The Last Step-Chapter 73: The Masked Killer

- West of Rinascita -

1:27 PM — 10 Minutes Before Valhalla Wipeout

Aaron's Perspective:

These grotesques were too damn predictable.

Same savage growl. Same rabid charge. Same pathetic lunge like some broken puppet stuck on repeat.

I sliced through two of them at once—clean, diagonal cut, no resistance. Their heads popped off like overripe fruit. Didn't even feel it. My arms were already in motion toward the next.

Valhalla's "members" stayed in the back, swinging wildly like frightened kids. Some of them screaming like toddlers.

Disgusting.

I wasn't their bodyguard. I wasn't their savior. I wasn't their damn babysitter.

If you're too weak to survive here, then rot. That's the only lesson worth learning in this world.

One of the D-rank losers got his head chomped off right as I looked over. I smirked.

Nature did its job. One less insect crawling around beneath me.

I launched forward, my right foot twisting in mid-air, smashing the grotesque that ate him in the stomach with a roundhouse kick. Its body crumpled mid-air, slamming into a tree.

Before it hit the ground, I slashed it from hip to shoulder, bisecting it diagonally.

"S-Sir Aaron! Please help us—"

Pathetic.

"Fight for your own life," I cut him off without even turning to look. "I told you your roles. Now it's your duty to live or die. Not mine."

I left him. His begging irritated me more than the grotesques did.

I swung by a low tree branch, twisting and dropping into the center of a swarm, both blades slicing in synchronized arcs—like cutting wet paper. Four grotesques fell in perfect silence.

Still too easy.

No excitement.

No progress.

Training with Scar would've been ten times harder. This? This was a kindergarten playground. A graveyard full of toys waiting to be snapped.

I pivoted, dodging one grotesque's jaw by tilting my head, letting its drool fly past my face. My blade slipped beneath its ribs, up through the neck. I didn't stop to watch it fall. Trash didn't deserve attention.

...Then I remembered the banquet.

How those lowborn sword saints had the nerve to speak to me as if we were equals.

Navina. That little blonde insect was the first one. She actually defended that servant like it meant something. Her face when she stood up to me—it still pisses me off.

She'll pay.

She'll suffer.

I stabbed the grotesque beneath me in the face, again and again, watching the skull cave in. I wasn't seeing its face anymore—I was seeing hers.

Navina, with her smug confidence, her little protector act. Disgusting.

One day, I'll carve that pretty face of hers until she can't even look at herself without vomiting.

Let her wear masks and hoods for the rest of her life.

Let her live in shame while I laugh.

I'll pin her down myself and show her what it means to be lesser.

Another grotesque lunged—its claws wide, mouth open. I side-stepped, grabbed its arm mid-swing, broke it at the elbow with a twist, and jammed my blade into its gut until it hit the spine.

It twitched. I twisted harder.

Then I heard it.

Screams.

Louder. Closer. Different.

It wasn't the grotesques this time.

Valhalla members were dropping like flies behind me.

I turned, annoyed—and paused.

It wasn't a monster.

It was... a person.

Completely black clothing. Mask over his face. Not even his hair visible.

He held a thick steel-silver pipe like it was an extension of his arm—fluid, deadly.

And he was wrecking them.

Not killing—knocking them out with precise, effortless strikes.

A pipe cracked someone's ribs and caved a helmet. Another was dropped with a neck blow, limbs flailing.

One grotesque pounced at him. He slipped low, drew a small dagger—and sliced its legs off. Just like that.

The creature screamed, its body twitching, crippled on the ground.

I blinked.

Oh.

Oh... this is interesting.

He's fast.

Finally.

A real human being.

Not one of those whining weaklings behind me.

Not a pathetic sword saint hiding behind their gifts.

A real challenge.

I smiled.

Looks like I found my warm-up.

Before I peel Navina's face off, I think I'll take my time with this one.

Break him down. Snap every bone.

And when I'm done, I'll rip that mask off and show him exactly who stands at the top.

Me.

Aaron.

Scar's greatest student.

The one destined to lead.

You'll see.

They'll all see.

1:29 PM – 8 Minutes Before Valhalla Wipe Out

Tch.

He was fast. Not faster than me—but fast enough to be annoying.

I rushed him, blades gleaming with gore, blood still dripping from the grotesques I butchered like livestock. He kept knocking out Valhalla members like they were training dummies, hitting their vitals like he had a goddamn manual. Each strike was surgical. Precision in motion.

