Blackrock City had fallen.
The dying sun bled across the horizon, painting the ruins in hues of visceral crimson. Beneath the shattered battlements, Rex Baroque knelt in the dust. His iron plate remained, but his body was bound in heavy, restrictive layers of chain. Even so, he forced his spine straight—like a dying old wolf, his gaze remained frigid and etched with unyielding contempt.
Footsteps approached, measured and rhythmic.
Helan Blackwood walked forward with a slow, deliberate stride. His black-and-red cloak snapped in the wind; his armored boots struck the earth with the finality of an executioner's drum.
He came to a halt before Rex, looking down from his height. His tone was calm, yet it possessed a razor's edge. "Lord of Blackrock, Rex Baroque."
"How does it feel?"
He paused, a thin, sharp smile pulling at the corner of his mouth. "Three thousand of my Ember Alliance broke your 'impregnable' fortress. Our casualties? Less than a hundred."
Rex let out a harsh, guttural snort. He lifted his face—caked in grime and dried gore—his eyes still burning with defiance. "Three thousand against five hundred... you think that's a victory worth boasting about?"
"If our main host hadn't been redeployed, it would be your corpses rotting in the fields!"
Helan didn't flare in anger. Instead, he let out a soft, genuine chuckle. "That is precisely why I am so curious."
He leaned in slightly, his voice dropping to a predatory whisper. "Tell me... why was it that your reinforcements never arrived?"
Rex erupted into a frantic, mocking laugh, his voice laced with bitter irony. "Reinforcements? You are nothing but a rabble! My five hundred brave souls would never bow to the likes of you!"
He glared at Helan, his teeth bared. "If you hadn't planted a suicide agent as an inside man—do you really think a mob like yours could have breached my gates!?"
Helan shook his head slowly, his expression shifting into something more meaningful, more dangerous. "Don't blame your soldiers."
He reached out, resting a hand on the shoulder of the youth standing beside him. "They didn't betray you. Your 'inside man'... is right here."
The boy slowly lifted his head.
Helan's voice was composed, almost formal. "Karl Lucian."
Rex's pupils constricted into pinpricks. His face went ghastly pale. "Lucian...!?"
"The Starlight Projection of the Stellara Royalty!?"
His voice trembled with a sudden, icy realization. "He... he was supposed to have died years ago... when the Kingdom of Stellara fell!"
"Precisely," Helan replied coolly, a trace of vengeful satisfaction coloring his words. "By all rights, this city—Blackrock City—should have changed masters years ago."
Helan straightened his posture, his gaze turning glacial.
"If we didn't still need to train our fresh recruits—" he began, his voice dropping an octave, "today would have been nothing more than a simple matter of... settling an old debt."
Beside him, Albert knit his brows, a flicker of displeasure crossing his features. Helan caught the look, tilting his head and lowering his voice with a casual shrug. "Don't mind me. I'm just venting a bit of steam."
Albert's eyes remained cold. "Just don't forget," he whispered back, "the reason you won this battle so effortlessly is entirely due to my brother's efforts."
Rex's gaze flickered, focusing on the two of them. In the next breath, he let out a laugh—one that carried a strange, eerie clarity and a sharp edge of irony.
"Lucian... the Starlight Projection of Stellara?"
He shook his head slowly, his voice a low rasp. "Ha... I don't believe a word of it. Not from you lot."
He suddenly threw his head back and roared with laughter. It was a desolate, wild sound, as if he were casting every ounce of his humiliation and resentment into the wind.
"Starlight Projection?" he sneered, his voice dripping with mockery. "If that power were truly as formidable as you claim—how did the Kingdom of Stellara ever fall?"
"It should have stood invincible for eternity. Why, then... did it end up being annihilated by my Kingdom of Lunaris?"
Helan's expression tightened. The playfulness vanished. He stopped pressing for a moment, his voice settling into a heavy, somber tone.
"You want a quick end—I can grant you that," Helan said, locking eyes with Rex. "But before that, I have one question."
"Why... were there no reinforcements?"
Rex laughed again, the sound purely derisive. "You expect to pry military secrets from my mouth?"
He slowly lowered his head, his eyes freezing over. "Fine then—once you arrive in the underworld, I'll be sure to tell you all about it!"
"Hahahaha—!"
Helan remained silent for a long moment, his tone turning clinical and frigid. "It matters little if you refuse to speak. I will eventually find someone who will."
