A Background Character’s Path to Power

"Be careful—!" Nusayel barked, his voice cutting through the storm's howl.

Zephyr moved before the words fully registered.

His body blurred—[Void Step]—a technique that folded space between strides. One moment he was beside the baron, the next he was behind Harken, his saber a silver arc in the dim light.

The Mistborn that had materialized at Harken's back recoiled, its vortex-head twisting in hollow surprise. Ice-sharp fingers, meant to pierce flesh, found only air as Zephyr's blade carved upward—

"Sssss—!"

A guttural hiss tore from its formless maw as the saber sliced through mist and solidifying flesh. Black ichor sprayed, freezing midair into jagged shards before clattering to the ground. The creature staggered, its spiraling eyes flickering wildly.

At the same time, Nusayel pivoted, his black-iron spear intercepting the second Mistborn's who changed its lunge toward the injured captain. The weapon hummed as aura flared along its edge, deflecting razor-tipped fingers with a shower of sparks.

"Don't get hit!" the baron snarled. "And be careful of their whispers!"

The fight surged into the anchor chamber. The three men fell into formation—a tight triangle with the wounded captain at its center. The Mistborn circled like starving wolves, their forms flickering between solid and spectral.

But whenever they neared the anchor's core, the pulsing light forced them into full visibility, their mist-flesh sizzling like snow on a forge.

Nusayel seized the advantage.

With a grunt, he grabbed the nearest Mistborn by its elongated arm—its flesh freezing against his grip—and hurled it toward the glowing obelisk.

"Ghhhk—!"

The creature's screech was a physical force, a sound like glaciers splitting, layered with a hundred whispering voices. Its body burned where it touched the core, mist boiling away as if scalded. It thrashed, scrambling back—

But the baron was already moving.

He leapt over the two remaining Mistborn, his spear whirling midair to deflect their strikes. As his boots hit the ground, he flung the weapon like a javelin.

The spear's tip ignited in searing blue flames, carving through the fleeing creature's back. Half its body vaporized into foul-smelling mist before the weapon embedded itself in the stone floor, still burning.

The remaining two Mistborn shuddered, their flickering forms now locked into solidity—their wounds from the spear's aura-disrupting edge too severe to phase.

"Dieeeee-!"

Cornered, they unleashed a psychic screech that sent Harken and Draven to their knees, hands clamped over their ears. Zephyr staggered but held firm, his saber raised.

Nusayel didn't flinch.

These dire monsters were nothing to him.

He could've ended everything in one breath, if not for the fragile surroundings and the people behind him.

"..."

Without a word, he calmly wrenched his spear free and blurred forward.

"Geeeet awaaaay-!" Mistborns tried to use their hypnotic whispers while coordinating their movements.

SWOOSH!

SWISH!

Two precise strikes—a decapitating slash, then a heart-piercing thrust. The creatures' bodies collapsed, their mist-flesh dissolving into black sludge that evaporated before it could touch the ground.

Silence.

"..T-This..."

Harken stared at Lord Nusayel, his glasses askew, mouth slightly agape. Zephyr, in contrast, merely nodded—a slight dip of his chin that seemed almost... expectant.

Captain Draven stumbled forward, his uninjured hand reaching desperately for the baron. "M-my lord, there's trouble—we, we need to—"

Nusayel's hand settled on the captain's shoulder, his grip firm but not unkind. "Calm down. Breathe." His voice was steady, an anchor in the storm. "Now, report."

The captain swallowed hard, his good hand flexing at his side. When he spoke again, his words came clearer, though his eyes remained wild.

"We finished checking the Central Core Anchor and Eastern Stabilizer Anchor. But we lost contact with the Western Wing just then." His breath hitched. "That was also when the mist enveloped the lower keep and the storm hit. We knew something was wrong—we rushed here, but—"

A tremor ran through him.

"But w-we got ambushed by those monsters on the way. These small ones weren't a problem..." His voice dropped to a whisper. "It was the eyes... the eyes in the snow... We... everyone..."

His fingers dug into his own scalp, nails scraping skin raw.

Harken took an involuntary step back. Zephyr's gaze sharpened, his saber lowering slightly.

Then—

"L-Lord!" The captain suddenly seized Nusayel's hands, his grip desperate. "We should surrender! If we don't, we—we're all going to die! Please, let's go and—!"

A hand struck the back of his neck—precise, controlled.

Nusayel caught the captain as he crumpled, lowering him gently to the stone floor. When he pried open the man's eyelids, they all saw it—

—a wisp of white mist, swirling in the depths of his unfocused pupils.

Harken recoiled.

"W-what is this?!" His voice cracked with barely restrained panic.

"Corruption," Nusayel murmured. "He's been infected with Hollowland's corruption."

His fingers hovered over the captain's forehead, aura flickering at his fingertips—then stopped.

"It's not just in his eyes," the baron said quietly. "It's in his mind."

Nusayel's expression darkened like storm clouds gathering over the Ashenfang peaks. His fingers lingered just above the captain's eyelids, where the white mist coiled like a living thing in the man's pupils.

"Not just him," the baron murmured, more to himself than the others. "The scouts... the others stationed here... they've likely been corrupted too."

The implications hung heavy in the air. Harken's breath came in shallow gasps, his fingers twitching against his cracked spectacles. Zephyr's grip tightened around his saber—not in fear, but in grim understanding.

This wasn't just a simple monster attack. Not anymore.

Nusayel stood abruptly, his black-iron spear disappearing from his hand with a whisper of displaced air. "We need to return. Now. The others are in danger."

Harken nodded vigorously, his usual academic composure shattered. "Y-yes. We need to leave this place quickly—"

Zephyr didn't speak.

He simply moved to the nearest unconscious controller, hauling the man over his shoulder with effortless strength.

He already knew that this went beyond mere monsters. Something capable of large-scale mental corruption was at work, and it was far from finished. Probably an Alpha Beast of its own kind - the leader of these mistborns, perhaps.

"Let's hurry."

Nusayel ordered as he lifted Captain Draven with one arm and slung another man across his shoulders, his movements precise despite the weight.

Harken, though shaken, managed to drag a third controller upright, bracing the man's limp form against his side.

Zephyr, having already secured the last survivor, turned to the anchor's control console. His fingers flew across the interface, pressing the lockdown button.

The core pulsed once—a deep, resonant thrum that vibrated through the stone—before the chamber's doors began closing.

He slipped out just as the anchor doors groaned shut behind him, the pulse of the sealed chamber echoing faintly in his chest.

Outside, the blizzard screamed louder—like something alive and furious.

Nusayel and Harken stood tensely at the corridor's fork, both burdened by unconscious forms. But neither moved.

Zephyr's eyes followed their line of sight——and froze.

Seven more mistborns stood waiting, barely visible in the snow ahead. Their evershifting vortex-heads turned in eerie synchrony, their flickering limbs twitching with barely-restrained hunger.

"…Tch." Zephyr clicked his tongue and adjusted his grip on his saber.

Just how bad is our luck?

He mumbled inwardly, clearly dejected.

But he readied himself for the inevitable confrontation after seeing lord Luthaire's spear blazing in flames again.

He just hoped certain someone wouldn't do anything reckless again.

Please don't move until we get there, Aman.