I was Drafted Into a War as the Only Human
Chapter 58: Deaths Door

Chapter 58: Deaths Door

The fogged warriors had become too much for the cohort.

They were overwhelmed, surrounded, and suffocated.

And then—

Just as hope began to die, the warriors vanished, melting back into the mist as suddenly as they’d appeared.

For a few breathless seconds, Seraph’s Hollow fell silent once more.

It began with a whisper.

Not a sound—more like a wrongness, a shift in the air.

Lucy felt it first—a pressure at the base of his skull, like cold fingers brushing his spine.

Then the fog moved.

It didn’t surge forward like before. It slithered in tendrils, in threads, creeping along the ground like snakes. And then—upward.

"Wait—" Lucy began.

But it was already happening.

The mist curled around Gindu’s legs, then his torso, and sank into him. He screamed—a low, gurgling noise—and dropped to his knees, eyes rolling back. Fenric’s laughter cut off as he doubled over, clutching his head. Eri twitched like she’d been struck by lightning. Even Llarm faltered, the air around him shattering with a sudden crack of broken wind magic.

"No, no, no—!" Lucy shouted.

He stepped toward Llarm—but the elf convulsed, then fell.

The fog was inside them.

Like venom. Like rot. Like worms burrowing through meat.

Lucy could feel it trying to slip into him, too—fingers of frost sliding beneath his skin, threading through his veins, whispering foreign commands to his body.

And then—

He screamed and detonated.

Not outward. Inward.

He poured Atomic Radiation through every cell, every nerve, every organ. He didn’t think. Didn’t hesitate. It burned, oh gods, it burned—but the fog screamed louder. Where the tendrils touched his mana, they evaporated, seared into oblivion.

He fell to his knees, panting, smoke rising from his skin.

It worked.

But the others—

They were still on the ground.

Gindu was twitching, foam at his lips. Fenric was out cold, face buried in the grass. Eri’s breathing was shallow, her limbs jerking sporadically. Llarm didn’t move at all.

Lucy staggered to his feet, barely able to lift his arms.

The fog didn’t care.

The warriors came back.

Thousands now. Closing in.

He was alone.

His fingers clenched around his weapon. He raised one hand, mana flickering at his fingertips.

"Okay," he muttered, voice shredded. "Fine. Let’s do this. Just me and the apocalypse."

The fog surged forward.

Lucy fought like a man possessed—every movement honed by desperation and fire. He slashed through the tide of spectral warriors, their inhuman shrieks ringing in his ears like a chorus of the damned.

He moved with the fluid precision he’d stolen from Ayas and the reckless ferocity he’d learned watching Fenric. His blade gleamed with flame, coated in fire from his cylinder spell. At the same time, a tight spiral of wind spun around him like a living radar, warning him of incoming threats.

And yet—it wasn’t enough.

There were too many.

Every time he cut one down, another two took its place. Every blow that landed meant nothing. The fog knitted the warriors back together like broken shadows rewinding their deaths.

He didn’t know how to kill them. Not truly. And the longer he failed—

His eyes flicked to Llarm and the others, sprawled across the grass like broken dolls. Motionless. Pale.

"Shit," he hissed. "I need to end this. They’re going to die!"

Panic surged through him like acid in his veins. This was his fault. He’d led them into this nightmare, and now they were seconds from being wiped out before the damn War Games had even begun.

So he pushed harder.

He pushed past pain, past reason. Mana howled through his body like a wildfire caught in a storm. His flames burned hotter, his strikes hit cleaner, and every movement became a symphony of precision and rage.

He lost count of how many he’d felled. A hundred? A thousand? Five thousand?

Didn’t matter. They just kept coming.

Then—movement.

Out of the corner of his eye, one of the fog warriors peeled off from the group. It wasn’t focused on him.

It was heading for Llarm.

Its blade was raised, just feet from driving itself into the elf’s exposed chest.

Lucy’s heart stopped. "No!"

He thrust out a hand to fire a cylinder—but it would take too long. Far too long.

So he ran.

He exploded into motion, cutting through enemies like wheat. Bloodless forms split and twisted away from his blade, reforming even as he left them behind. He activated Double Strike, forcing the ability to trigger with feints and near-misses to carve a path.

Faster. Faster!

"Ten feet too short," he thought, panic clawing at his brain.

The fog warrior raised its blade.

Lucy moved like lightning.

And just as the blade brushed Llarm’s chest, its head flew free, dissolving into the mist.

Lucy landed hard, breath ragged, blade humming with residual heat.

Then—

Pain.

White-hot and immediate.

A blade burst through his back and out of his black armored chestplate.

He gasped, blood bubbling from his lips and splashing onto the silver grass beneath him.

His wind magic had screamed a warning—but he’d ignored it.

Too focused. Too reckless.