Good.

He wasn't some fragile little mageling swinging a stick. He knew how to fight. That meant this would be fun.

And I'd get to crush someone worth crushing.

I lunged, slicing from the side—he ducked, tilting down so clean it pissed me off. A flash of movement—gone. Like smoke in wind.

I turned—eyes narrowing. He was already behind another grotesque, severing its arms, slamming the Valhalla idiot behind it to the ground—then punting him out cold like trash.

I couldn't help the grin that crept up.

A killer in a mask. Like me.

But let's be real—he wasn't me.

He wasn't even close.

I jumped in again, swept low toward his legs. He caught it with the bat. I went for the kill—a double-blade slice to both sides of his neck. One got blocked. The other? Should've ended it.

CLANG.

He blocked it—pulled out his dagger mid-motion, like he knew it was coming.

We both jumped back, like wolves in a cage. Circle. Slow steps.

Our eyes locked.

"Got a name, masked boy?" I spat, blades dripping. "Or do you wanna say it as your last words before I kill you?"

"Question that in hell."

That was it.

I was going to carve that tongue out.

I pounced. The clash of metal and movement blurred the edge of the battlefield. Our weapons howled every time they met. I slammed my foot down, magic coursing through my leg. Earth responded like a loyal dog—rising into a wall behind him.

You don't get to run, freak.

I spun—roundhouse aimed at his gut. He blocked with his knee. Solid. Felt like kicking stone. So I went lower—kicked into that same knee.

My shin burned. Bastard braced it well.

And then—he did something slick.

He threw his dagger into the air—what, you panicking now? But no—this was planned. He swung the bat. I caught it. Redirected it like a joke. But he let go of the bat and grabbed my wrist.

A mistake.

I went in to stab him straight through the gut—already imagining the sound of the blade tearing through flesh—

CLINK.

He caught his falling dagger in reverse grip—mid-air—and blocked it.

WHAT?!

Then he twisted my wrist—sharp, clean—kicked my thigh with enough force to jolt my nerves, and used the push to launch himself up, flipping—and brought his heel down toward my skull.

Reflex. I blocked with both arms, but the force still drove me back.

I slid across the dirt, boots digging in. My blades hissed from the friction.

We locked eyes again.

Neither of us moved.

I could see it now—Even the grotesques were keeping back, forming a ring around us like they could sense this wasn't their game.

They were waiting.

For blood.

And they wouldn't get mine.

No one interfered. Not even the cowards in Valhalla—

Of course they didn't.

They knew I didn't need help.

He thought he was good?

No.

He just hadn't tasted what I can really do.

He hasn't seen me serious.

He'll learn.

And when he's gasping on the ground, face cracked and bloody—he'll see who the top of the world really is.

Me.

Aaron.

"Pathetic." the masked freak said.

He let his weapons fall. Just like that. Steel bat, dagger—gone.

"You're too weak," he muttered, stepping forward like this wasn't even a fight. "It's a shame those weapons are wasted on someone like you."

His hands rose—open palms. Not fists. No guard. Just... relaxed fighting stance.

"Oh, now you're dead, cunt."

I lunged. Full speed—blades blurring, legs swinging—I was the weapon.

He slid under the first slash.

His body dipped, shoulder brushing dirt, and he popped up inside my guard, hands brushing the side of my sword with a subtle touch—redirecting it just off-angle.

I spun—other blade flashing in an arc.

He bent back—the edge slicing air an inch above his nose.

Then he twisted around me.

One palm struck the nerve in my forearm—tingle.

A second pushed into my shoulder—redirected my momentum mid-spin.

I was moving—But not where I wanted to go.

I roared and kicked, sharp and low—aiming for his knee.

He stepped around, catching the inside of my thigh with his heel—quick tap, just enough to disrupt the strike—then pivoted.

He slid past my guard, leaned into my chest, and elbowed me straight in the ribs.

Crack.

I snarled and slashed.

He didn't back off.

He weaved. Ducked under. Turned sideways. My sword passed over his shoulder.

He caught my wrist—again—and this time pushed, body twisting in unison like flowing water around a rock.

I nearly stumbled.

He didn't even hit me with strength. It was all position and calculated approaches.

My next kick came in high, aimed for his head.

He spun inward, got under my leg, hand brushing the back of my thigh—redirected it with me instead of against.

