Day eleven. The old battlefield stretched before them like a canvas painted in death. Kael counted the temperature drops. Seven. Ten. Fifteen. More.
Dozens of wandering spirits called this place home. His painter spirit pressed against the inside of his chest, whining. Excited? Terrified? Both.
Should they turn back? The rational part of his mind screamed yes. Low Apprentice against dozens of spirits meant certain death. But Mya had two days. Maybe less. Time didn't care about rational.
"Stay close." He whispered to his spirit. It emerged slowly, form rippling with tension.
The battlefield still showed scars from whatever horror birthed these spirits. Trenches carved into earth. Rusted weapons jutting from soil like grave markers. And everywhere, that crawling cold that meant origin items waiting.
His spirit pointed... did it have proper paws now?... toward the eastern edge. Three spirits visible there. Wandering class but moving together. Pack behavior. Unusual. Dangerous.
"Too many. Find a lone one."
They circled the battlefield's edge. Careful. Quiet. His spirit left faint paint trails that evaporated after seconds. Marking where they'd been. Smart. When had it learned that?
There. Near a collapsed supply wagon. Single spirit hovering over a broken sword. Soldier-type by its shape. Translucent armor. Wounds that never healed. It faced away, focused on something in the dirt.
"Can you take it?"
His spirit studied the target. Painted a quick equation in the air. One greater than one. But barely. The image dissolved into uncertainty.
"We need to try."
They crept closer. Twenty feet. Ten. The soldier-spirit remained fixated on the ground. Kael could see now what held its attention. A locket. Tarnished silver. Portrait inside too faded to make out.
Origin item. But not the sword? Interesting. The spirit reached for the locket with translucent fingers. Couldn't quite touch it. Eternal frustration. Reaching for what death had stolen.
His spirit attacked without warning. Launched itself in a rainbow streak. Struck the soldier-spirit from behind. They rolled together, paint and ectoplasm mixing.
The soldier-spirit shrieked. Sound like rusted metal tearing. It twisted, bringing its phantom sword around. The blade passed through Kael's spirit. No effect on paint-flesh, but the gesture meant something. His spirit stumbled. Confused by attack that should have worked.
"The locket! Break the locket!"
Kael dove for the silver trinket. The soldier-spirit noticed. Abandoned his painter to chase this new threat. Phantom blade swept down. He rolled aside. Blade hit earth. Somehow carved real furrow.
His spirit recovered. Bit down on the soldier's neck. Paint-teeth found purchase in whatever ghosts were made of. The soldier-spirit bucked. Tried to dislodge. His painter held on. Brave. Stupid. Necessary.
The locket was heavier than it looked. Spiritual weight. Kael grabbed the rusted sword. Raised it high. Brought it down on the locket.
Crack.
The sound echoed across the battlefield. Every spirit in hearing range turned. Looked. Saw.
"Oh shit."
The soldier-spirit dissolved with a sigh. Light particles rose. His painter swallowed quickly. Grew slightly. But the other spirits were already moving. Drawn by destruction. By feeding opportunity. By prey too weak to hold territory.
"Run!"
They fled together. His spirit half-in, half-out of his chest. Not fully merged but close. Adding speed. Adding desperation. Behind them, the pack gave chase. Three spirits flowing over ground like hungry fog.
A trench. Kael jumped. Almost made it. His foot caught the edge. He tumbled down, rolled through mud and worse. His spirit cushioned the impact. Barely.
The pack reached the trench edge. Paused. Why? His spirit painted frantic warning. More spirits ahead. The trench was occupied territory.
Trapped between packs. Perfect. Kael pressed against the trench wall. His spirit fully emerged. Ready to fight. Ready to die. At least they'd fed once more.
The trench spirits emerged from mud. Children. All children. Their forms perfect except for the holes. Chest wounds. Stomach wounds. Places where spears had found young flesh.
"Play with us." They spoke in harmony. Sweet voices hiding sharp hunger. "Forever and ever."
His spirit growled. The sound came out like ripping canvas. The children giggled. Surrounded him. Above, the first pack waited. Patient now. Let the prey exhaust itself on others.
