CHAPTER 677: THE RIVER YOU STILL CARRY (END)

"Shield wall front, stagger wedges! Spears behind, archers to outer ring! Scurabons, Twins, Hypnoveils—flank in push-disrupt cycles!"

Orders slid through the force like oil on gears. Shield skeletons locked, edges kissing until lines looked like the wall of a city. Spears slotted between shoulders. Archers fanned to the edge, already testing angles. Silk Guards unspooled low nets, not to catch yet, to trip later. Slimeweave rolled forward and painted thin gel arcs—barely visible—where he guessed blood and spit would try to live.

Thalatha walked two steps along the front and pressed a shield rim up a hair. "Keep wrists quiet," she said. "Let the blow travel the wood, not the bones."

The Juggernaut moved first. Fast. Faster than its weight allowed. Two blades came in from left and right, low to high, a scissoring meant to cut shields open like fruit. At the same time the chain-arms snapped, hooks lancing out to find and yank an ankle, a wrist, then punish the gap.

"Meet, don’t bite!" Mikhailis called. "Absorb!"

The first impact was ugly but honest. Shield rims rang; bones shook. But the new skeletons held. Their stances were better now, their weight more down than forward. The blades slid up and away. Hooks found edges and hissed along them, trying to catch. Tanglebeetles on the flanks snapped lines at the hooks at the same moment, making the chains chatter and miss by a thumb.

Archers lofted in a clean arc, not at the mask but at the inner elbow joints. Arrows struck and stuck, not deep, but right enough to nag the angle. Hypnoveils lifted their mantles and showed the Juggernaut an honest picture of the last miss—its chain landing a hand short, its right blade meeting wood, not gap. The trick wasn’t to lie. It was to make the target remember its own failure at the perfect time.

The Juggernaut adapted. It dropped a chain, looped the other around a shield and yanked, not to pull the skeleton out of line but to pull the shield edge down. The next blade came in at that exact new angle.

"Compensate," Mikhailis snapped. "Second rank, shoulder—now."

A second shield slid into the lowered slot. The blade hit a wall where it expected air. The sound was a mean, perfect thunk.

Rodion’s pulse lines tightened into a finer beat, quick-short-long. Cadence update. Pattern of scissor-chain-hook repeats in seven-stroke cycle. Anticipate feint on fourth.

"I hear you," Mikhailis muttered. Seven strokes. That’s a brain, not a puppet. Or a good imitation. He tracked the mask filaments. He didn’t like how they quivered when arrows passed near, as if they tasted trajectories.

"Hypnoveils, keep the last mistake fresh. Don’t show the same one twice," he said. "Make it wonder which hand betrayed it."

The Hypnoveils pulsed their mantles with a quiet authority. The air around the Juggernaut wobbled at the edges, just enough to make timing slippery.

The Juggernaut took one long step forward and stomped. The mandala answered with a dull boom. The floor tried to shift weight in ankles and knees, a subtle nudge to make men lean wrong.

"Feet! Feet!" Thalatha barked, low. She moved along the line, setting a skeleton’s stance with a knock to the shin, a palm to a bracer. "Knees soft. Let it pass."

Slimeweave spread a fast film over the suspect segments of the mandala. The vibration dulled where the gel sat, as if the floor had been given a blanket and told to calm down.

Scurabons slithered in on both flanks like neat knives. First one tapped a wrist seam with the back of a sickle, not a cut, a rude knock, then ghosted away before the blade could answer. The second went low and tapped the inside of a knee where the ribplate didn’t like to flex. Nothing dramatic. Persistent insult. A third scurried up a chain like a rat on a rope and flicked the collar where the hook met the link. The next yank stuttered.

Mikhailis watched for a pattern in the Juggernaut’s breath. You could feel it in your knuckles if you watched long enough—how the shoulder loaded before a real swing, how the hips stayed loose on a feint. He breathes like someone who used to have lungs, he thought. Old habits wearing new bones.

Arrows came in again, this time not for a kill but to pin rhythm. One found a slot between ribplates on the left flank and stuck at an angle that annoyed the next blade’s path. Another bounced, but the bounce took heat out of the swing, and that was enough.

The chains struck for ankles again. Tanglebeetles answered with two lines in a V, catching the hook and returning it at a different angle. The hook skated into a Silk net that was waiting on the floor. The net took the hit, sagged, and then sprang back as Crymber Frost breathed across it. Crymber Ember followed with a quick tap. The line stiffened to a shallow amber ramp. The next chain slid up the ramp and over a shield instead of behind it. A spear took that chance and kissed the Juggernaut’s bicep joint, a bite, not a bite-off.