As my foot landed—off balance—his palm slapped my chest and pushed back.

Not hard. But timed perfectly.

I stumbled a step.

"You're pissing me off!" I shouted, blades burning in my grip. "Fight like a man! Stop running, you coward!"

I went in again, teeth clenched, swinging both swords from opposite directions like a guillotine.

He slid forward.

Not back.

In.

Head tilted—barely missed my right blade.

Left hand caught my forearm mid-swing and redirected it downward with a sharp arc—using my own force.

Right palm slapped the flat of my other blade and pushed it aside with such finesse it felt disrespectful.

Disarming without disarming.

He moved like he wasn't just avoiding pain—He was rewriting the rules of the fight.

He jumped back, landing light, keeping distance again.

Like this was all just... practice.

That was it.

That was fucking it.

I stood there breathing heavy, fury crawling up my throat.

This guy. This masked loser.

He hadn't even bruised me—But I felt violated.

Every strike he landed wasn't meant to hurt—It was meant to show me I couldn't touch him.

I was a rabid dog, and he was walking me on a leash.

And the worst part?

The grotesques were still watching.

The Valhalla bastards still weren't stepping in.

Everyone here was watching me lose ground.

"You call that fighting?" I barked, pacing forward. "You keep dodging, flipping, running around like a loser! Fight me like a man!"

"...You're too slow."

"What?"

"Too slow," he repeated, flat. "Too clumsy. Too obvious. Every movement you make is an opening I can use to kill you."

My fists tightened around the hilts. "You little—"

"You can't land a hit. Not because I run," he said, "but because your fighting style is awful."

My teeth gritted. "You think you're clever, huh?"

"I don't need to be clever," he replied. "You make this easy."

"You're not even fighting!" I shouted. "Just dodging like a coward! You haven't attacked once! Not even once! You call this garbage dancing a style!?"

"I'm not fighting to kill," he said, voice calm—too calm. "If I was, you'd already be dead."

"Oh, so now it's mercy?!" I sneered. "You're sparing me? Me?!"

"Yes."

"You arrogant piece of—"

"You were born lucky," he interrupted, sharp. "That's all."

I froze.

"What?"

"You didn't earn this strength or style. You were born with it. That's why you rely on brute force to fight. That's why you'll never be able to defeat me."

"I worked day and night to stand where I am today!" I snapped. "Don't you dare act like you're better than me!"

"I am better than you."

"You'll shut that mouth when your jaw's shattered," I growled. "And once I kill you—once I wipe that smugness off your face—I'll keep getting stronger. Stronger and stronger until the rest fall too."

"...What did you say?"

I stepped forward, smirking through the heat in my chest.

"Once I kill you," I said slowly, savoring every word, "the next on my list is Navina. Then one by one, each Sword Saint will drop."

His body stiffened.

Something shifted.

That calm, floating stance he used—Gone.

Now he sank, weight over his front leg. His arms low. His fingers curled tighter. No more softness. No more deflections.

He wasn't defending anymore.

"And you won't change your mind?" he asked, voice quieter.

"No," I spat. "Those insects are dropping once this is done. So stand proud while you're still breathing. You gave me a little trouble."

I raised my hand and wind began coiling around me—fast.

Using the elemental magic of wind will help me gain swiftness. It's time to stop holding back and destroy him.

This was it. This was the moment I won.

But then—

His voice changed.

It wasn't calm anymore.

It wasn't even human.

"Then I'll end this here."

"How dare you even think of touching my dolls..."

His head tilted slightly forward.

Shoulders rolled once—Then still.

"Your story ends here."

In an instant, he moved.

I didn't think.

I moved.

I could hear the wind I summoned still howling around me, wrapping my limbs in speed, in control. I was faster, stronger, sharper—this should've been over.

He was nothing but a coward who finally decided to stop running.

But the second he moved, something was off.

He closed the distance like he wanted blood.

My blade came up—high angle slash, a bait into a second lower sweep.

He didn't flinch.

His left hand slapped my wrist down and the second sword went wide—redirected like it meant nothing. His right palm struck me square in the chest, just under the sternum. My ribs rattled. I stumbled half a step back.

What?

I reset, gritting my teeth. I was still in control. I charged again—switched stance, swapped swords, elemental burst along the edges of my blades, feint left—twist right—kick low—

He ducked under the kick and pivoted under my arms like he was dancing with gravity. His knee came up—fast. Cracked into my side. It hurt. A lot.

