MTL NOVEL Chapter 373: Marked by The Mist
"Come on… come on…!" Mikhailis muttered through clenched teeth, ignoring the sweat that dripped into his eyes. The power was immense, and it fought him every step, screaming as if it had a will of its own. But the runes pulled at it, devouring the roiling mist bit by bit, trapping it in a swirling vortex that crackled with ancient magic.
Rhea tried to limp closer, but Lira caught her arm. "Stay back!" the maid warned, voice high with concern. "If you get too close, the wards might take you in as well!"
Rhea pressed her lips together, glaring at the raw power swirling mere yards away. She hated standing by, hated feeling helpless. But her leg throbbed too fiercely to allow her to intervene. "Don't you dare die on us, Your Highness," she muttered, hand clutching her sword's hilt so hard that her knuckles turned white.
Cerys and Vyrelda positioned themselves to guard either side of the runic circle, blades at the ready, in case the mist entity rallied for another violent push.
And it tried, oh how it tried. Slivers of greyish fog snaked around the perimeter, searching for a gap, a weak link in the makeshift seal.
Mikhailis felt the catacombs tremble beneath him, as if the entire structure groaned in protest. Bits of debris rained down from overhead, each quake threatening to bury them all. Yet he didn't let go. He poured his will into channeling the Fragment, guiding the malevolent force into the runes, weaving it into a temporary cage. Each second felt like a lifetime—like dancing on the edge of a cliff with a hurricane raging at his back.
Then, at last, the tension snapped. The mist gave a final, unearthly cry that resonated deep in his chest, and then it vanished—drawn into the runic pattern on the floor, sealed away in a swirling knot of arcane light. A deafening silence followed. The floor ceased its glow, leaving only the faintest outline of charred lines where the wards had devoured the mist's energy.
Mikhailis collapsed onto one knee, panting. His chest ached, his mind throbbed, and the Fragment in his hand… it was different. A dark, twisting mark coiled around his right forearm, etched into his skin as though burned there. When he lifted his arm, the brand flickered faintly, echoing some remnant of the mist's presence.
Lira approached cautiously, placing a steadying hand on his shoulder. Her gaze flicked to the mark, concern tightening her features. "It left something behind," she whispered.
He sucked in a shaky breath, forcing a wry laugh that sounded more like a cough. "Yeah. Free souvenirs. I love it." He tried to keep his trademark grin, but it faltered under the weight of what just happened.
Rhea gave him a flat look, though her eyes held relief. "You nearly got consumed by an ancient mist horror, and all you can say is that?"
He managed a half-smile, wiping sweat and dust from his brow. "What'd you expect, a heartfelt sonnet?"
A low rumble echoed through the chamber, snapping them to attention. The fight might be over, but the catacombs were still dangerously unstable. Cracks spread across the walls, dust falling in thick clouds.
Cerys's gaze swept the room. "We need to move—now. This place won't stay standing."
Without complaint, Mikhailis forced himself up, ignoring the tremor in his legs. He slid an arm around Rhea's waist, supporting her as she limped. Lira hastily retrieved some kind of small lantern that had fallen, while Vyrelda hurriedly scouted the corridor for a path that hadn't collapsed. Outside, the distant roar of shifting stone reminded them time was short.
But for a heartbeat, Mikhailis couldn't tear his eyes from the brand on his arm. The lines looked like swirling mist frozen in place, dark against his skin, faintly pulsing with an energy he could feel in his bones. Something had changed in him—something deeper than just a new scar. Part of that entity had stayed behind, bound to him.
What the hell does this mean for me now? he wondered, fighting off a surge of unease.
"Your Highness... Get your head out of the clouds," Rhea snapped, though her tone was more weary than angry. "I can't walk without your help, remember?"
He shot her a quick, apologetic nod, forcing himself to focus on the present. The catacombs were in the midst of catastrophic collapse; personal introspection could wait. He tightened his grip around her waist, ignoring how her face flushed slightly at the proximity, and started forward, following Lira's lead.
Choking clouds of dust greeted them in the corridor beyond. The entire place felt like it was on the verge of caving in, the floor buckling under each step. Rhea stumbled, nearly going down, but Mikhailis pulled her upright.
"You're heavier than you look," he teased, trying to lighten the mood.
"Watch your mouth," Rhea retorted, though there was a spark of humor in her glare. "Or I might just 'accidentally' trip you."
Now that I think about it again, didn't her personality changed a lot since we first met?
Ahead, Vyrelda beckoned them onward, grimacing at the way the ceiling sagged. "Pick up the pace. We've only got one shot at this exit."
The small group pressed on, making their way through the trembling passage, stepping over broken columns and jagged heaps of rock that had fallen from above. The rumble of shifting earth never fully subsided, each quake sending fresh showers of debris. Lira coughed into her sleeve, hair once immaculate now tangled with dust, but her posture remained upright and calm.
Mikhailis's mind raced. They'd suppressed the mist entity—for now—but at what cost? The brand on his arm itched, the Fragment in his grip cracked along its surface. He could sense the difference in it, like it was no longer just a relic but something bound intimately to him.
He tried not to think too hard about what that implied. The possibility that part of the mist's consciousness might still linger inside him was both unnerving and bizarrely thrilling. Get a grip, Mikhailis, he told himself, ducking to avoid a low-hanging slab of stone. Survive first, philosophize later.
Stone groaned again. Rhea hissed as another small quake nearly knocked them both off-balance, her injured leg nearly giving out. Mikhailis braced her, ignoring the dull ache in his own bruised torso. They pushed forward, step by agonizing step, while Cerys and Vyrelda cleared the path of the worst debris, chopping away any loose boulders that threatened to roll down at them. Experience tales at My Virtual Library Empire
Each breath burned with the stench of dirt and ancient rot. The catacombs felt like a beast in its death throes, raging and flailing with enough fury to drag them all to the underworld. Dust-laden air clung to their throats, making even short sentences an effort.
Despite the hazard, Mikhailis couldn't shut down the swirling questions in his head. He'd made a choice—a precarious, messy choice—to neither banish the mist entity entirely nor submit to it. Instead, he tried to mold it, confine it to a half-life within those runic wards. Yet he couldn't ignore the tug of that new brand on his arm, the subtle sense of a presence lurking just beneath the surface of his awareness, as if reminding him: We're not finished.
He forced himself to exhale, focusing on the immediate dangers rather than the uncertain future. The corridor sloped upward, a faint shimmer of what might be sunlight or maybe just reflected torchlight beckoning them.
Behind him, Rhea let out a shaky breath, her face twisted in pain, but she pressed on. He admired her grit—she'd thrown herself into the fight despite her wounded leg. He sometimes joked that she had more pride than sense, but in moments like this, he realized that pride was a bedrock of her survival.
Lira cast him a concerned glance. "You're quiet. Are you—"
"I'm alive. That's enough," Mikhailis answered curtly, though a corner of his mouth quirked in a small, weary smile. "We'll talk once we're out of here."
If we get out, he didn't add, but the thought hung in the musty air. Another quake rattled the tunnel, forcing them to cling to the walls. Cracks zigzagged overhead with ominous speed.
No more time for talk. Survival was everything now.
Together, they staggered onward, hearts pounding, the distant moan of shifting stone chasing them like a threat. Mikhailis clenched his hand around the Fragment, ignoring its cracked texture and the small swirl of power that still pulsed from within. There was no going back—he'd chosen a path that placed him between the mortal realm and the ancient force of the mist.
He just prayed he wouldn't regret it.
His breath hitched. Is this… me?