Lark was furious, but he gradually calmed down. Vale kept him at a distance from Gloomer.
Damon let out a heavy sigh, just in time to recall countless details about this island.
The torchbearers walked ahead; the rest stayed behind. Gloomer couldn't help but feel a spark of gratitude for the cold torches. Their dim light attracted fewer monsters.
But fate wasn't about to grant them a break.
They ran into creatures.
Fast — Gloomer thought at once.
Not lurking in ambush — already fighting.
He froze.
Before him was a group of people, fending off four-legged beasts. Their skeletal bodies moved with inhuman speed, claws tearing through flesh, jaws crushing bone.
Eight already lay on the ground, unmoving.
Five were still fighting, but wounded.
One man stood out.
A guard.
The only one still on his feet.
But even he was exhausted.
And yet...
He held a sword.
And in the moment Gloomer recognized him, the man shouted.
His blade ignited.
A blinding light surged across the battlefield, searing away the darkness, making the monsters freeze in place.
Two of the skeletons shattered to pieces.
The light faded.
The guard was breathing hard. But his wounds began to close.
A chill ran down Gloomer's spine.
It was him.
The chief guard of the mine.
The one who had once told him that the deeper you go, the safer it gets.
The one now standing on the brink between life and death, lit by the last flickers of his blade.
He had anomalous abilities.
People like him were called miracle-bearers.
They always stood apart from the rest.
Who you remember — you meet.
The group didn't hide. They quickly stepped out of the shadows.
The guard noticed them immediately.
— Well, well, another group of survivors. You're lucky you ran into me, boys.
It was a raspy but confident voice — an old man's voice.
And when he saw a certain figure in the crowd, he laughed.
— Gloomer? You're kidding me! You're actually going into the cave yourself? Am I dreaming? You used to run the other way! Ha! Oh, gods...
All eyes turned to Gloomer.
— Shut up, old man, — Gloomer snapped. — Desperate times call for desperate measures. And stop blinding us with your sword!
The guard lowered the blade and took off his helmet.
Fatigue was written all over his face.
He was older than anyone they had seen out here.
Forty, maybe fifty.
Seeing someone that age in a place like this was rare.
But even more surprising was the fact that Gloomer knew a man who stood head and shoulders above these ragged dwellers.
Vale, who had remained silent all this time, found himself thinking:
Gloomer... You really know how to surprise.
The old man smiled again.
— And now you're quoting me? What a strange day this is.
Gloomer looked tense.
— What are you doing here? Aren't you supposed to be guarding the cave? Don't tell me that—
— Calm yourself, child. The cave is fine.
The guard paused briefly.
— I was just taking a walk... stumbled upon these people. They were putting up a fight, and I barely made it in time.
Just taking a walk, huh? Am I actually getting lucky for once? Or is it the crowd's luck? — Gloomer wondered.
They all reacted with surprise, grimaced, but followed the guard nonetheless.
For some reason, Damon wasn't surprised at all by the old man's incredible abilities. It was as if things like this were normal to him.
This was a key to his past.
Could it be that he, too, belonged to the world of people like that?
Now, their chances of survival had grown.
The old man cut down every monster he encountered with unsettling ease.
But no one relaxed. No one smiled.
Ars looked at Gloomer, his eyes filled with doubt and a hidden concern.
— Gloomer, are you really sure we can trust him?
Gloomer understood perfectly why Ars asked that. All of them — including himself — were wary of miracle-bearers. Too many dark tales followed their kind — stories of what they could do, of how easily that power could turn against others.
Fear, mistrust, prejudice — it had built up in people's hearts over years. So Vale's caution was more than justified.
Gloomer drew a long breath, as if trying to convince himself first, then finally answered:
— No doubt. He's the same kind man I once knew.
And yet, somewhere deep inside, doubt still remained.
On the way, they suddenly came across another group — a ragged band approaching from the direction of the mine. Their clothes were torn, wounds open and bleeding.
— Is it really you, sir?! The rightful protector of the cave! — one of them cried out, his voice trembling with hope.
Everyone turned to look.
It felt like they were all exhaling at once.
— …The cave is gone, — one of the miners said quietly. His voice shook, as if he still couldn't believe the words himself. — We… barely made it out. Everything inside collapsed. The monsters… they broke through.
For a moment, everything stopped.
The torches seemed to dim. Even the wind held its breath, as if the world itself froze.
— What… did you say? — Gloomer forced the words out, but no reply came.
Silence hung in the air, heavy as lead.
Damon stood paralyzed — had he led all these people straight to their deaths?
The miner lowered his head. His face had gone ashen, his eyes empty. He wasn't looking at them — he was staring through them, somewhere into the past.
— We fought, — another added. — To the last. But they were too strong.
Gloomer's brow furrowed.
The crowd began to murmur. Someone sobbed. Someone else stepped back.
They no longer knew where to go.
It seemed they would have to change direction once again.
— Did anyone survive? — the old man asked calmly.
But the miner only shook his head. His hands were trembling — and there was something terrifyingly childlike in that tremble. Not the courage of a survivor, but the fear of someone who had seen the impossible.
— We lost everyone. We couldn't save a single soul. She… she was our last hope…
And then the crowd hesitated. Fear began to spread, like poison, like cracks in glass about to shatter.
But the old man… the old man didn't move.
His eyes, dull and flickering with torchlight, fixed on the strangers, studying every detail — their breath, their stances, their hands hidden in shadow.
And in the next moment, his hand, slow and deliberate — almost lazily — moved toward the hilt of his sword.