The Hypnoveils dimmed their mantles half a shade, enough to give the appearance of a wider opening on the right. The Juggernaut believed the space and committed. Scurabons were already there, already tapping. The right elbow lost a little faith. The next cleaver swing arrived a heartbeat late.

Mikhailis felt the army inhaling with him. We can set cadence. We can make him dance wrong.

"Door on three," he warned, eyes on a wedge forming where two plates didn’t quite overlap. "One... two—"

He never said three.

The Juggernaut slammed all four weapons into the floor at once.

The shockwave wasn’t a wave. It was a hand under the mandala flipping half the tiles, then flipping them back. Lanes buckled. Shields popped apart a finger, then kissed again. Two skeletons went down and were dragged back by their ankles before hooks could claim them. The air picked up a reek like old breath caught in a scarf.

The rings of the mandala glowed sick green. Lines that had been decoration lit up as scripts. From each ring, seams opened like mouths. Fingers, wrong and thin, clawed out. Then arms. Then bodies. Wight Marauders hauled themselves up with halberds that still remembered parade drills. Bone Hounds shook necrotic spit from their jowls and laughed without throats. Skullcasters floated free of the stone, rune-lit jaws clacking quiet syllables that made the air itch.

Addendum: command aura active. Secondary undead receiving buff. Count rising. Suggestion: surge resources or retreat.

"Yeah, yeah," Mikhailis said, and grinned with too much teeth. "Out-summon a summoner? Let’s make this stupid."

Thalatha gave him a look that was half warning, half respect. "Keep the door small," she said. "If we open it too wide, the sea comes in."

"Small door," he agreed. "Many locks."

He lifted his hand and pointed without flourish. "Archers—loft at Skullcasters first. Don’t chase kills. Just make them duck."

Bows answered with a rising hiss. Arrows arced high, falling into the loose bones of the floating skulls. The first few missed clean and still did their job. The skulls dipped, chants hitching. The next arrows arrived on the hitch, not the beat. Two jaws cracked. One rune went dark and fell like ash.

"Silk, curtains left and right," he said. "Make the Hounds pick their lanes."

Two pale veils dropped at knee height, then hardened with a snap as Crymber breaths touched them. Hounds lunged and met soft walls that turned hard while their paws were still inside. They didn’t yelp—they didn’t have enough dog left for that—but they twisted, and in twisting, gave flanks. Spears pricked. Not to kill. To herd.

"Liches," he called, eyes never leaving the Juggernaut, "keep your crowns dim. No greed. Tag and sort only. We’ll invest on my hand."

Crowns stayed at worklight. Hands moved like clerks on deadline.

"Scurabons, wrists then knees on Marauders," he said. "Take their swing, then take their walk."

The blade-runners flowed into the new arrivals like blue ink in water. Tap-tap at wrists. A cut at the knee when the halberd turned stubborn. The long poles lost grace, then weight, then purpose.

Rodion’s line danced tighter around the front ranks, a visual metronome steady enough to lean on. Cadence pack: hold for two, bite on three, slide on five. Hypnoveils, reflect the last halberd miss on the left arc. Mothcloak, blur the rune cluster on Skullcaster D.

The Hypnoveils lifted their mantles and showed the Wight Marauders their last ugly stumbles, as if replaying the embarrassment just for them. The next swing came too careful and died halfway. Mothcloak brushed a soft pinion across the glowing runes in one floating skull’s jaw; two symbols smeared like chalk in the rain. The spell fizzled into a cough.

The Juggernaut pushed forward through its children, blades drawing frowns in the air. One cleaver went for the wedge again—predictable, heavy. The other came in from above, less predictable. It aimed for the top edge of the second-rank shields.

"Roof!" Thalatha snapped.

Two tower shields lifted a hand’s height. The high blade kissed iron and skidded. The chain that followed snagged a rim. A Tanglebeetle’s line shot out and wrapped the chain near the hook; the beetle braced and hummed as the line stretched. Mikhailis could feel the pull in his own shoulders as if he were holding it.

"Anchor," he said. "Don’t fight the whole arm. Fight the last link."

The beetle settled weight. The chain jolted once and stopped moving enough to matter. A spear blade slid down and pinned it to the floor. Slimeweave dabbed gel over the pin and the chain went from alive to annoyed.

Skullcasters drifted higher, trying to get out of arrow reach. Archers answered by walking their shots, not changing angle, just changing rhythm. The third volley arrived a heartbeat after the second, like rain remembering it was supposed to be a storm. Two skulls cracked and fell. One broke into three and still tried to talk. Silk curtained it without ceremony.