He paused, then added, "However, if you choose to open your mouth now... I can petition the Lord of Ember to spare your life."
Rex let out a dry, mocking snort, his defiance absolute.
"I have no need for your mercy," he rasped. "Save your questions for those who fear the grave."
He lifted his head, his gaze remaining as unyielding as iron. "From me—you will hear nothing."
Helan stood in silence for a long moment. To his own surprise, a flicker of genuine respect crossed his eyes.
"Very well," he said softly. "You are a man of honor. In another life, had we not been enemies... I would have shared a drink with you."
As the last word left his lips, his longsword cleared its scabbard. A cold flash of steel—arcing like a rainbow—slashed through the twilight.
SPURT—!
The blade pierced straight through the heart.
Rex shuddered, his voice dropping to a faint, airy whisper: "...My thanks."
Blood seeped slowly from the corner of his mouth. With a ghost of a smile still etched on his face, the old lord slumped forward into the dust.
A heavy silence descended briefly over the battlefield.
Karl's gaze drifted slowly over the row of bound officials and captured officers. When he spoke, his voice was calm, yet it carried an irresistible weight of authority.
"Who among you is willing to speak the truth? Why did no help come for Blackrock?"
He paused, letting the chill of the evening sink in. "Answer me—and I shall spare your life."
The air grew stagnant. The captives exchanged frantic, pale-faced glances. After only a heartbeat of agonizing tension, a scrawny civil official finally snapped. He lurched forward, screaming in terror:
"I'll talk! I'll tell you everything!! Just don't kill me!!"
The other officers turned on him instantly, their eyes bulging with murderous rage. Had they not been bound by chains, they surely would have lunged forward to tear the man to pieces.
The official's voice trembled, but the words spilled out in a frantic rush: "We... of course we sent for help! We sent secret missives to the Grand General days ago! We sent riders to the three neighboring cities!"
"But—"
His throat constricted, his voice hitching in a sob. "The Grand General refused to send reinforcements! He denied us! And those three cities... their combined strength is less than a thousand men. There was no one left to move!"
The revelation hit the air like a physical weight.
Helan and Karl exchanged a sharp, knowing look.
"The situation is grim," Karl whispered. "The border cities are virtually hollowed out. That means the Kingdom's main host must be entirely concentrated at the Royal Capital."
A cold light flashed in Helan's eyes—the look of a wolf who had found the path to the throat.
"Then we strike while the hearth is cold," Helan declared. "We push through. We march straight for the Royal Capital!"
"Hold," Albe interjected, his expression clouding with gravity.
"Our numbers have swelled to five thousand, but with every city we take, we are forced to bleed men to garrison them. If we continue to fracture our strength, the march ahead will only grow more perilous." He looked at them with cold clarity. "Lest you forget—we are still deep within enemy territory."
Karl remained silent for a moment, then gave a slow, measured nod. "You are right. We leave only a hundred to hold each city. The rest continue the advance."
His gaze turned frigid. "As for the prisoners of war—conscript them all. They will serve as our vanguard. We shall feed this war with the spoils of the war itself."
A sharp, dangerous smile played on Helan's lips. "Perfect. We force them to surrender, then make them fight our battles for us. No need for bloody sieges—they will open the gates themselves and beg for mercy."
"We simply... keep marching."
The orders were dispatched swiftly. Amidst the dying embers of Blackrock City, the Ember Alliance rallied once more. Banners were hoisted high. The war drums thundered again.
The objective: The Royal Capital.
East of Starfall Cliff.
Deep within the ancient woods, an old, dilapidated village stood in silence, faint trails of hearth smoke still drifting into the canopy. Two figures came to a halt beneath the shadows of the trees.
It was Milia and Gareth, finally clear of the snowy peaks.
SLAP!
Milia violently wrenched her hand from his grip. Her eyes were burning with suppressed fury, her voice trembling at a low, jagged pitch.
"You make it sound so simple. 'It's not that we won't go back—it's that we can't'?" She glared at him, her chest heaving. "And so... we just ran. We just left them there."
Gareth kept his head lowered, his jaw clenched tight. After a heavy silence, he spoke in a strained whisper. "It's not that I didn't want to go back for them, Milia... it's just—"
He looked up, his eyes bloodshot but painfully lucid. "Even if we went back... what could we have done?"