I growled and jumped back, adjusting.

He kept walking forward.

"You were only born with talent. Still want to die?" he said.

I didn't answer.

I blitzed forward again, faster this time—unpredictable. I twisted my core mid-slash, flipping the blade into reverse grip and aiming for his throat. I combined my movement with a burst of flame at his legs to lock him in.

This was genius-level close combat. Nothing he could see coming.

But he did.

He jumped over the flame mid-spin, used my own momentum to roll behind me, and slammed his heel against the back of my knee.

I buckled.

Pain flared up my leg as I dropped down on one knee—and then it hit me.

That wasn't a lucky move.

He wanted me to come in.

He baited me. He used my attack to control the field.

I tried to push up—his elbow crashed into the side of my head, making my vision flicker.

I swung my blade from the ground, wild. Sloppy. Desperate.

He knocked it clean from my hand with a sharp upward palm. It flew into the air and clattered somewhere far.

I didn't even see his next punch.

All I felt was my jaw being shoved to the left by force.

He didn't stop. He rushed me—blow after blow, short-range, close-quarters. His foot stomped my other knee in before I could adjust, and a snap shot up my spine. I howled.

This can't be happening.

I reached for my other sword—finally grabbed it—only for him to kick my forearm. It went limp. Useless. The sword slipped away. I couldn't close my fingers.

He spun and took me down to the ground with a brutal jujutsu sweep, mounted my chest, locked my arms with his knees, and stared down at me.

I was trapped. Completely.

I couldn't believe it.

This wasn't Scar. This wasn't a Sword Saint.

This was a nobody.

Then came the fist.

The first punch shook my skull.

The second cracked something.

The third made my vision blur like glass underwater.

Each one hit harder. More violent. More exact. It wasn't just pain—it was death.

He was deforming my face with every hit.

My brain couldn't keep up. My thoughts were collapsing.

I used to think fighting Scar showed me what fear was.

But this?

This showed me what death felt like.

Another hit. I felt my cheekbone split.

Another. My nose shattered.

I screamed, but it wasn't even a sound anymore. Just blood and spit.

My thoughts were unraveling—I was supposed to kill him. I was supposed to wipe them all. Navina, Alina, all of them. I was meant to rise.

I saw it so clearly.

But now I was here—under him, helpless, dying in fists. And suddenly...

I knew.

This nobody fought better than anyone I had ever faced. Even Scar.

My body stopped resisting. My thoughts started fading.

And the last thing I realized before the darkness took me—

I never stood a chance.

"Don't ever think of touching my dolls again." He said as I collapsed unconscious...

-----

After Aaron collapsed, his broken body thudding against the dirt like discarded scrap, the masked man didn't speak a word.

No final insult. No dramatic endnote.

He simply stood up—blood smeared across his fists, Aaron's—and turned his focus toward the rest of Valhalla's squad.

They didn't stand a chance.

One by one, they fell. Brutally put to sleep.

And when it was done, with the bodies of the once-feared squad littered like trash across the ground, the masked man raised a single hand to the sky.

A flare of dark light erupted—a crooked, jagged signal—ripping across the clouds.

A silent message: Valhalla Squad – Eliminated.

The grotesques paused for a moment, eyes scanning the unconscious and mangled bodies. They tilted their heads, confused. None of them twitched. No signs of life. But no signs of death either. Limbs twisted. Blood congealed. Faces unrecognizable.

Yet, in the grotesques' single-minded obsession, none of that mattered.

Rinascita was near.

And so, without a sound, they moved on. Storming past the wreckage of bodies once praised as humans.

And among them, Aaron's body remained.

His face—swollen, crushed, broken beyond recognition—was uglier than any grotesque. A grotesque of ambition itself.

The price he paid for daring to threaten what the masked man held dear.

A cruel punishment, not out of justice, but possession.

He touched what wasn't his.

And for that...

He was destroyed.

-------------------------------

- North of Rinascita -

1:40 PM — After Valhalla Wipeout

Celia's Perspective:

The air was thick with blood again. Warm. Sticky. Familiar. The grotesques didn't scream, they just... gurgled. Sputtered as they collapsed in pieces under me.

Their heads dropped first—thunk, thunk—then their bodies gave in. I didn't even blink. I stepped on the last one's skull with a satisfying crunch, bits of bone and brain matter spraying out beneath my heel.

