Draven landed lightly near the edge of the crater.
Dust rolled across the shattered platform in slow waves.
Smoke drifted upward through broken layers of steel, twisted support beams, and burning wreckage, creating a hazy veil over the battlefield.
Across from him—
the Holy Knight forced himself upright.
Barely.
One arm hung uselessly at his side.
His armor was shattered in multiple places, exposing torn flesh beneath fractured plates of enchanted steel.
Blood dripped steadily onto the ruined platform beneath his boots.
Yet somehow—
he remained standing.
The blessing surrounding him flickered weakly like a dying flame.
Refusing to disappear.
Refusing to yield.
Refusing to let its bearer fall.
Draven watched him quietly.
Without emotion.
Without urgency.
Then—
he raised his bow.
The knight's eyes widened instantly.
TWANG.
The first arrow vanished.
The blessing screamed.
The Holy Knight's body reacted on pure instinct.
BOOOOOM!!
The arrow tore through his shoulder.
Not a fatal strike.
But more than enough.
His armor exploded apart in a shower of steel fragments.
Blood sprayed through the air.
The knight staggered violently.
Before he could recover—
TWANG.
A second arrow.
BOOOOOM!!
His left thigh erupted.
The impact spun him sideways.
His knee crashed into the steel platform below.
CRACK.
Metal buckled beneath him.
The knight gritted his teeth.
Trying to stand.
Trying to move.
Trying to fight.
TWANG.
A third arrow.
SHHHK!!
The projectile ripped through his remaining functional arm.
The limb went numb instantly.
His sword slipped from lifeless fingers.
CLANG.
CLANG.
CLANG.
The weapon bounced repeatedly across the battlefield before disappearing into the smoke and rubble.
Silence.
The knight froze.
Disarmed.
Broken.
Bleeding.
Draven lowered the bow slightly.
Then drew again.
Blue mana condensed around his fingertips.
The surrounding air trembled faintly.
A new arrow formed.
The knight stared at it.
Breathing heavily.
Blood flowed from countless wounds.
His blessing flickered.
Weak.
Unstable.
Dying.
The arrow aimed directly at his chest.
Directly at his heart.
For a brief moment—
the Holy Knight laughed.
A rough sound.
A broken sound.
The laugh of a man who had finally reached the end of the road.
Blood dripped from beneath his helmet.
"...So this is how it ends."
Draven said nothing.
The bowstring pulled farther back.
Mana compressed around the arrowhead.
The air distorted beneath the growing pressure.
The knight slowly straightened.
Despite everything.
Despite knowing he could no longer win.
Despite understanding that death was already standing before him.
He stood.
The broken remnants of holy mana gathered around him one final time.
One last stand.
One final act of defiance.
Draven's crimson eyes remained cold beneath the hood.
Unmoved.
Unimpressed.
Then—
TWANG.
The arrow vanished.
BOOOOOOOM!!
The Holy Knight's chest exploded inward.
The force lifted him completely off the ground.
Armor shattered apart.
Holy mana dispersed into countless fragments of fading golden light.
For a single moment—
his body remained suspended in the air.
Frozen.
Weightless.
Then gravity reclaimed him.
THUD.
Silence.
The blessing disappeared.
The battlefield fell still.
Only distant fires continued to crackle within the crater.
Draven lowered his bow.
Without a word.
Without celebration.
Without acknowledgment.
Just another obstacle removed from his path.
Above him—
the burning remains of the imperial flagship continued falling through the night sky.
Massive chunks of wreckage broke apart as they descended.
Crimson explosions from Aldric's blood spears continued erupting across the ruined military district.
The war was far from over.
---
Far from the burning battlefield—
high atop one of Blackwater's elevated industrial structures—
a masked woman stood quietly beneath drifting steam and flashing red warning lights.
The city stretched endlessly beneath her.
In her hand rested a small communication device.
A faint voice echoed through it.
She listened in silence.
Then—
her eyes narrowed slightly.
"...Really?"
A pause.
"...Is that so?"
