Shadows cling to it like rags and an icy torrent spins at the edges of its frame with shards of snow glittering like thrown knives, obscuring it even further.

For the first time, Clemens' scattered thoughts knit together into one horrifying word: "T-The O-Oni!?" His eyes widened impossibly, almost comically so.

Before anyone can lose themselves in it, Sinolto raised a hand like a blade and yelled, "POSITIONS!!!"

Order falls into place, ready and immediate. Spears and shields move forward into a disciplined wall; the first rank planted their feet and locks shields together, a human teeth-line against the howl.

Crossbowmen drop to their knees and shoulder bolts—quick, practiced motions that belie the panic behind their eyes.

Guards with torches clamp them upright beside the shooters, flames sputtering against the biting wind, throwing brief circles of gold around the men's anxious faces.

Not everyone finds their place. A few stand frozen, eyes fixed on the shape in the sky as if it will reach down and pluck them from the earth. One guard, pale and breathless, whips around and bolts back toward the village center, a flash of flailing limbs and a voice lost to the gale.

Snow skittered across the ground like white insects as the village braced. The line holds, the crossbows cocked, and Clemens feels the spear in his hands tremble in time with his heartbeat.

The Sinolto's boots ground into the frost as he threw his arm up, bent sharply behind his head like a drawn bow. His voice tore through the chaos—hoarse, commanding, and unwavering. "AIM!"

The crossbowmen snapped into motion instantly, raising their weapons in perfect synchronization despite the biting cold. Leather straps creaked, and the faint clatter of steel bolts locking into grooves rang out through the howling wind.

The torchbearers stepped in between the ranks, pressing the sputtering flames against the arrowheads. Each bolt ignited with a hiss, the firelight flickering across the guards' faces.

As they moved aside, retreating several paces behind the shooters, one of the younger guards—barely more than a boy—couldn't help but whisper, half in awe, half in disbelief, "Looks like a line of stars…"

No one answered him, but many had the same thought. The fire arrows shimmered in the blizzard like mini suns against a world gone white.

Then, Sinolto swung his bent arm forward, thrusting it straight toward the sky. "FIRE!!!"

The volley erupted all at once. The string of crossbows snapped, and the air was filled with a flurry of flame—bright, crackling bolts streaking upward like fireworks. The heat blazed through cold, Briarstone's defiance against the impossible presence above.

But the presence, the Oni, didn't move.

The monstrous silhouette simply hung in the storm, its outline almost dissolving into the blizzard. Then, in one calm motion, it drew in a deep breath—the air itself warping around its massive frame.

The silence that followed lasted only a moment.

"R̵R̸R̴A̶A̸A̴A̵A̶A̷A̵H̸!̶!̶!̷"

The roar that ripped through was powerful—not merely sound, but force. It slammed through the soldiers' chests like a hammer, rattling bones and stealing breath. The ground vibrated, snow being lifted in waves.

The ice storm twisted violently in answer, its winds shrieking in a deadly torrent. The flaming arrows, once cutting straight through the air to their mark, were seized by the gale and hurled aside. One by one, their fires sputtered out and vanished into the dark.

Not a single one reached the Oni.

Despite that, Sinolto's shout sounded without hesitation. "Load! Get another volley ready, now!" His voice cracked.

Behind him, the crossbowmen fumbled to re-cock strings, hands numb and jerky from the icy wind.

The torchbearers went back into position, breath steaming in ragged clouds.

And then the Oni moved.

It straightened, its enormous silhouette swallowing the gray sky. With slow, deliberate motion, brought two jagged fingers to point at the guards. The nails glinted strange and blue in the storm-light.

The air around the Oni's hand began to writhe like a surface of frozen mercury; tiny specks of ice spun outward and the temperature dropped an impossible notch.

Clemens, shoved up near the front by the press of others, squinted through the white and choked out what everyone else already both saw and felt through sheer, instinctive terror. "I-I think it's—!" he began, but Sinolto had already twisted to see for himself.

The Oni's torso rotated inward, a motion so vast the storm itself seemed to go silent. Then, with the clean arc of a scythe, it swiped its fingers forward.

-

Next: (Chapter 95) The Oni Cometh: Part 2

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