Kenjirou stood tall, battered and bloodied, his armor shattered but unbowed.
With Zephyra cradled in one arm, he gripped his Divine Sword in the other, slashing, parrying, blocking—all driven by sheer will.
Hundreds. Thousands.
Attacks poured down: arrows, blades, holy spears, chains—striking from every direction.
And still—
He never fell.
He spun his sword in arcs of blinding light, deflecting every blow.
Steel clashed. Mana screamed. The ground cracked beneath his feet.
But he never let go of Zephyra. Not once.
His voice cut through the chaos, steady and firm.
"If there's any chance…run, my love."
"Don't worry about me. I won't die."
His breath was heavy, but his eyes blazed with resolve—unyielding, invincible.
"No, Kenjirou... please... don't say that..." Zephyra's voice trembled, clutching weakly at his cloak.
"No. Zephyra."
He shifted slightly to meet her gaze.
His eyes were soft, fierce with love.
"You're more important."