Milia froze, but her anger only flared brighter. "At least we could have fought beside them! Every enemy we kill is one less threat at their throats!"
Gareth spat the words through gritted teeth. "The problem was never just the soldiers or the wolves! That crystal monstrosity... we don't have a single thing in our arsenal that can even scratch it!"
"Facing that thing while fighting off an entire army..." Gareth's voice dropped, frantic and hushed. "There was simply no chance! They're surrounded by a literal legion... and now, we've lost all contact with Rhine and Thea."
Milia's voice trembled, as if she were straining to keep her very soul from splintering. "How could we... how could we just run?"
Her knuckles whitened, her grip so tight it seemed that if she let go, her sanity would collapse along with it.
Gareth fell silent for a heartbeat, his words coming faster now. "Gerald said it himself—he believed in Rhine. Those were the last words he spoke before he lost consciousness."
He locked eyes with Milia, emphasizing every syllable. "If we turn back now instead of heading for the Royal Capital—and the others actually manage to break free only to find us missing—that is what will truly destroy the plan."
Milia bit her lower lip, her trembling fists matching the rhythm of her racing heart. "But what if... what if something really did happen to them?"
This time, Gareth didn't answer immediately. He looked at her with a rare, piercing sincerity.
"It won't," he said firmly. "Rhine is the man who's going to rebuild the Great Empire of Soleia. Owen is thick-skinned and stubborn; his life is tougher than a mountain goat's. And Rena..."
He paused there, a faint twitch at the corner of his mouth. "That woman isn't even human. She's a monster."
He took a deep breath, his voice steadying. "As for us—if we go back, we're nothing but a liability. Dead weight."
The air between them went still. Milia kept her head lowered, the fierce fire in her eyes wavering into a reluctant acceptance. After a long silence, she gave a small, weary nod.
"...Fine. We head for the Capital first."
Gareth let out a long, heavy breath of relief. He knew better than anyone that once this seemingly fragile girl made up her mind, she was an immovable force.
"However—" Milia suddenly looked up, her voice regaining a hint of its usual soft, playful edge. "When we finally see Rena again, I'm going to tell her that you called her a monster."
Gareth blanched, a wry, helpless smile breaking across his face. "Can't we... can't we just have one little secret between us?"
Milia brushed the last of the moisture from her eyes, a faint, fleeting smile touching her lips. "Between Rena and me—there are no secrets."
"Hmph."
The two shared a silent, knowing look. There was nothing more to be said. Having oriented themselves, they vanished into the dense foliage, their silhouettes melting into the shadows as they began their silent trek toward the Royal Capital.
Deeper within the forest.
The sunlight was shredded by the towering canopy, scattering into jagged, dappled shards across a narrow, overgrown trail. Rena stepped up beside Owen, her voice dropping to a low, cautious tone.
"Owen, how are you holding up?"
She cast a wary glance at their surroundings. "It seems we've shaken the pursuit for now... do you need to stop and rest?"
Owen flashed a wide, sweat-streaked grin. "I'm fine. Honestly—Gerald weighs less than my warhammer."
"Don't talk tough with me," Rena shot him a side-long glance, her voice tinged with a familiar, sharp impatience. "I saw you take those two blades with my own eyes."
Owen reached back to touch his shoulder, offering a wry, helpless laugh. "Can't hide anything from you, can I?"
He trudged over to the base of a massive, ancient oak and carefully lowered Gerald to the mossy ground. The old man lay there in a deep, steady sleep, as if the life-and-death struggle they had just survived was nothing more than a distant, fading dream.
Rena was already kneeling, pulling herbs and clean bandages from her pack. As she began to tend to the old man's minor scrapes, she spoke with a flat, detached tone: "You took those hits on purpose, didn't you? Stepped right in front of him. Stop pretending otherwise."
Owen shrugged and pulled off his tattered tunic. Across his broad chest, two jagged, crimson gashes tore downward—not deep enough to be fatal, but long enough to be gruesome.
"Just flesh wounds," he said dismissively. "The bone and sinew are untouched."
"You..." Rena let out a heavy sigh, though her hands moved with unexpected gentleness as she began cleaning his wounds. "No matter how much you can endure, you aren't made of iron, Owen. We're at the point where we can't afford to lose a single one of us."
Owen looked down at her steady, practiced movements. He remained silent for a long moment before finally asking, "Do you think... do you think Gareth and the girl made it out?"
