As the foreign army diverted from the dreaded jungle path and pressed onward, their march became a slow-moving tide of iron and greed. They continued looting other nearby towns, settlement pathways and homesteads along their way, yet the encounter with the Havoc Beasts had carved an invisible scar across their hearts. No longer did they swagger blindly into every grove or hamlet; now, wary eyes scanned the treelines, ears strained at every rustle, and hands gripped hilts and spearshafts with unease.
Supreme General Vincent Kim rode at the front, his silver-grey broadsword resting across his saddle. Though his chin was held high and his expression carved from stone, the truth sat heavy within him: his arrogance had been shaken, his pride bruised. The beast of Havoc had humbled him, if only for a moment, and the humiliation stung worse than the memory of its roar. He masked it well—no tremor in his voice, no slump in his shoulders—but those who had seen his falter now carried a quiet smirk in their hearts. In the shadows of their helmets, a few basked in the rare schadenfreude of witnessing their untouchable commander bleed with embarrassment.
Soon the column reached a village—small, silent, and sun-bleached. Its huts leaned tiredly against one another as though sharing their misery, and its dusty paths carried no laughter of children, no scent of cooking fires. Compared to the bustling towns already pillaged, this place looked more like a forgotten scar on the land. "A village fit only for ghosts," one soldier muttered. Indeed, it seemed even rats in other cities might live better than the souls buried in these clay-walled homes.
Yet this humble place held life within. For here was where Granero and his ailing mother resided. His uncle, Passo, had already fled days before, slipping away like a coward when news of the foreign army's invasion spread. He was nowhere to be seen when the tide of soldiers finally rolled toward the village.
The army pressed forward. Their horses' hooves beat against the dry earth, dust plumes rising in rhythm. The men did not even bother with their customary looting patterns. No scouting parties peeled off. No doors were kicked in. There was nothing here worth taking—or so they thought.
Then—fwip!
An arrow sliced the air and hissed past a soldier's ear. He barely had time to gasp before the shaft grazed across his shoulder, tearing through flesh and snapping the protective plating on his pauldron. He cried out, clutching the wound as crimson spilled down his arm. The horses snorted and jerked uneasily, their nostrils flaring at the sudden sting of blood in the air.
The column froze.
Every gaze snapped left, right, forward—searching the roofs, the shadows between the huts, the edges of the scrubby fields. A moment of heavy silence pressed down, as if the village itself was holding its breath.
Then the silence shattered.
A great log, strung from somewhere unseen, swung violently into the line of soldiers with a thunderous crack. Three men were struck squarely, their helmets offering no salvation. Their skulls burst like melons under the crushing weight, spraying bone and brain across the dirt. Their horses reared, screaming, hooves lashing at the air as they tried to escape the scent of death.
"Defensive formation!" Vincent Kim's voice thundered across the chaos. His broadsword gleamed as he raised it high, eyes burning with anger. "Find the attackers! Root them out!"
The soldiers obeyed instantly, their drilled instincts snapping into motion. Shields were locked, spears lowered, archers pulled strings taut. Rows shifted, forming a bristling wall of steel as their gazes swept every shadow with killing intent.
The air thickened with tension, heavy as molten lead. Even the rustle of the leaves above seemed to hold its breath, as if nature itself feared what was about to unfold.
Somewhere unseen, sharp eyes watched from the shadows. Somewhere hidden, a steady hand pulled back another bowstring, the string groaning softly as if dreading the arrow's flight. The battlefield was already chosen, though the villagers had long fled; the small, forgotten settlement of cracked huts and dusty paths was about to become a stage of blood.
Panic rippled through the ranks of soldiers like fire racing across dry grass. Men shifted uneasily, spears clattering in trembling hands, eyes darting between the trees. Fear was contagious, and though the Supreme General barked no orders yet, he could taste the unease in his own army.
Then, above them, outlined against the grey sky, a lone figure stood on the thick branch of an old tree. Bow in hand, quiver strapped across his back, posture rigid as iron—he was a single spark standing defiantly before the storm.
Supreme General Vincent Kim narrowed his eyes. His spiritual sense pierced through the air, assessing the stranger's strength. A mere flicker in the ocean of cultivation—level two of the Ocean Opening Realm. Laughable. Insignificant. A man he could crush with the back of his hand while yawning. And yet, the stranger did not waver.
Granero.
After the others fled and the last cries of panic had faded from the streets, he remained. His mother lay weak inside their home, resolved to embrace death if fate demanded it. And so he stood—not because he believed he could stop the tide, but because his blood refused to let him bend.
He knew the truth. Five hundred and ninety nine thousand, six hundred men, marched in the Emperor's name. He was one boy with a bow, and his last stand had already claimed no more than four soldiers—a droplet lost in the boundless sea. His defiance was meaningless, his resistance already doomed.
And yet, he stood.
Pride braced his spine. His hand steadied against the bow. If his name was to vanish into the earth this day, then let it vanish with honour. He was not fighting for survival—no, his body would return to dust soon enough. He was fighting for the pride of the Black Dragon whose blood whispered in his veins, for the faceless innocents of the Nazare Blade Empire who could not raise arms for themselves.
The arrow gleamed in the half-light as he drew the string to his cheek.
One boy. One bow. One last stand against the tide of the foreign empire.
And the soldiers, despite themselves, hesitated. For in his eyes they saw not weakness, but the reflection of a fire that refused to die.