I WAS Humanity's HOPE-Chapter 45: The Pact

[Tempelhof, Berlin — 23 August 2013]

The strike-wagon rumbled across the fractured runway, its rune-lanterns hissing in the damp Berlin dusk. Meredith Blackwood—Astrid, by the mission manifest—sat sideways on a metal bench inside, helmet resting between her knees. Through the open rear doors, the grey carcass of Tempelhof Airport blurred past, a derelict titan swallowed by weeds and graffiti.

Rain slicked the cracked tarmac, fine mist rising like spirits from the ground. Meredith watched the droplets bead and roll, the motion grounding her against the nervous weight gathering inside her ribs.

Her first mission as an S-Rank. Her first time leading a live clear.

Across from her, Dieter Neubauer, their Assault specialist, slapped a magnetic rune onto the wagon’s door with a grin. "First dance as an S, Sternchen. Don’t blink, or you’ll miss the fun."

Meredith smirked. Her German was decent enough, and sarcasm needed no translation. "I’d worry more about you, Dieter. Wouldn’t want you making a fool of yourself in front of the newbie." 𝙧𝙚𝙚𝔀𝒆𝓫𝓷𝙤𝓿𝒆𝙡.𝒄𝙤𝓶

The rest of the team chuckled. Yasmin al-Souri, an Illusionist, winked. "Don’t worry, if this S-Rank proves to be as useless as the last guy, I’ll take the lead."

"Please," said Dieter, clapping his chestplate. "I’ll anchor us. Gravity magic specialist here. You float, I drop." He mimicked a falling object with his hand and grinned.

Beside him, the Kočí twins, known only as Tick and Tock, mirrored grins and knocked fists together. Both wore light armor, and the faint shimmer around their outlines betrayed their specialty even without their boasting.

"Tick," said the shorter twin, tapping his temple, "Time Dilation."

"Tock," added the other, gesturing in a looping motion, "Temporal Skip. We move faster than you blink."

Meredith raised an eyebrow. "Sounds flashy."

"Flashy and deadly," Tick said. "Ask anyone who tried to race us."

Father Anselm, the team’s Cleric, chuckled and traced a quiet blessing over his chest. "Save your jokes for the feast. Let’s earn our exit first."

He wore heavy robes woven with warding sigils, and his mace—an old relic, iron and silver—hung at his side.

"Anselm’s Wards hold stronger than city walls," Yasmin added with a wry smile. "He’ll keep the squishies breathing."

Meredith turned slightly. "And you, Yasmin?"

"Illusions and manipulations," she said proudly, twirling her fingers. A second, identical Yasmin appeared beside her, ghostly and laughing. "Confuse, disorient, terrorize—all in a day’s work."

Despite herself, Meredith smiled.

She liked this team; it was one of the good ones.

Experienced, tight-knit, confident.

Maybe a little too confident. Her gut itched with the warning, but she swallowed it down.

Tonight, the mission was a routine sweep: an A-Rank dungeon that had outstayed its welcome. The Mage Guild’s Berlin Chapter wanted it purged before it cracked into the city proper.

Routine, she told herself again, hoping to finally calm her nerves.

The wagon screeched to a halt before the tunnel’s gaping maw, headlights spearing the mist. The portal crouched inside, an oily oval, framed in stonework.

Meredith tightened her gauntlets and stood. "Standard wedge. I take point."

No hesitation. S-Rank moved first.

She stepped through the veil of the portal—and the world swallowed her whole.

The air inside was dry as old paper. Stone stretched endlessly ahead, massive colonnades disappearing into shadow. Braziers guttered on sconces, their blue flames casting sickly light over bronze statues: hooded figures kneeling in perfect lines, faces pressed to the cold floor.

It was too still.

No dungeon she’d ever cleared felt like this, but dungeons are supposed to look like each other.

Dieter whistled low. "Looks like a cult had a budget."

Tick and Tock darted forward, scattering to opposite walls. Anselm began marking the stone with chalk sigils, each one pulsing faintly after his touch. Yasmin’s illusions spread ahead, shifting ghost-forms that tested the ground for traps.

"Anyone noticing anything?" Meredith asked quietly.

"Nothing," Yasmin answered. "No hidden traps, no presences. Just... statues."

"Statues that moved," Tick muttered, barely audible.

Meredith’s skin prickled. "Don’t be dumb. Stone doesn’t move."

Despite her words, she tightened her grip on her wand.

They advanced slowly. Twice, the Kočí twins swore a door they’d passed had vanished. Once, Yasmin cursed—she was sure a corridor shortened behind her. But the instruments said nothing.