He turned with a snarl and guttural groan, eyes wild with fury. With one desperate swing, he cleaved the fog warrior in half, then reached back and yanked the sword from his body with a wet, metallic screech.

It clattered to the ground, forgotten.

No time to heal. No time to breathe.

The fog surged again.

And the next wave was already upon him.

Just as Lucy braced for the fog warriors’ final charge, a shiver crawled down his spine.

But it wasn’t from the fog.

Something worse had arrived.

A suffocating magical pressure fell over him—dense, ancient, and absolute. It slammed into his body like invisible chains, locking his limbs in place. Even the fog warriors halted, frozen mid-lunge, their eyes wide and hollow.

Then came the voice.

Loud. Wild. Crackling with delight.

"Well, well, what do we have here?!"

Lucy glanced up, expecting the dark sky.

Instead, he saw only swirling fog.

And then, it split.

A colossal green shape plummeted from the mist, crashing into the clearing with an earth-shaking thud. The impact sent a ripple through the ground, knocking Lucy back onto one knee.

The fog warriors scattered like frightened birds.

And then the fog itself... vanished. As if it had never existed.

What the hell is going on? Lucy thought, blinking through the haze of pain and blood loss. His breath came in ragged gasps. Every muscle screamed in protest.

And then he saw her.

Smiling.

The Ogre towered over him, easily three times his size. Her skin was an earthy green, marked with old battle scars. Long, tangled purple hair spilled down her back like a wild river. Her nose was broad, her ears round, and her crooked teeth jutted out in a grin that was far too pleased for Lucy’s liking. She wore a stained white top that looked like it had once belonged to a much larger beast.

"A human?" she said, tilting her head with sudden, genuine interest. "Now that’s peculiar. Why would a human be here? You’re not supposed to be out this far—not since the Exile Wars. Unless..."

She squinted at him.

Then pointed one massive finger.

"No, you’re not a human. You must be one of the Demons thugs! A shapeshifter, maybe! Prepare to die!"

Lucy’s jaw dropped. Demon? Thugs? What is she talking about?

The Ogre bent her knees, cracking the ground beneath her, and began to charge.

"Wait, wait, wait!" Lucy shouted, throwing his arms up. "I’m not a thug or a demon! I’m just—just a stupid human trying to recruit you for the War Games!"

But she didn’t stop.

Lucy tried to stand, but his legs buckled. He coughed violently, blood staining the silver grass beneath him. Then, with the last scrap of breath he had left, he yelled:

"EROT SENT ME!"

The Ogre skidded to a stop, her feet carving trenches into the dirt.

There was a beat of silence.

Then she said brightly, "Oh! Well, why didn’t you say so?"

Lucy’s eye twitched. "Because you didn’t let me, you oversized frog!"

She cackled again, amused. "Heh! Fair enough, little croaker. Been a while since someone called me that."

Then she turned and pointed at the rest of Lucy’s cohort, strewn across the grass like discarded puppets. "Are these your teammates?"

Lucy’s breath caught.

He had almost forgotten how bad it was.

Llarm lay motionless, as pale as moonlight. The others twitched occasionally, but their color was all wrong—gray, like ash.

Panic clawed at Lucy’s chest.

"Yes! Dammit—they were poisoned by the fog!"

Without hesitation, Lucy activated Crucible’s Grace. Mana surged through his core, washing away the fatigue and mending his torn flesh. He gritted his teeth, forced himself upright, and stumbled past the Ogre, who watched him with open curiosity.

"Interesting..." she muttered.

Lucy dropped beside Llarm, tore away the elf’s damaged armor, and pressed his glowing hands to his chest. Golden light flared.

But nothing changed.

Llarm’s pulse remained weak. His body, cold.

Lucy poured in more mana. Then more.

"Come on, hero," he whispered. "You can’t die. Not here. Not now."

Still—nothing.

"No no no—DAMMIT—breathe!"

Behind him, the Ogre’s voice came gently, almost like a teacher correcting a young student.

"That’s not going to work."

Lucy’s head snapped toward her, face twisted in anger. She was calmly lifting the rest of the team in her arms like sacks of flour.

"What do you want me to do? Just let him die?" he shouted.

She tilted her head. "No. But if you carry him back to my hideout, I’ve got medicine. The old kind. The real kind. Fog sickness isn’t new, you know. It just hasn’t shown up in a few centuries."

Lucy blinked.

"You’re serious?"

She gave him a toothy grin. "Deadly. Now stop panicking, grab your hero, and follow me. You’re lucky I like humans. Mostly everyone doesn’t."

Then she added, under her breath: "You’ve always been fascinating. So many empires in such short lifespans..."

Lucy stared at her like she was insane.

And then, without a word, he grabbed Llarm’s limp body and followed the Ogre down the stone road.