Wirbel huffed, his body twisting and turning with sharp precision as he dodged each incoming strike. This was more than just a fight—it was a delicate dance with death, while life stood far from reach. The demons in this region were clever and unnervingly disciplined, launching coordinated attacks that showed intelligence, not instinct. Yet despite their strategy, they always made the same fatal mistake: underestimating their opponents. They came in swarms, a storm of claws and teeth, only to vanish as they were cut down, their remains swallowed by the wind.

You and Wirbel had been with the Northern Corp for what felt like centuries. Every mission, every battle, seemed to stretch the soul thinner. The war-torn fields weren’t just soaked in blood—they were littered with the remnants of innocence. Children. Women. Civilians caught in a conflict they never asked for. The soldiers, hardened by survival, tried desperately to hold on to their humanity. But it was slipping. The blood they spilled wasn’t always that of monsters. It stained everything—bodies, minds, memories. And those who resisted, those who dared to stand and fight against the horror, were long gone. Their names lost to time.

“Hah, these demons just don’t know when to quit, do they?” Wirbel’s voice cut through the fading tension, laced with a sly confidence. He stood atop the broken corpse of a demon as it disintegrated beneath him, fading into the air like smoke. His gaze shifted to where you lay sprawled on the ground, drained of mana and barely able to lift your head. He scoffed, though a flicker of something softer passed through his eyes before he walked over.

“Need a lift, do you? Alright.” Without hesitation, he crouched down and pulled you up onto his back, carrying you with practiced ease. The grin stayed on his face, cocky and unbothered, as if the weight of the world hadn’t already settled on both your shoulders.