They kept coming.

I kept killing.

"Valhalla's squad just got wiped," Levi said behind me, panting as he cleaved through a creature lunging from the left. "All of them. Gone."

I tilted my head.

"Hm."

I sliced horizontally, my blade singing as it tore through another grotesque's neck.

"Then they didn't have it in them to live. That's all."

Levi paused—stared at me like I'd just told him his mother meant nothing. "Celia, what the hell—?"

"They weren't strong enough. They died. End of story."

I flicked the blood off my chains. It arced into the dirt, black and steaming. "It's not like we needed them."

"But that squad was guarding the west entrance to Rinascita! The grotesques will flood the—!"

"So?" I turned slowly, my voice flat. Another grotesque lunged toward me—I didn't even look at it. My chains snapped midair, impaling it in five places. The body dropped twitching.

I stepped over it.

"I don't see why we should care for strangers," I added, dragging the edge of my heel across its half-moving face. A wet squelch followed. "Let them die."

Levi moved closer, teeth gritted. "You're not... you're not acting like yourself."

"Old Celia died the moment Kaiser was taken away from me," I said. "This is me now."

He flinched. For a second, the battlefield seemed quieter. His sword trembled just slightly in his grip.

"She would've cared," he said. "The old Celia would've—"

"—been weak. Stupid. Emotional. And in love with a fantasy."

I summoned my chains again—four grotesques came from above, and I skewered them midair. Their bodies dangled like torn puppets. I didn't even look up.

Levi's expression twisted. "We need to regroup. That side of Rinascita's exposed. If we don't reinforce it, people will die."

"The moment you leave you guild dies." I turned to face him, slowly. "If they were really worth anything, they would survive. I have no intentions of helping them even for a second."

He took a step back. "You... can't mean that."

"I do."

My eyes didn't flinch. "Or would you rather go play hero and watch your precious friends get torn apart while you're gone?"

"You can't be serious," he whispered.

I tilted my head, smiling sweetly now—one of those fake, saccharine ones I used to wear before I bled someone out.

"You made promises, didn't you?" I said, voice soft now, nearly a whisper. "You said you'd carry them. Protect them. Be their pillar."

My eyes narrowed. "Are you really going to abandon them now?"

Levi didn't answer.

"Go on then, run off," I said. "Let the little children here die while you chase after something you're too late to save. That's what you're good at, isn't it? Pretending to be a hero when all you've ever were was a coward."

He looked furious. But he didn't move.

"They're all going to die when you leave. Stay here and fight like you should, that's your goal." I said.

Grotesques came again. I twirled. Blood bloomed in the air as my thorns and chains danced—elegant, mechanical, merciless. Bodies collapsed behind me like dominoes.

"So Levi, what's your answer? Save your own guild or strangers?"

When the last one dropped, Levi finally exhaled.

"...Fine," he said. "...Fine. We stay."

I smiled again, but this time it was different—twisted. Almost... tender.

Someone else will handle the other side. They'll either survive, or they won't. That's life.

I leapt midair, flicked my hand—and four grotesques exploded as my chains spun like razors.

Then I floated down beside Levi, brushing his cheek mid-motion.

Pat.

"You're a good boy," I whispered.

His eyes widened. For the first time since I'd met him... he looked afraid of me.

And that was good. That was right.

Because I wasn't Celia anymore.

I was Kaiser's good girl.

And I'd tear the world apart just to see him in my arms again.

Others can drop dead, kill themselves, whatever really. I only want him and him...

I wonder who'll play hero to save those helpless people.

-------------------------------

- East of Rinascita -

1:46 PM — After Valhalla Wipeout

Lucas's Perspective:

Ahh. A few new levels.

I flexed my fingers. A small pulse of Light Magic arced off my palm.

"I feel stronger already," I muttered.

Then I paused.

Wait. Why did that feel... off?

My boots crunched over grotesque flesh—charred, slashed, and halfway melted thanks to system cleaning up anything that got too close to me. I hadn't even needed to cast a spell for the last five minutes. They were weak.

Too weak.

Awfully weaker than before.

Something's not right.

「 You finally noticed? Congrats, Einstein. These grotesques are significantly weaker than the one you fought near the forest last week. At this point, you might as well be grinding tutorial mobs. 」

My brow twitched.