"Keep the ring," Mikhailis said, seeing the urge to surge and crush. "Do not chase into the mandala. Make them come to our food."

He could taste metal in his mouth. He realized he was biting the inside of his cheek and stopped.

The Juggernaut leaned into a push, blades widening, trying to catch two wedges at once and twist them apart. His chain-hands whistled, hooks snapping for the mouths of the staggered V’s.

"Wedge left—hinge," Mikhailis said. "Right wedge, brace with second rank. Archers, two loft, then walk to counterclockwise. Make him turn his head."

Arrows lofted and fell. The Hypnoveils pulsed an honest mirror of the Juggernaut’s last annoyance, the hook sliding off a rim rather than inside it. He corrected for the memory and over-corrected for the present. The chain missed both wedge mouths. One cleaver hit shield, not gap. The other bit a rim and stuck for a heartbeat. It was a small heartbeat. It was enough.

"Door," Mikhailis said, voice low and bright—a word the wedge had learned to love.

Spears slid. Not deep. True. The first rank stabbed to hold. The second rank stabbed to punish. Scurabons, already there, tapped the elbow seam and then, with absolute pettiness, tapped it again.

For a breath, the Juggernaut’s four arms were not a set but four separate arguments. One chain wanted to yank; one blade wanted to slice; one hand wanted to free the stuck hook; one blade wanted to punish the spears that were being rude.

Rodion’s line flashed a brief green.

Small advantage achieved. Maintain discipline. Do not pursue glory.

"Never do," Mikhailis lied, because his heart wanted to climb onto the dais and wrestle the mask off with his own hands. Focus. Make the next ten seconds obedient.

The mandala glowed brighter under the secondary undead. More mouths opened. More hands clawed. The room planned to drown them in bodies if the boss couldn’t cut them. It was the right plan. It would almost work.

"Adjust," he said. "Archers—shift one squad to pick Wight ankles. Bows low, not high. Trip the front row. Spears—stab and step. Make the corpses lie down where you want a wall."

Arrows went for ankles and shins, not hearts. Wights stumbled and fell into the places the Silk had chosen. Slimeweave smeared the fallen with gel. The next Wight stepped on slick and made a bad choice. The line settled into a ring of tidy problems that could be addressed one at a time.

A Bone Hound found a gap and lunged, mouth open, spit stringing. Thalatha stepped. Not big. Just enough. Her sword cut inside the arc, through the hinge of the jaw, then she let the weight carry her blade down and out. Clean. No drama. The Hound’s head kept going a little, like it wasn’t ready to agree. She nudged it with her boot and it agreed.

Mikhailis caught her eye for half a second. She looked like a person doing laundry, not war. He felt safer because of it.

The Juggernaut rolled its shoulders and the mask threads quivered. It did not roar. It had no lungs. But the air pressed down as if a sound had been made.

Command aura intensifying. Secondary units’ aggression up twelve percent. Our window to thin numbers before next surge: small.

Mikhailis flexed his fingers and forced them to stop shaking. "We take the small," he said to himself. "We put it in the pocket."

He raised his hand again, palm steady. "Keep lanes. Keep manners. We do this by count, not by feeling."

He almost smiled then, wild and private. This is why I like bugs, he thought. Not because they are simple, but because they are honest. If you respect rhythm, the world gives you a path.

The Juggernaut’s right blade came in low. The left blade followed high. The chains swept the outer ring, trying to hook archers and drag them into the mandala mouths.

"Outer ring—drop and step!" Mikhailis called. "Silk—curtain that sweep!"

The archers dropped to one knee, then stepped back on the beat. The chain whipped through empty air and met a Silk veil instead. It snagged. Crymber breaths hardened the veil and the chain slowed like a snake hitting ice. A spear pinned it again. The Juggernaut tore it free with a shower of bone chips, but the beat was lost.

Arrows fell on the Skullcasters one more time, and this time a full jaw shattered. The rune-smoke that spilled tried to become a spell and instead became a cough.

The mandala’s outer ring flickered, like a candle in a draft.

"Now," Mikhailis whispered, more to the rhythm than to anyone. "Now we might make you stutter."

He tasted iron again and realized he had bitten his lip this time. He licked it clean and spat to the side without taking his eyes off the mask.

"Small door," Thalatha reminded.

"Small door," he echoed. "Promise."

He lifted his hand in a short, sharp cut. The first ranks surged forward, ants clicking, skeletons locking shields, and the air filled with the sound of two armies about to tear the world between them.