Atticus felt weak.
It was as though his energy was being siphoned from his body, drained with every breath as he moved.
'Just as I expected,' he thought, gritting his teeth.
The mist was thick, wrapping around him like a suffocating blanket, cold and oppressive. It clung to his skin, seeped into his lungs, and leeched at his energy with every movement.
Atticus had already suspected this would happen. The moment the mist surrounded the hill, he knew he had no choice. It wasn't a matter of avoiding it, it was inevitable.
As he leapt from the peak of the hill, he burst into the mist, parting it like water. His landing was precise and soundless. A roll carried his momentum forward, his body moving with fluid efficiency.
His legs churned like pistons, silent and impossibly fast. Each step barely touched the sand, leaving no sound, no trace. His breathing slowed to a whisper, his heart pounding in a controlled rhythm.
Atticus moved like a shadow, quiet and unseen.
But he wasn't alone.
He could hear them.
The sound of countless footsteps echoed behind him, an army of invisible beasts. The soft crunch of sand, the vibration of their claws hitting the ground, the distant howl of their hunger.
They were coming.
'Can you hear me?' Atticus tried to see if he could communicate with his spirit through thoughts.
This was a trial designed by the katana. It seemed unlikely it wouldn't have accounted for something like this, unless, of course, the katana was hell-bent on making this as hellish as possible.
Luckily, that wasn't the case.
'Yes, I can.'
Hearing the thick voice of his guide in his head brought immense relief. Atticus wasted no time.
'Tell me everything about this mist,' he demanded, his mind racing even as his body pushed forward.
Now that he was in the mist and directly affected by it, the spirit could give him answers.
The spirit didn't hesitate. 'This is the Voidveil Mist. It appears only at night and drains energy from any living thing caught within it. The more you exert yourself, the faster it drains you.'
Atticus's eyes narrowed. 'How do I stop it from draining my energy?'
"Simple," the spirit replied. "The less you exert yourself, the less it absorbs. Exert nothing, and it takes nothing."
The information hit Atticus like a thunderbolt. His brain worked rapidly, piecing together possibilities.
'How do I escape it?'
'You don't,' the spirit said bluntly. 'You were never meant to escape. Even at your top speed, it will engulf you. It's not something you can outrun.'
'What about the beasts? They're not affected?'
The spirit shook his head. 'They're a product of the mist. It doesn't affect them. It's their domain.'
Atticus's jaw tightened. 'A trap.'
He glanced back. The invisible beasts were gaining, their footsteps multiplying. Despite the many he had already killed, there were still countless more.
Going quiet was useless now. The beasts had marked him with their scent. Running would only drain him further. Fighting would draw more blood and sound, attracting even more of them.
To an observer, it seemed like checkmate.
But the spirit's gaze flicked to Atticus, narrowing in curiosity. One mistake would mean certain death, and yet, despite everything, the boy's expression remained calm.
Atticus's cold eyes flickered as his thoughts raced, considering every possibility, weighing every outcome.
The spirit couldn't help but marvel. "Even in this situation?" it muttered.
Among the wielders of the katana, Atticus was by far the youngest to have ever attempted the fourth trial. The spirit could remember its own trial vividly, the fear that had gripped it when faced with a similar situation. And yet, here stood this young boy, utterly calm.
Just as the spirit marveled at his composure, Atticus's gaze hardened. His streaking figure came to an abrupt stop. He turned sharply to face the oncoming horde, his aura shifting.
He had decided.
Running was impossible. Staying quiet was impossible.
So, he would fight.
His stance was sharp, his feet planted firmly on the ground, both arms raised and steady. His piercing blue eyes glowed faintly, cutting through the oppressive darkness.
The mist thickened around him, cold and heavy, blurring everything. But Atticus wasn't relying on his sight alone. His heightened senses had reached their peak.
He felt them.
The air itself moved, subtle shifts, the faintest vibrations carried by the mist.
The sound of the beasts' steps grew louder.
A howl tore through the air, sharp and guttural, shattering the silence.
Atticus's body tensed.
He felt it, a ripple in the air. Fifty meters. Closer. The beasts rushed forward, their invisible forms slicing through the mist. The air parted with their speed, the flow disrupted as they charged.
Twenty meters.
They split, fanning out, encircling him like predators toying with their prey.
They ran in a circle, their movements rapid and relentless. The sound of their steps echoed in unison, a haunting rhythm that filled the void.
But Atticus didn't move.
His stance didn't waver. His arms remained raised, steady and unmoving.
The beasts seemed to wait, as though testing him.
Atticus's thoughts were calm, cold.
'They don't hear their own sounds. Only mine.'
There was no escape. The open space offered no cover, no retreat. Every strike would make noise. Every action would draw more.
But it didn't matter.
He was ready. And he would fight.
The first attack came.
Three beasts lunged at once, their forms tearing through the mist.
Atticus's eyes closed. His breath slowed.
Stillness.
Then, his hand moved.
Like a viper.
Fast. Precise. Deadly.
His fingers pierced the air, striking the beasts' throats in rapid succession. The mist quivered as their bodies collapsed to the ground, leaving faint, flickering impressions in the sand.
The howls erupted again.
More lunged, faster, from every direction.
Atticus's body didn't flinch. His feet stayed planted, unmoving. Only his torso twisted, his arms moving like lightning, his fingers striking with blinding speed.
Thud. Thud. Thud.
The faint sound of his strikes reverberated through the mist, sharp and lethal.
His fingers moved like a gatling gun, cutting through the air with a whistle as they struck one beast after another.
Each attack was minimal. Efficient. Perfect.
The beasts fell in rapid succession, their bodies piling up around him. The air reeked of blood, but Atticus didn't stop.
The mist thickened. The attacks grew more relentless.
Beasts burst through the piles of their fallen, leaping at him with vicious ferocity.
But Atticus didn't panic. His mind worked like a machine.
Finally, his foot moved.
He stomped the ground with force, sending the invisible bodies flying in every direction.