Panagiot's heavy footsteps closed in on the group. Each step was deliberate, each breath a cruel smirk etched across his twisted face, growing clearer with every heartbeat. Clayton tightened his grip around his sword's hilt, muscles trembling with fatigue and pain.
"Any spell to help against him?" Clayton asked, his voice strained.
Francisco shook his head, his expression grim. "Nothing that can harm him. Not that I know."
Lily's voice rang out, sharp and fierce. "It won't matter if we don't prepare ourselves!" Despite their bodies aching from bruises and lacerations, despite the sting of blood trickling from their wounds, both she and Clayton squared their shoulders and raised their weapons. They knew this fight would test every ounce of their will.
Panagiot's mocking laughter tore through the air. "Oh, so you plan to fight? Saves me the trouble of chasing down pathetic rats!" His charge kicked up dust and gravel, the ground trembling beneath his power.
Clayton swung his sword in a desperate arc — but Panagiot's left haymaker met the blade with bone-crushing force, knocking it from Clayton's grasp. Before Clayton could react, the elite knight grabbed the front of his plate armor and hurled him across the road like a ragdoll. Clayton crashed hard into a pile of splintered wood and stone, a fiery sting erupting in his lower back. Warm blood slicked his leg.
Lily called upon her father, summoning the shadowy aberration to her side. The massive figure burst forth, colliding with Panagiot in a titanic clash of muscle and might. The elite grunted, seizing the apparition and hurling him upward — and with an agonizing tug, Lily herself was pulled into the air. Panagiot's cruel hand closed around her head, slamming her mercilessly into the earth. Darkness claimed her instantly.
Lily's father swung a massive fist at Panagiot's skull — but his blow passed through, the apparition shimmering and fading away. Panagiot turned, eyes burning with cruel amusement, and stalked toward Francisco and Kira, who frantically tried to rouse Diomede.
"You lot," Panagiot sneered, "the most amusing creatures I've faced. Not for your strength, but for your pathetic struggle."
His mocking laughter was cut short when a jagged piece of wood struck him hard in the side of the head. He turned sharply, spotting Clayton rising with bloodied face, clutching his broken sword backwards. Blood dripped from Clayton's wounds, pooling beneath his feet.
"What the hell are you laughing at?" Clayton growled, the fire of vengeance blazing anew within him. His breath came in ragged gulps, heartbeat pounding like a war drum.
Panagiot's smile twisted with a flicker of pride. "You would've been a fine knight… if you hadn't turned traitor." He charged, hands clasped together, driving a hammer fist down with devastating force.
Clayton slipped beneath the strike, weaving and darting around the massive form, stabbing sharp and quick at the elite's vulnerable spots. Each blow was met with furious swings, but Panagiot's frustration grew as his attacks missed their mark. The wounds Clayton opened began to stitch themselves closed with unnatural speed.
Nearby, Francisco and Kira struggled to keep Diomede conscious, but his wounds were deep and healing sluggishly. Francisco's panic rose when he saw Lily lying still, blood streaking her face, a cruel gash across her forehead. Gently, he cradled her head and pressed a rag to the bleeding wound.
Watching his friends battered and bleeding fueled Francisco's rage. Snapping his fingers, he unleashed bolts of fire that cracked and hissed through the air, striking Panagiot with blinding flashes. Though the brute's flesh was unmarked, the distraction gave Clayton precious moments to strike again.
Panagiot's eyes narrowed. He muttered a guttural chant, and a sickly green beam shot from his hand toward Francisco. At the last second, Diomede lunged, throwing himself between the blast and the bard.
"Thank the gods you're safe!" Francisco exclaimed breathlessly, clutching Diomede. The warrior pushed him away and bent low, tracing intricate sigils in the dirt. A glowing circle formed, etched with intersecting lines that pulsed with power.
Clayton pressed his attack, driving his broken sword deep into Panagiot's chest. The elite responded with terrifying strength — grabbing Clayton by the throat, hoisting him off the ground, squeezing mercilessly. Heat rushed to Clayton's head as blood pooled beneath his skin, pressure mounting with agonizing force. His vision blurred.
"Try harder, boy!" Panagiot snarled, leaning close.
Desperation surged within Clayton. He swung wild hooks at Panagiot's face, none breaking through the knight's brutal defense. A voice — cold and cruel — whispered threats of breaking his spine and slaughtering those he held dear. Memories of the Gultonk's massacre flooded Clayton's mind: his helplessness, the faces of fallen brothers.
