The first city had fallen.
The mud had become a map of bodies, shattered banners, and rising heat that reeked of defeat. Lusian gave the order to retreat, his voice firm; there was nothing left to gain there—only lives that could still be saved. The columns tried to reform with discipline, but each time the darkness scented weakness, a scream would vanish into the fog.
At the vanguard of the retreat, Adela appeared like a wall.
She dismounted from her white tiger and drove her boot into the mud; every movement she made was measured, precise, lethal. Around her, the beast riders responded instantly: panther, bear, and griffin surged forward with roars that split the air, carving corridors to shield the Douglas troops' escape.
Mark, mounted on his griffin, led the counteroffensive with the fury of a man who had already lost everything. His unit charged in a wedge formation: the panther slipped through shadows, the bear smashed through entire lines.
For a moment—just a moment—the retreat held.
But the Duchy's darkness was treacherous.
The area seal that enveloped the city turned the terrain into living traps: sudden surges, walls of water, visibility reduced to a whisper. Magic severed coordinates, twisted routes… and what had been a maneuver became chaos.
Adela shouted orders, her voice cutting through smoke and fear.
"Close formation! Protect the lateral retreat!"
The riders responded in sequence—a moving wall of fangs and claws. The white tiger struck with surgical precision; the bear shattered encirclements; the panther tore through shadows trying to flank them.
And then the blow came.
A lance of ice, thin as a divine scythe, sliced through the air. It was not random—it was calculated. A frozen ray ripped through the flight line, locking muscles and joints.
Mark's griffin plummeted. Its right wing barely responded, and as it agonized among the clouds, it forced itself into one last climb—just enough to carry Eleonor and Norma away, clinging desperately to its talons. It vanished toward the rear, leaving behind a trail of bloodstained feathers.
Mark was not so fortunate.
His beasts lay broken. His breathing was a fractured whistle.
Footsteps over frozen mud forced him to lift his gaze.
Adela advanced toward him, dismounted, wrapped in vapor. The white tiger walked beside her, its fur soaked in blood, cold mana evaporating water with every breath. It was almost ritualistic.
Her boots sank into the mud as she approached with that devastating calm reserved for executioners certain of their sentence.
She looked at him as if she had been tracking him since the first roar of battle.
Mark tried to raise his spear, but the cold in his muscles was poison.
"You…" he muttered, spitting blood. "Why do you attack the chosen of the gods?"
She tilted her head, devoid of emotion.
"The gods chose you?" she replied, her tone almost maternal. "It seems to me you're nothing but tools."
The tiger growled, the vibration settling into the dying man's bones.
Adela leaned slightly closer, evaluating him.
"Your panther fought well. Your bear too. Even that griffin of yours… admirable.But you…" her golden eyes narrowed, "…should not have crossed my path today."
Mark gathered what strength he had left and forced himself upright. His spear trembled, but it was still raised.
"I… will not… kneel," he growled through clenched teeth.
Adela smiled—a sad, cruel smile.
"Don't worry. A rider doesn't die kneeling."
She snapped her fingers.
The white tiger moved faster than Mark could comprehend.
A flash.A diagonal strike.A freezing blow that split his chest from side to side.
He fell onto his back. The cold bit into him from within, stealing breath and world alike.
Adela knelt beside him while the tiger licked the blood from its claws.
"Full retreat," she ordered without looking away. "Not one more."
The riders obeyed. The tiger tilted its head, scenting the air, as the city behind them collapsed into smoke and ruin.
Adela turned her back without sparing the fallen hero another glance.
The first city of the Duchy of Douglas had fallen.
Hours later, far from the shattered walls, another group of heroes moved through the forest, trying to reorganize—unaware that the hunter was already after them.
The wind felt heavy.
It didn't blow—it pressed.
As if the forest itself were holding its breath for what was about to happen.
Carlo Benucci walked with unsteady steps, his gaze lost in a void he could no longer fill. His patron god had fallen in battle; the divine connection that sustained him had snapped like an old thread. And with it, his gift of precognition, his pride, his identity.
He felt light and hollow, as if a part of his soul had been torn away.