"Don't roast me while I'm thinking."

But he had a point. These things were cannon fodder. Half their attacks weren't even reaching me before being atomized by Light Aura auto-barriers the system maintained around me.

Then I saw it.

A message in the sky. Burning crimson. Faint particles etched into the clouds.

[Valhalla Squad: WIPED]

What?

「 ...Huh. That's unexpected. I had them in the top 5 bets to survive. Guess I'm down fifty imaginary system coins. 」

"Navina!" I called out.

She twisted mid-swing, her twin arcflingers melting a grotesque into ash before she turned to me.

"What?!"

I pointed to the sky.

Her eyes followed.

She froze.

Her breath hitched.

"No... no way," she whispered. Her whole face paled, like the color had been ripped out by the news.

I clenched my jaw as another grotesque jumped. The system wiped it before it touched the air around me. But I wasn't thinking about that.

My heart was pounding—and not because of the fight.

I looked beyond the barrier, toward the town.

Rinascita was open now. The grotesques would flood in. Homes. Families. Children.

Innocent people are going to die.

I stared ahead, light erupting around me with each step. The system was auto-cleaving grotesques using light that entered my radius, but I barely noticed the slaughter.

It felt... empty.

All these people. They had no power. No magic. Just lives. Simple ones.

Someone's dad might not come back tonight. Someone's daughter might never get to see tomorrow.

All because we were supposed to have the East covered.

All because Valhalla died at the West.

Was this a trap?

Had it all been a trap from the start?

A flicker in the corner of my eye made me look left.

Azrael.

His face remained completely neutral, poker as always but...

He was running west.

And for the first time... he wasn't calm.

His movement was clipped, stiff.

「 ...There's a surge in his neural response patterns. He's feeling anxious. 」

My eyes widened.

"Azrael? Anxious?"

「 Which means something even you might understand... Something bad has happened beyond our normal eyes. 」

Shit.

If even he was on edge, this was worse than I thought.

I turned quickly. "Navina!"

She turned, breathing heavily, blood splattered across her cheek.

"I need you to take care of the east side with your guild. I'm heading west. I have to make sure Rinascita doesn't fall."

Her brows drew tight. "Alone?! Lucas, that's suicide! You'll be going straight into the horde—!"

"Azrael's already on his way." I offered a half-grin. "And I'm not dying. Promise."

"But—"

"Hey."

She looked at me.

I straightened, light swirling behind my back like twin wings of gold dust.

"Throughout the vastness of the skies... I alone am the divine one," I said, smirking. "I'll return—unharmed and unescaped. Don't worry."

She blinked. Slowly... then finally nodded. Hesitant. Quiet.

"...Take care," she said.

I gave a single nod.

Then—

「 Activating skill: Lightstep: Full Drive. Speed increased by 150%. Aura suppression applied. Path cleared. 」

Boom.

My body surged forward, the world blurring past me as I ran across the blood-soaked fields. The grotesques weren't even dots in my periphery—they were already dead.

I reached the outer shell of where Valhalla's squad had last been seen.

Only to feel it.

Drip.

A raindrop.

Then another.

Thunder rolled in the distance.

I looked up.

"...No way."

The sky was darkening. Clouds too thick. Too unnatural.

「 Lucas. It's impossible, but... it appears someone is artificially inducing a storm. 」

"What?"

「 Atmospheric mana manipulation. Someone's forcing a thunderstorm. Right over Rinascita. 」

Everything clicked at once.

Weaker grotesques... Valhalla squad wiped... now a thunderstorm at the exact point we planned to converge for final reinforcement?

"Someone's fighting against us," I muttered. "There's a mastermind."

My stomach twisted.

Could it be—

No.

Kaiser's missing. If he wanted this place gone, he wouldn't have to pull strings. He's too powerful for games like this. He could walk through the front gates and erase Rinascita.

So then who?

「 The storm. The bait grotesques. The deaths. The location. Someone knew you'd pick protecting the people over staying with Navina. 」

I stopped running.

My hands clenched.

"...They split us up."

They knew I'd leave if the town was in danger.

My eyes widened.

Someone wanted me away from Navina's side.

They forced me to choose—lives of strangers, or my friends.

「 So? Where are you going to go now? 」

The thunder rumbled harder now.

A few cold drops landed on my head.

I stared into the west, past the storm clouds, past the howling grotesques, past the blood.