Nearby—
Syrian glanced toward her immediately.
"What is it?"
The masked woman lowered the communication device slightly.
Then looked at her.
"You and the questions."
A brief pause.
"You even want to know about my private conversations now?"
Syrian stared at her flatly.
Without a word—
she flicked a silver coin through the air.
The masked woman caught it effortlessly.
She glanced at the coin.
Then sighed dramatically.
"I really don't like doing business with people who don't have money."
Syrian immediately threw another silver coin.
The masked woman caught that one as well.
"...Still not enough."
She inspected both coins.
Then shrugged.
"Close enough."
Business concluded.
The coins disappeared into her cloak.
Then she finally answered.
"The ships."
Syrian frowned.
"What ships?"
"The ones sent to follow their vessel after it left Blackwater."
Silence.
Then—
"They were destroyed."
Syrian blinked.
"...What?"
The masked woman turned her gaze toward the western horizon.
"Both of them."
Far away—
dozens of kilometers from Blackwater—
two burning wrecks fell through the night sky.
Flames consumed twisted steel.
Broken hull fragments scattered through the clouds.
The remains of once-powerful military vessels now resembled little more than falling debris.
Above the destruction—
Vaelith hovered silently.
Massive black wings stretched behind her.
Her crimson eyes reflected the burning ships below.
For a moment—
she simply watched.
Calm.
Silent.
Unbothered.
Then she turned away.
Without hesitation.
Without concern.
And flew back toward the distant vessel carrying the others.
The burning wreckage disappeared behind her.
Forgotten.
As insignificant as insects crushed beneath a boot.
---
Back in Blackwater—
the masked woman lowered the communication device.
Meanwhile—
more figures had begun appearing across the elevated structures.
One.
Then three.
Then ten.
Shadows moved across rooftops.
Across cargo rails.
Across maintenance bridges.
More arrived every minute.
Syrian noticed immediately.
Her eyes narrowed.
"...What's going on?"
The masked woman looked at her.
Then laughed softly.
"What are you talking about?"
A pause.
"You're slower than I thought."
She gestured toward the city.
Toward the countless figures moving through Blackwater's upper districts.
"Everybody's moving."
Syrian followed her gaze.
Slowly—
her expression changed.
Because now she could see them clearly.
Guild adventurers.
Mercenaries.
Assassins.
Bounty hunters.
Independent hunters.
Smugglers.
Criminals.
Even individuals she recognized from several major guilds.
All heading toward the same destination.
Toward the burning military district.
Toward the imperial sky dock.
Toward the war.
Syrian stared.
"...Why?"
The masked woman looked genuinely amused.
"Seriously?"
Another pause.
"The bounty."
Silence.
Then—
"The bounty on the Demon King's son."
The words settled heavily in the air.
More figures continued appearing throughout the city.
The movement spread like wildfire.
Blackwater was waking up.
And greed traveled faster than any rumor.
Syrian frowned.
"But there's no confirmation that he's actually the Demon King's son."
The masked woman stared at her for a moment.
Then burst out laughing.
A genuine laugh.
Not mocking.
Not cruel.
Just honest amusement.
When she finally stopped—
she wiped an imaginary tear from beneath her mask.
"...Confirmation?"
Another laugh escaped her.
Then she shook her head.
"Who the hell cares?"
Her gaze shifted toward the distant battlefield where explosions continued illuminating the night sky.
Her voice became calm.
Matter-of-fact.
Dangerously realistic.
"You kill him first."
A pause.
"Then ask questions later."
She folded her arms.
"One hundred thousand gold is worth being wrong."
Around them—
more shadows moved through the city.
Hundreds now.
Perhaps more.
Drawn by greed.
Drawn by ambition.
Drawn by opportunity.
Drawn by the promise of a fortune large enough to change their lives forever.
Some sought wealth.
Others sought fame.
Many simply wanted blood.
And far away—
within the burning military district—
none of them understood what they were actually running toward.
Because what awaited them there was not prey.
Not a target.
It was a disaster.
And they were charging toward it willingly.