Rena didn't look up. She merely gave a slight, imperceptible nod. "I don't know," she whispered, her voice barely audible over the rustle of the leaves. "But I hope so. I hope the same for Rhine and Thea."
She paused, her fingers tightening slightly on a bandage. "Going back for them now... it would only make things worse."
A heavy, lingering silence fell over the small clearing.
A chill wind swept through the forest, carrying the bite of the coming winter. Owen let out a sudden, rough chuckle, a deliberate attempt to crack the suffocating gloom.
"I bet you anything—that scoundrel Gareth is off on a date with Milia right now. Don't let that honest face fool you; the kid's got more schemes than a court magician."
"…A date?" Rena arched an eyebrow, her skepticism sharp.
"Who knows?" Owen shrugged, his grin widening with a sense of absolute certainty. "As for the Boss—well, aside from Gerald, I've never seen a soul who could actually put him in the dirt."
Finally, a faint smile ghosted across Rena's lips. It was a fragile thing, but it cut through the darkness like a sliver of dawn breaking through storm clouds.
She stood up, stowing her medicinal herbs back into her pack. "Let's move. We stick to the original plan: the Royal Capital. If we can link up with Karl, we might still have a fighting chance."
She pulled a weathered map from her belt pouch, spreading it out between them on the mossy roots. "Judging by our heading and the time since we broke the line—" she pointed to a corner of the parchment, "we should be in the woodlands directly east of Starfall Cliff. Roughly here."
Owen leaned in, his eyes suddenly lighting up with an idea. "Wait. We can loop around to the northeast."
He tapped a small town marked on the map. "Gerald has an old friend who lives right there. Loaded, too. We might be able to 'borrow' a carriage—anything is better than limping the rest of the way on foot."
"And how exactly do you know about his high-society friends?" Rena narrowed her eyes, her gaze drifting toward Owen with heavy suspicion.
Owen gave a mischievous snort and fished a battered, leather-bound notebook from his pack. "This—Gerald's private journal." He gave it a little shake, his tone dropping to a mock-conspiracy whisper. "It's full of his 'Candidate Wife List' for the Boss."
He flipped a page, his grin turning predatory. "I took a peek earlier. There's a family in this nearby town. Two daughters—beautiful, well-built, and exceptionally virtuous—"
WHACK!
Before he could finish the sentence, Rena's fist connected with the top of his head in a sharp rap.
"Why are you carrying something like that!?" she hissed, snatching the notebook from his hands, her face darkening. "A 'Female Registry'? This isn't a ledger; it's a Public Enemy Record!"
"Wait—don't tear it!" Owen panicked, reaching out in vain. "The addresses and contact info in there are actually useful!"
Rena let out a cold huff but stopped herself. Her fingers flicked through the parchment, pausing on a specific page.
In an instant—her movements froze.
There, written in Gerald's meticulous, spindly script, was a single name: — Rena Elvy.
The forest fell into a sudden, heavy silence.
The tips of Rena's ears flushed a faint, imperceptible crimson. Without a word or a change in her icy expression, she gripped the corner of the page and ripped it out.
Then—she tore it into strips. Then into fragments. Then into a flurry of confetti.
"...Pointless," she muttered coldly, shoving the remains of the notebook into her own pack. "Enough. The wounds are tended. It's time to move."
Owen rubbed his head, looking utterly dejected. "Unbelievable... I took those blades for him, got chewed on by wolves—" He glanced down at the unconscious Gerald. "And yet this old man... how does he look like he's just taking a nap?"
Rena looked down as well, her brow furrowing slightly. "It is strange. Perhaps his combat instincts... he might have parried every lethal blow right before losing consciousness."
She stood up, her tone regaining its clinical detachment. "Check him one more time. Make sure we haven't missed anything."
As Owen finished cinching his own bandages, he couldn't help but grumble under his breath, "So I bled for nothing?"
"Less talk," Rena shot him a sharp look. "Linger any longer, and I'll ensure you bleed a little more."
Owen clamped his mouth shut, his hands moving with renewed speed. Once he confirmed that Gerald was indeed unscathed, he let out a weary sigh and heaved the old man back onto his shoulders.
Sunlight filtered through the canopy, painting the forest floor in a mosaic of dappled gold. In the distance, the fires of war had yet to be extinguished.
But they were on the move again— Toward the Royal Capital.
Into the unknown.