"I can't play. I have someone to save."
"Everyone has someone to save." The lead child stepped closer. A girl. Maybe nine when she died. "They all say that. Right before we play."
The children attacked together. His spirit met them. One against five. Six. Seven. More crawling from the mud. Too many. Always too many.
But his painter had grown. Two spirits absorbed now. It fought with intelligence. Painted false images. Made the children strike illusions. Created barriers of color that lasted seconds. Enough to dodge. To survive another moment.
Kael searched for origin items. What would child-spirits cling to? Toys? No. These were soldier-children. Drafted too young. Their origin would be...
There. Half-buried in mud. A recruitment banner. Bright colors promising glory. Lying to children about what war meant.
He fought toward it. His spirit covered him. Took wounds that leaked paint instead of blood. The children pressed closer. Their play involved teeth now. Claws. Ancient hunger given tiny hands.
The banner wouldn't budge. Stuck in mud. Wrapped around something. Kael dug frantically. Uncovered bones. Small bones. All wrapped in the banner like a mass grave marker.
"Stop!" One child noticed what he'd found. "That's ours! Our promise!"
Promise? The banner had promised them glory. Given them death. They hated it. Loved it. Couldn't let go.
"I'll paint you a better promise."
The words came without thought. His spirit understood. Broke from combat. Rushed to his side. Together they touched the banner. His blood. His spirit's essence. Mixing. Creating.
The banner changed. Paint soaked into fabric. Images formed. Not recruitment lies. Truth. Children playing. Real play. No weapons. No wounds. Just youth being youth.
"That's... that's..." The lead girl stared. "What we wanted?"
"What you deserved."
The banner dissolved. Not breaking. Transforming. Becoming what it should have been. The children watched their origin item become something else. Something better. They smiled. Real smiles. Then faded. Peacefully. Finally.
Light particles filled the trench. So many. His spirit gorged itself. Grew. Kael felt the change through their bond. Stronger. Smarter. Angrier.
Above, the first pack had grown. Ten spirits now. All watching. All waiting. His spirit looked up at them. Painted a simple message in the air. 'Mine.'
The pack considered. His spirit was still smaller. Still weaker. But it had just absorbed seven spirits at once. Might absorbed made right.
They withdrew. Not far. But enough. Acknowledging territory. For now.
...
Kael climbed from the trench on shaking legs. His spirit had grown to wolf size. Its form more solid. When it walked, real paw prints appeared. When it growled, spirits listened.
"How many more do we need?"
His spirit painted numbers. Ten? Twenty? The images kept changing. Growing. Uncertain.
"We don't have time for twenty."
His spirit disagreed. Painted Camp Seven. The Kiratashi there. Their spirits. The difference in power. Message clear: they were still nothing.
"Then we get what we can today. Try tomorrow."
Tomorrow. Mya's last day. The thought made his chest tight. His spirit noticed. Pressed against him. Comfort and determination mixed.
They hunted until sunset. Found three more lone spirits. Fought. Won. Fed. Each victory harder. Each feeding smaller returns. His spirit grew but incrementally now. The easy growth was over.
"Strong enough?"
His spirit painted itself tiny. Camp Seven massive. The scale was laughable. But underneath, small words. 'Try anyway.'
Yes. They'd try anyway. What else was there?
But first, survive the night. The battlefield went mad after dark. Spirits emerged in waves. The strong fed on the weak. Hierarchies established through violence.
They found shelter in an overturned supply wagon. His spirit painted wards on the walls. Crude protection but better than nothing. Outside, spirits fought. Screamed. Died. Were reborn. Fought again.
"Tomorrow." Kael pulled his coat tighter. "One way or another, tomorrow we try."
His spirit curled around him. Larger now. Warmer. More real. It painted dreams on the wagon walls. Images of rescue. Of success. Of survival.
Beautiful lies. But they helped pass the night.
When dawn came, they'd counted sixteen spirits absorbed total. Still Low Apprentice. Still nothing compared to Camp Seven's defenders. But stronger than yesterday.
That had to count for something.
Didn't it?