Chapter 13 Part 3: The Aftermath
The air clung with a heavy, acrid scent—smoke and blood melding into a suffocating weight. It pressed against the skin, thick and oppressive, as if the very atmosphere mourned the violence that had transpired.
Where once there had been order, there was now only shattered ruin, a fractured landscape scarred by the aftermath of Bazal's brutal assault. The earth, torn open like a wound, exposed its raw, bleeding core, and among the devastation, Blue lay motionless—a broken shell of the being he had once been.
His body was a grotesque distortion of life, twisted beyond recognition. Bones, shattered and fractured, jutted out at unnatural angles; torn muscle and mangled flesh painted a grisly portrait of violence. His arm hung limply, bent at an impossible angle, while his leg had been reduced to jagged fragments, a mockery of its former strength.
His throat, a wide gaping wound, was a silent testament to the savagery that had torn through him. Blood pooled beneath him, spreading outwards like an unwelcome tide—red and lifeless, seeping into the earth as though even it sought escape from the shattered body it had once nourished.
His chest was still, his eyes shut, his very form suspended between life and death—a quiet pause before the storm.
None of them had expected this.
Three figures stood at a distance, their presence almost imperceptible. S-Rank hunters, each one a seasoned veteran of death, who had seen enough to know that no battle ever looked quite the same. Their movements were silent, fluid, like ghosts drifting through the smoke-heavy air. They were here for a reason—though that reason remained unspoken.
The hunters circled around Blue, their gazes cold, almost detached, as they surveyed the destruction. Their weapons, finely crafted and deadly, remained raised, each poised for the slightest hint of movement—ready for whatever threat might yet lurk beneath the quiet ruin of this once-turbulent battlefield.
One of them—a weathered warrior with salt-and-pepper hair and eyes that had witnessed countless battles—dropped to one knee beside Blue. His voice, when it came, was low and strained, like the final breath of a dying world.
"This… is certain death."
Beside him, a healer—young, yet already bearing the weight of experience—inspected Blue's mangled body, her brow furrowed with quiet concern. Her eyes narrowed as she took in the full extent of the damage.
"Even an S-Rank Level 7 healer might not be able to save him," she muttered, her voice tinged with doubt. "This… this isn't just the aftermath of a battle. This could be the end."
The silence between them stretched long and heavy, broken only by the soft wind whispering through the broken earth, carrying with it the faintest echoes of a dying world.
And then, a voice—soft but certain—cut through the stillness.
One of the hunters, his face as hard as stone, took a step forward, his eyes fixed firmly on Blue's still form. His words, though few, carried the weight of respect—and perhaps something more.
"You served and protected Restoria. You killed the low-tier demon general. Your name… will be remembered."
The words hovered in the air like a tombstone, marking the end of something that had once been. For a brief moment, it felt as though the world itself had stopped—holding its breath, suspended in the heavy finality of what had been said.
Then, something changed.
A faint glow, imperceptible at first, began to pulse from the deepest recesses of Blue's ravaged body. It was a soft, almost ethereal light that seemed to emanate from within him, as though his very being was fighting against the cold grip of death.
Slowly, the light spread outward, spreading across his mangled limbs, as if the body itself was attempting to undo the damage. Bones cracked, muscles strained and re-knitted, and skin, torn and raw, smoothed itself, healing in ways that defied any logic the hunters knew.
The twisted limbs began to straighten, the damage reversing itself with an eerie calmness that sent a shiver down the spines of the hunters. The quiet of the moment stretched taut, as though the very air itself was holding its breath.
And then, without warning, Blue's eyes snapped open.
A primal scream—raw, guttural, and torn from the deepest pit of agony—ripped through the air. The sound was visceral, a cry of pure suffering, so intense that it seemed to reverberate through the very earth. It echoed across the battlefield, so powerful that the hunters staggered back, their bodies thrown off balance by the shockwave of pain that radiated outward from Blue's form.
The scream itself seemed to carry the weight of a world in torment, and the shockwave rippled outward, striking the hunters with a force that nearly knocked them from their feet.
One of them, his hand trembling, muttered in disbelief, his voice thick with fear, "H-How?! That healing rate… it's impossible."
The leader of the group—a man whose years of battle had stripped away much of his fear—gripped his weapon tightly, his knuckles white as he watched, transfixed. His posture remained tense, betraying the unease that was slowly creeping into him. His eyes, sharp and calculating, never left Blue, studying the broken man with a growing sense of dread.
He had not expected this. Not in the slightest.
His lips pressed into a grim line, his voice a command that cut through the chaos, sharp and urgent.
"Take him back. Now."
But as he spoke, something shifted in the air—subtle at first, then undeniable. The reality of what had just happened, what they were witnessing, sank in with an oppressive finality.
It was no longer just the aftermath of a battle.
This… this was something else entirely.
The shift in the atmosphere was palpable. Tension hung thick, heavy, a silence punctuated by the uneven breaths of the hunters and the slow, steady pulse of Blue's form, healing itself—regenerating in ways that left the hunters grasping at the edge of their understanding.
For a brief moment, the world seemed to hold its breath once more.
And in the distance, beneath the shadows of the trees, the landscape whispered back, trembling with the knowledge that something—someone—was about to rise.