In the distance, somewhere deep within the hall, something exhaled—a low, almost human sigh.

They found the reliquary shortly after.

The altar stood in the center of a wide rotunda. A bowl of polished obsidian rested atop it, brimming with shimmering silver dust. The dust moved not from any breeze, but as if it were breathing.

"That looks like a bloody good artefact," Meredith said, lifting her hand. "Standard capture. Anselm, ward it."

The cleric murmured his litanies. A violet sphere flared around the bowl, locking it in stasis.

Dieter approached with a gravity clamp.

Tick, reckless as always, flicked a throwing knife against the stasis field. "Little gift for the rookie..."

The ward cracked.

The obsidian shattered.

Something exhaled, a sound like silk sheets tearing, like winter frost spreading across glass.

The world bent inward.

Where the altar had been, something unfolded. A shape, tall and thin, human in outline but wrong—its joints too flexible, its movements too smooth, like watching a marionette played by too many hands.

It spoke in flawless High German, each word dragging goosebumps up Meredith’s arms.

"So small a theft for so loud a crash. Shall we see what else breaks?"

Dieter fired instantly. His gravity lance shrank to a pinpoint mid-air and blinked out of existence.

The twins triggered a time skip—the air shimmered—and the entity reached, plucking the missed seconds from their bodies like threads from cloth. Both collapsed, twitching, mouths gaping in silent agony.

Yasmin vanished behind an invisibility weave. The entity turned its eyeless face toward her hiding place and reached. A strangled cry—then nothing.

Father Anselm sang a warding hymn, his voice iron. The notes reversed, became gibberish, and the old cleric’s chest caved in on itself as his heart spasmed into stillness.

Four dead in seconds.

Meredith stood alone.

There was no time to think, not that there was much to think about.

And she couldn’t even phrase what had just happened, not even in her head...

She unleashed her strength.

Lightning blasted from her palms, ripping through statues, burning black scars across the marble floor. She poured molten rock beneath the entity’s feet—lava erupted, turning stone to glowing slag.

The entity stepped sideways, untouched, as if causality were a courtesy it did not require.

It observed her like a child watching an insect struggle.

Its hand extended—impossibly slow—toward her.

She cast a stillness ward and poured most of her magic into it; it shredded like cobwebs. Agony burst across her ribs, unseen wounds bleeding her magic dry.

I almost have no magic left, hah.

Storm Avatar was out of reach, she couldn’t do anything.

Meredith had all kinds of spell tomes for various scenarios but she couldn’t think straight in her panic. Her mind raced through everything she had, but they all seemed laughably inadequate against this thing that bent reality itself.

The entity spoke again, voice a velvet whisper inside her skull.

"You aren’t half bad, child of stars. Yet your spark misbehaves. I offer a bargain. Life—for a tribute."

Meredith’s mind flashed to home: her mother’s hands planting flowers, her father’s heavy boots stomping muddy footprints, her brother’s laughter—vivid, vital, and untouchably distant now.

She swallowed the iron taste in her mouth.

"What tribute?" she rasped.

"Hmmm," it purred. "Let’s see. What is it that you hold most dear?"

Her heart spasmed in rebellion.

But she saw the bodies. Dieter. Yasmin. Tick. Tock. Anselm.

Not one more.

She nodded once, shallow.

The entity’s touch brushed her temple—and her memories unraveled.

And then, there was blackness.

—

She woke two days later in a hospital.

Fluorescent lights hummed above her. A row of flowers wilted on a bedside table beside a photograph—a smiling family.

Auditors circled, voices murmuring clinical jargon: "Trauma-induced amnesia..."

Meredith said nothing. She didn’t correct them. The truth—what she had traded for survival—was too monstrous to share.

The official debrief was swift.

Casualties: Neubauer, al-Souri, Kočí twins, Anselm.

Cause: ?

Outcome: Closed Dungeon, Sole Survivor: Meredith Blackwood.

She signed the forms with a trembling hand, leaving Next of Kin blank.

I wonder if Richard had ever felt anything like this, watching his team die before him, she thought, remembering her older brother. I wonder what he would have done in that scenario.

But unlike her, he had died, taking his memories intact to the grave.

And despite that, why does my fate feel so much crueler...

Later, she sat alone in the hospital’s tiny chapel. The candlelight painted long shadows against the peeling walls. Meredith traced the edge of her wand with numb fingers.

She closed her eyes and the faces of her fallen team flickered behind her eyelids, their final moments etched in perfect, haunting clarity.

What terrified her most wasn’t the entity’s power, but how easily she had surrendered.

Sigh.

Her gaze landed at photograph again.

Mum and Dad should be coming soon...