He was no longer a blessed hero.
Just an ordinary man condemned to return to a gray existence.
"You don't know what it feels like," he murmured, his voice no longer his own. "When the being that gave your life meaning simply… ceases to exist."
Leonardo looked at him with disdain.
"We're not here to mourn, Carlo. If you lower your guard, you won't get to blame anyone when your head gets torn off."
"You don't understand," Carlo growled, pain and resentment bleeding through his words. "Your god still lives. I… I'm no one now."
Xiomara clenched her jaw.
"Enough. Focus. If Lusian is nearby, we'll all die if we keep arguing."
But it was already too late.
The ground trembled.
Long shadows split between the roots like living spears, erupting upward. The earth spat black mana spikes—twisted, sharp, pulsing like serpents hunting flesh.
The heroes staggered back, barely dodging the first assault.
Lightning burst from the shadows—blinding, dry. None were struck… but the forest was scarred with blackened grooves and smoke.
Silence returned for a few seconds.
A thick, ominous silence.
Then—the roar.
A metallic, electric roar, like a storm that had learned how to breathe.
From the darkness emerged Thunder—Lusian's magical beast: a colossus wrapped in living lightning that coiled across its body. Every step shook the earth. Every breath smelled of ozone.
On its back, with a smile fractured by hatred and eyes empty of mercy, was Lusian.
Leonardo managed to shout:
"It's a decoy! Reform the—!"
He didn't finish.
Thunder charged.
A blue flash.A dry thunderclap.A body torn from the ground.
Carlo barely had time to scream before Lusian seized him by the head, lifting him like a rag doll, and vanished with him into the trees.
Alejandro reached out uselessly.
"Carlo!"
Only a muffled echo answered… then tearing screams that faded into the forest.
Xiomara clenched her teeth in fury.
"Damn it!" she roared, striking the ground. "They caught us off guard."
The forest fell silent again.
Heavy.Suffocating.
The smell of ozone still lingered in the air.
And in the distance, Carlo's screams faded—one… two… three… until only the murmur of the wind remained.
Lusian was already hunting his next prey.
Leonardo spoke through restrained anger.
"That area spell is tearing us apart. Wasn't your beloved supposed to break it? Wake up. She can locate it. Only she can help us."
Alejandro clenched his jaw, his voice trembling with frustration.
"If she says she can't, I believe her."
While the group struggled to reorganize, Lusian dragged Carlo beyond the range of the spell. Thunder followed behind, still crackling.
Carlo collapsed to the ground in convulsions, soaked in sweat and electricity. Lusian dropped him like a worthless sack.
Carlo begged, his voice shattered.
"It wasn't my fault… it was all the Herald Irius… I was just following divine orders! I swear…"
Lusian's eyes were frozen needles.
"You invaded my lands. Your excuses won't save you," he replied.
Carlo tried to summon what remained of his blessing: golden sparks flickered across his skin… and died instantly, snuffed out like wet embers.
Lusian raised a hand. Shadows gathered behind him, sharpening into dark spears. A rain of blades struck Carlo: some glanced off his armor, others pierced flesh and bone.
Carlo dropped to his knees, gasping, bleeding, trembling.
The air grew heavy.
With slow, almost ceremonial steps, Lusian approached, sword in hand.
One cut.
Clean. Precise.
Carlo's left arm fell to the ground. His scream tore through the night.
"You don't understand…" Carlo gasped, still clinging to resistance. "We… fight for humanity…"
Lusian stopped in front of him.
"No," he interrupted calmly. "You fight for the whims of a god who used you as sacrificial flesh."
His sword fell again.
The right arm dropped.
The scream echoed through the trees, mingling with distant thunder.
Carlo threw his head back, sweat and tears mixing with blood.
"When the spell fades… they will destroy you…" he rasped, clinging to a final shred of broken pride. "They… will hunt you…"
Lusian smiled without humor.
"Perhaps," he said. "But you won't be there to see it."
Another cut.
Carlo's right leg was severed.
He collapsed onto his side, still conscious, drowning in pain and terror—yet clinging to the last thread of life.