Ashes of the Elite-Chapter 61: What Is Going On

I spring up from the bed so fast my knee bangs hard against the frame, but the jolt barely registers through the adrenaline. I re-latch the robe around my neck with a single practiced motion and snatch up my sword from where it leans against the wall.

The hallway is carnage. The floor's buckled, stone tiles split and heaved like the aftermath of a siege. Cracks race up the walls, plaster raining down in dusty sheets. The ceiling sags and groans, and I can see daylight in places where there shouldn't be any. My breath catches. For a split second, I freeze, scanning both ways down the corridor. The third floor looks like it's one good shove from dropping out beneath us. I step out, moving carefully but quickly, feet crunching over debris. I look both ways and regret it. The third floor's wrecked. Entire segments of the corridor have caved in, and the ceiling's splitting apart in jagged veins. This place was supposed to be protected. Untouchable. A sanctuary for the Empire's future monsters.

What the fuck is going on?

No alarms. No orders. Just the dull, distant thud of explosions from somewhere below and above—faint, but close enough to rattle my bones. Between the booms, I can hear the echo of shouts and screams from other floors, warped by stone and panic. It's the kind of sound that crawls under your skin and settles in your gut. Where are the proctors?

I reach the stairs and stop cold. A knot of first years lies sprawled across the floor a dozen at least, blood pooling beneath their bodies, spreading in slow, sticky rivers between the stones. Their faces are slack, eyes wide and staring. The metallic tang of blood cuts through the dust and I have to swallow, hard, to keep the bile down.

My thoughts go cold, sharp. Who could breach the Academy like this? Who'd dare? My body flattens against the wall, breath shallow, eyes sweeping the shadows for any sign of movement. The urge to run fights with the urge to fight. My training is a lifeline I check corners, keep low, move quick. But nothing in my training covers this. Not a massacre in a place that's supposed to be untouchable.

I move slowly down the fractured staircase, boots skimming over broken stone and slick patches of blood. The scent down here is thick iron and ash, and something burnt I don't want to identify. More bodies lie crumpled on the steps, students who just saluted me hours ago. Faces slack, clothes torn, some missing limbs. A few look like they tried to fight back.

It hits me with a cold, crawling certainty: this wasn't one person's work. There's too much carnage, too many angles of attack some cut down from behind, some from the front. Some seem to be torn apart by plants. It's organized. Coordinated. My discomfort grows, a leaden weight in my gut as I realize that at least one of the attackers is above me, moving further up the building. Their footsteps are faint, measured, never hurried they know what they're doing, and they aren't afraid.

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I freeze for a moment, pressed against the wall, letting my breathing slow as I weigh my options. Every ounce of logic tells me to move in the opposite direction. Head down, find an exit, or a proctor, or anyone who might actually be able to stop this. Whoever dared to launch an attack here, in Lusa of all places, within carriage distance of the Emperor's palace, has to be either suicidally insane or strong enough not to care.

Caution claws at the back of my mind, logic screaming at me to keep moving downward, find a way out, slip into the city and disappear until the dust settles. Survival. That's what all the rules say. But at the edge of my thoughts, the old voices stir low, hungry, angry. You can't let them do as they please. Not here. Not while you watch. They must pay. They must suffer. Make them regret crossing your path.

I close my eyes for a heartbeat, jaw clenched tight, and let out a slow, bitter curse. I know I should keep running, but the idea sits cowardly. So I turn, boots scraping against broken stone, and start back up the stairs, sword balanced in my grip. My gaze flickers from shadow to shadow, hunting for movement. I need other Elites. More Bodies. Shields, you call them. The more I save, the less likely I am to end up another corpse cooling on the stairs. And if I can use them to slow the bastards down in the process?

Even better.