Gill’s eyes turned feral, each stroke a killing cut; hate flooded his spent body like fire into dry wood, and with every spray of blood, memories of Herbert and Eddie surged, drowning his sight.
Grief came first, heavy as winter rain; tears blurred his world as he swung again and again, no joy in it, only a black tide of sorrow and ache.
“Your Highness… that’s… enough…” Cecilia’s jade-cool fingers caught the Bloodsword mid-arc; the man before her looked wrecked, a figure whittled down by pain.
The Bloodsword slid from Gill’s hand with a dull ring; he tilted his face to the blue sky, grief carved into his handsome features, lips trembling as tears beaded and fell—then he broke, sobbing like a lost child.
...
“I said it: I came for revenge. Things spun this far because there was no other road.
But I won’t apologize. For what you did, I’ve got a hundred reasons to wipe you out.
Not just for Melia. For every fallen kin. For everyone you trampled and shamed.
Get out. Go tell your Emperor.
The Elf Clan isn’t some flock of lambs for you to shear.
Your hunting season is over. Now we hunt you.
Today’s battle was for vengeance, and to mourn my dearest friend.
If you’re not convinced, bring an army. But think hard: if you fail to kill me once, you’ll face tenfold—hundredfold—ten-thousandfold payback.
You’re soldiers. You trained for this. You lost, so bear what loss brings.
Search it all. Every crate of war stores. Every coin and every slave—take everything.”
At Medith’s word, her people moved like a brushfire; the Bloodhand Gang soldiers only bowed their heads and nodded, hollow-eyed, like husks in a windblown field.
...
Morning, May 8. Medith’s group stayed three days in the enemy camp, stripping heaps of arms and treasure, and freeing hundreds of Sprite slaves.
They’d been penned deep in the jungle; when they saw Medith, shock ran through them like lightning through the canopy.
After a brief accounting of what had happened, they wept aloud; fate curled and knotted like a wild vine, and she cut it clean, setting them free.
Some chose to return to their clans, leaving maps to their own camps, saying Medith was welcome any time—like lanterns hung to guide her in.
Most others joined the Dusk Legion; three hundred Sprite warriors stood beneath her banner, their eyes bright as new steel.
What stunned Medith most was the trove of Magic Breaker intel, stacked with page after page of research.
They had also captured three scholars of the Southern Kingdom; under Medith’s hard gaze, they yielded the location of hidden weapons—two Fleshgrinder Chariots, packed with blades, their keen steel flashing a deadly chill in the sun.
Andrew had begged for those war engines to counter Medith; they were meant for the opening strike, but she flipped the board, and a single Magic Breaker shattered their main force.
They never got to use them; now Medith accepted them with a thin smile, like taking a wolf’s fangs as trophies.
She bound the three scholars and hauled them back to explain the chariots’ structure and drive; ten wagons groaned under treasure and kit, and even the granaries were swept clean for the road, like emptied gourds.
May 9. Medith returned laden, banners snapping, dust rising like a curtain; she left over ten thousand Bloodhand Gang soldiers standing lost, then rode on without a backward glance.
May 14. Reinforcements finally arrived; the city’s corpses were already cleared, and Andrew’s limbless stump hung from the castle keep, gnawed by buzzing flies and black-winged crows.
“My God…” A commander stared, eyes wide at the ravaged border. “Report to the Emperor! Report to the Emperor!
“The rest of you, take over [Steel Behemoth]. Don’t let a single whisper get out!”
He spurred his horse and tore south, hooves drumming like thunder into the deep of the Southern Kingdom.
