CHAPTER 61: GHOSTS OF THE LAWN

The world on the other side of the maintenance hatch was a symphony from hell.

A constant, gut-vibrating rumble shook the concrete bunker, the sound of a thousand distant explosions.

The air smelled of ozone, burnt grass, and a coppery tang that Michael’s brain refused to identify as blood.

He peered through the narrow viewing slit, his eyes struggling to adjust to the hellish, crimson light that bled from the Red Gate in the sky.

"Well," Jax’s voice crackled in his ear, his usual cheerfulness strained. "This is officially the worst public park I have ever been to."

"The Yelp reviews are going to be terrible."

Michael’s [Void Sense] was on fire.

It felt like a thousand tiny needles were pricking the inside of his skull.

The raw, undirected rage of the Gate was a physical weight, a psychic scream that threatened to drown him.

He could feel the chaotic, hungry energy of the gargoyle swarm, a buzzing, angry hive of red dots on his internal radar.

He could feel the hot, greedy ambition of the Guild Hunters, a chaotic jumble of a hundred different desires, all sharp edges and desperate intent.

And somewhere in the chaos, a single, cold point of pure, predatory focus.

A Ghost.

Okay, Michael, his inner monologue drawled, his sarcasm a thin, pathetic shield against the rising tide of pure terror. This is the raid lobby. Try not to get ganked before we even pull the first boss.

"Focus your breathing, Michael."

Chloe’s voice was a quiet, steady presence beside him in the rattling darkness of the van.

He flinched. He’d forgotten she wasn’t in the van anymore. She was in his ear. Everywhere. The ghost on his shoulder.

"Filter the input," she instructed, her voice a low, clinical murmur. "The Gate’s psychic output is a broadcast. A raw, undirected signal. Treat it like background noise. Isolate the specific threats. Find the rhythm in the chaos."

He closed his eyes, forcing himself to do as she said.

He stopped trying to block the scream and started listening to it.

The raw rage of the Gate was the bassline, a constant, thrumming beat.

The gargoyles were the screeching, chaotic static layered over it.

And the Hunters... the Hunters were the sharp, distinct notes. Each one a different instrument playing its own selfish song.

It was still a nightmare.

But now it was a nightmare with a discernible structure.

"I’m good," he said, his own voice sounding surprisingly steady.

"Jinx, you’re on point," Chloe commanded. "Lead them out. Northern route. Use the treeline for cover. I want you at the rendezvous point near the carousel in five minutes."

"Copy that, Boss Lady," Jinx grunted. "Let’s go for a walk in the park."

She slid the bunker door open a crack and slipped out, a phantom in the crimson gloom.

Michael followed, Jax bringing up the rear, his bag of tricks clinking softly with every step.

They moved like ghosts, their boots making no sound on the soft, damp earth.

The Great Lawn was a battlefield.

Craters, some still smoking, scarred the once-perfect grass.

The skeletal, blackened remains of ancient oak trees clawed at the angry red sky.

A hundred yards to their left, a team from The Ironhearts, their battered armor a testament to their grit, were locked in a brutal, close-quarters brawl with a pack of gargoyles, the clash of steel and claw a sharp, percussive rhythm in the chaotic symphony.

To their right, a squad from The Vanguard moved with a polished, corporate efficiency, their gleaming energy shields holding back a tide of screeching monsters while their support mages rained down bolts of brilliant, advertisement-friendly lightning.

It was beautiful.

It was terrifying.

"You know," Jax whispered, his voice full of a genuine, almost childlike wonder. "For the end of the world, the special effects are amazing."

"Focus, Jax," Chloe’s voice snapped in his ear.

"Right, right. Focusing on not getting eaten."

They reached the edge of a small, wooded copse, the trees offering a brief, welcome respite from the open killing field.

Michael’s [Void Sense] was working overtime. He was filtering, sorting, tagging every energy signature in a three-hundred-foot radius.

It was exhausting.

It felt like his brain was trying to run a dozen different antivirus scans at once.

He could feel the raw, chaotic energy of the gargoyles.

He could feel the hot, focused power of the active Hunters.

He was learning to tell the difference. Learning to read the texture of the chaos.

He was so focused on the big picture, on the approaching swarm to the east, that he almost missed the small one.

A single gargoyle, its wing broken, its body bleeding black ichor, had been hiding in the branches of a fallen tree.

It let out a piercing shriek and dropped from the branches, its claws extended, aiming directly for Jax’s unprotected back.

There was no time to shout a warning.

Michael reacted on pure instinct.

[VOID TETHER!]

A whip of pure, black energy shot from his hand. It wasn’t a powerful, crushing tendril. It was thin, fast, and precise.

It wrapped around the gargoyle’s ankle in mid-air and yanked.

The creature shrieked in surprise as its trajectory was violently altered. It crashed into the trunk of another tree with a sickening, wet crunch.

Jax spun around, his eyes wide, a grenade already in his hand. He saw the twitching, stunned monster, then looked at Michael.

"Whoa," he breathed. "Nice catch, Spooky."

Jinx, who had already raised her rifle, lowered it slowly, a flicker of something that might have been grudging respect in her eyes.

A new notification pinged on Michael’s HUD, quiet and simple.

[Skill ’Void Sense’ has leveled up to Lv. 2.]

[New Attribute Unlocked: You can now differentiate between baseline Hunter and Monster energy signatures.]

A level up. In the middle of a raid. Classic.

The new clarity was immediate.

The chaotic jumble of energy signatures on his internal map resolved into two distinct, color-coded categories.

The angry, chaotic red of the monsters.

And the sharp, focused, and varied colors of the Hunters.

It was like a fog had lifted.

"They’re moving," Chloe’s voice said, her tone urgent. "A large Vanguard patrol is sweeping your sector. Find cover. Now."

Jinx pointed to a shallow, overgrown ditch a few yards away.

They dove in just as the patrol came into view, their polished silver armor gleaming in the hellish red light.

They passed by, their movements precise, their voices low and professional.

They were clear.

Jinx was about to give the signal to move when Michael’s world tilted on its axis.

His newly leveled-up sense flared, not with a vague warning, but with a series of sharp, distinct, and utterly terrifying alarms.

He looked at the open field in front of them.

It was empty.

But his sense told him a different story.

It wasn’t empty.

There were eight distinct, non-monster energy signatures scattered across that field.

Hidden.

Waiting.

Lying in ambush.

Jinx put a hand on the edge of the ditch, ready to vault out.

"Wait," Michael hissed, his voice a low, urgent whisper that cut through the sounds of battle.

He grabbed her arm, his grip surprisingly strong.

She froze, turning to look at him, her eyes wide with a questioning anger.

He just shook his head, his own eyes wide with a dawning horror.

"Don’t move," he breathed, his voice barely audible.

"It’s a trap."