"...I'll fight for the people," I said.

"They deserve to live, even if I don't know their names."

「 Sacrificing your friends for the lives of strangers... that's the Lucas I love to see. 」

"Don't call it a sacrifice," I muttered. "Navina's not some damsel. She's strong. She'll survive."

「 ...Fair. Oh—by the way, that giant grotesque charging you from the right? Not imaginary. 」

I smiled.

Light exploded from my palm.

"Let's make this quick, then. People are waiting."

And as thunder cracked across the sky, I prayed silently—Don't let her die before I come back.

---------------------------------------------

As Lucas vanished into the storm, a new terror stepped onto the field.

The Swarm Tyrant.

A grotesque unlike the others—neither frenzied nor mindless. Towering above even the largest of its kin, its form was a writhing fusion of obsidian chitin and glistening black feathers, six wings unfurling behind its back like blades ready to slice the sky in half. Its voice was not a sound, but a vibration—thick and guttural, echoing straight into the minds of every grotesque nearby.

They bowed.

Creatures that had once snarled and screeched now knelt like loyal beasts before a king.

From beneath its wings, several grotesques emerged—evolved types, marked with jagged glowing runes etched into their skulls and limbs. Intelligence danced behind their monstrous gazes. These weren't fodder. These were commanders.

One of them crawled forward, its claws dragging long furrows into the ground, eyes glowing like twin coals. Its mandibles clicked reverently.

"⟟⨀⧞⟡... Tyrant... your swarm awakens," it rasped in a voice that sounded like bone scraping metal. "Where shall the purge begin?"

The Swarm Tyrant raised its head, golden irises narrowing beneath its plated crown. Its wings expanded further, blocking the sun behind a veil of shadow.

"We begin with the South," it declared. Its voice carried across the field like thunder.

"The Sword Saint of Technique dies first."

The air seemed to still.

And then—

Wings.

Dozens. Hundreds.

Every grotesque in the area—evolved, sharpened, ready—unfurled their wings in unison, a sweeping sound like a thousand blades unsheathing. Their forms blurred in the sky, fanning out behind the Tyrant like a black hurricane.

They had been waiting.

And now, the real war would begin.

Elsewhere, a different storm raged.

Celia.

She moved to kill, each chain aimed to crush the grotesques from inside and outside using her hatred, fuel by her negative emotions and cruel sense of justice. This wasn't even about saving other people... it was about...

Obsession.

She didn't fight for the innocent. She didn't defend the helpless. Celia fought for her heart.

For Kaiser.

Her presence here was not acts of heroism—they were declarations of selfish, desperate love. The grotesques in her way weren't enemies. They were obstacles between her and what she needed.

She tore through them with the precision of a killer, and the savagery of a monster.

To the others, she might've looked like a savior.

But there was no empathy in her red eyes. No warmth in her hands.

Only the desire to slaughter. And fight for her own needs instead of others.

.....

Far to the east, Lucas ran with the wind, light trailing behind him like the remnants of a falling star. The storm crackled overhead, and his eyes never wavered from the burning horizon where East was.

He could've left them for his own safety or needs.

But he didn't.

He ran toward the town.

Because someone had to.

Even if he didn't wear a cape or call himself a hero—he was the one the world needed now. A man who cared. Who chose to fight for the lives of people who couldn't fight for themselves.

He didn't need recognition.

He only needed to make sure the people lived.

.....

Above it all, the Swarm Tyrant watched from his perch atop a shattered spire, his wings crackling with lightning as the storm obeyed his command.

Rinascita would fall.

Not because it was weak...

But because the end had finally begun.

......

From the storm above, silence fell.

In that breathless pause—guild members bled, people cried, grotesques clawed forward, and saints fought on.

Everyone fought for something.

Some for love. Some for power. Some just to live another second.

But high above, past the thunder and rain—

Eyes opened for a single moment.

Blue. Hollow. Endless.

The Void looked down.

And in its gaze, they were all the same.

Alina's promise. Navina's sacrifice. Xander's patience. Levi's doubt. Aaron's ego.

Celia's obsession. Lucas's hope.

Even the grotesques' hunger..

All tangled. All small. All beneath it.

It didn't care who suffered or why they fought.

It only knew one truth: Someone soon was going to touch what was his.

And now, the Void was watching.

Nothing would survive its return.

- To Be Continued: Swarm Tyrant