With a scream of raw fury, Clayton tore the broken blade free and drove it repeatedly into Panagiot's flesh, each strike faster and more desperate than the last. Blood sprayed in torrents, soaking both combatants and the dust beneath them.
Diomede bit down on his finger, flicking his blood onto the glowing sigils. A sudden, heavy force tugged at Panagiot's body, sapping his strength. The elite roared in frustration.
"Finish him, cub!" Diomede urged.
Clayton gathered every shred of willpower and drove the shattered sword through Panagiot's face. The elite gasped, clawing for breath as the blade split his skull. His massive frame convulsed violently, shaking the earth with his final spasms before collapsing in lifeless silence.
Clayton fell backward, every muscle screaming, lungs burning with exhaustion. A fierce roar of victory and anguish tore from his throat before he lay still, gasping for air.
Diomede dropped heavily to the ground beside him, drained but alive. Francisco pulled out his journal, feverishly recording every moment. Kira tended to Lily, who stirred, blinking through bloodshot eyes. Relief washed over them, fragile as dawn.
But the victory was not yet complete. Panagiot's body writhed violently, steam rising in eerie tendrils. Terror clawed at their hearts — none had the strength left to face a revived foe. Flames engulfed Panagiot's melting flesh, but instead of burning, it seemed to dissolve like ice on stone, pooling into a dark stain absorbed by the earth.
Francisco swallowed nervously. "That's… something I'll need to write down."
Diomede stood, grim and steady. "We must move. I don't want to explain this destruction to anyone else."
Helping Lily upright, Kira spoke quietly. "We need to head north. His letter said he was near a great old tree."
"No tree comes to mind," Diomede admitted, rubbing his beard. "But it's been a while since I ventured that far."
Kira's head spun around as if the wind called her name. She confessed a sudden surge of fear and sorrow — a sign someone still survived.
"Someone is alive!" Kira shouted as she ran around a corner. Diomede and Lily looked at each other with shock, "Are you su-." Diomede placed his hand on Lily's shoulder, cutting her off. "If she feels something then it is there." Diomede said.
Francisco watched as the three bounced around the remains of the village.
Francisco dragged over a broken chair, missing its back, and lowered himself beside the young knight who lay sprawled on the ground, his chest rising and falling shallowly. The tension in the air was thick, and for a moment, all was still.
Suddenly, from deep within Clayton's chest came a raw, guttural laugh—a sound so unexpected and fierce it seemed to shatter the heavy silence like a thunderclap. It wasn't just any laugh; it was the laugh of Instinct caused by the body from the Exhaustion. It rose and swelled, full of defiance and pain, echoing with the weight of every loss he had borne. The sound seemed to shake the very earth beneath them, a roaring flame of life flickering stubbornly against the encroaching darkness.
Diomede turned his head sharply, his eyes narrowing as that fierce laughter cut through the grim atmosphere. He recognized that laugh—one that spoke of true exhaustion.
Francisco's heart swelled briefly with hope, but it quickly twisted into dread. The laugh faded, replaced by a ragged exhale as Clayton's body slackened, his eyelids fluttering closed. Francisco's smile vanished instantly, replaced by a cold dread that curled in his gut like a serpent.
His eyes widened as he noticed the dark, spreading pool of blood soaking into the dirt beneath Clayton. His foot brushed against the wet stain, slipping slightly as a chilling reality took hold.
"Clayton?" Francisco whispered, panic rising like a tidal wave. He shook the knight gently, voice trembling. "Young Clayton, please—stay with me!"
But Clayton remained still, his breaths growing fainter, slower, slipping away like grains of sand through desperate fingers.
Fear slammed into Francisco's chest, tightening like a vise. His mind raced, heart hammering wildly as if it might burst free. The crushing weight of helplessness pressed down on him, cold and unforgiving. The images of friends fallen flashed like lightning through his thoughts, each one striking deeper.
His gaze darted wildly, searching for anything—any aid, any miracle. But the ruined village stretched silent and empty around him. The others were nowhere in sight.
His trembling fingers scrambled in his bag until he found the decorated horn. Taking a trembling breath, he blew into it with every ounce of strength left, the haunting call ringing out sharp and clear, cutting through the suffocating dread.
For a suspended moment, the world seemed to hold its breath.
Then, from the shadows, Diomede came sprinting, his face grim but determined. "Thank the gods you heard me. Clayton is fading fast—he's losing too much blood!"
Without hesitation, Diomede scooped the weakened knight over his shoulder, and together they dashed back toward Kira and Lily, racing against time and the gathering darkness.