At dawn, September 22, the Dawnlight mercenaries smothered the armory’s furnace-bright blaze, while the Hexclaw Legion’s taunts swirled like carrion crows at the walls. If Medith hadn’t led, the gate would’ve broken last night.

They fought like cornered beasts beneath a lowering sky, held the killing stroke at bay. Yet the nightmare only began, like shadows lengthening after sunset.

Gerald’s workshop shook like a drum. Iron boots beat in and out, each cadence bearing bad news.

“Over half our elite weapons were stripped from the armory last night.” The words fell like cold rain on embers.

“A total of 512 prime warhorses and first-class knights defected.” Numbers cut like sleet on bare skin.

“Two of Medith’s core officers defected.” That fissure crawled like frost under a door.

“The granaries burned in a chain. What we saved won’t last three days.” The smell of char clung like smoke to cloth.

“134 soldiers died in last night’s chaos and the interception.” Names vanished like sparks in a gust.

“Morale has collapsed. Fewer than 1,500 still fit to fight. In this state, I don’t see battle as possible.” The report hung like a pall over a wake.

The captains came in ash-faced, their words like sand in the mouth. Gerald stayed calm, like stone under waves—despair had worn fear smooth.

“I hear you. Go,” Gerald said, his voice a tired ember. “Open every granary and cistern. No more hoarding. Tell them—eat till you’re full.” The order dropped heavy, like a last supper bell.

They froze, their eyes dull as burned coals, then answered and hurried off like leaves in wind.

Gulo slipped in through the door, saw their hollow gaze, and didn’t dare greet them. “Gerald, is this… really fair?” His question bled like dusk light. “They know nothing, yet they suffer this grind. And those who died not knowing why—”

“The weak get devoured, Gulo,” Gerald cut in, his stare steady as winter stars. “After all this, you still don’t grasp that simple law? Will the enemy pity you?

“I can’t weigh a life’s value on a scale. I don’t know if their deaths were meaningful. But if we carry their will forward like a torch, their deaths find meaning.” His vow sat like iron in the chest.

Gulo sighed and sank onto the stone bench, as heavy as rain-soaked cloth. “I know. I just—”

“I get it,” Gerald said, voice low as a river at night. “I wandered, lost like fog, asking why I fight. For coin? For faith? For comrades? For myself?

“I didn’t know, so I drifted at the bottom for a long time, like silt in dark water.

“Then I met you all. I met Princess Felica. It clicked like dawn cracking a ridge. I fight for the everyday—day upon day, year upon year—so the small joys can bloom like spring on a window sill.

“I’ll pay any price. And when I woke to it—” His smile was a thin moon. “I’d become the lord of this keep.

“It isn’t that the enemy is heartless. We are too weak. On this continent, weakness is the darkest sin, cold as a night wind.”

“Brave soldiers, you did well!” Harrison’s voice rang like brass in a clear morning. “The enemy is one breath from breaking. We don’t need to move—hold ground, and let their net tear itself!

“Did you see last night’s pillar of fire claw up the sky? Did you see their elite cavalry punch through lines and flee, like wolves slipping past a fence?

“Barring surprises, tonight is our last fight at this place! Our dull camp days end with a crack like thunder. We’ll smash them to shards!

“Then we’ll truss up the traitor Medith and her crew, present them to His Majesty! Fame will ride our names like sunlight on banners. All—eat—”

Harrison staged a grand “victory feast.” Mountains of game steamed, spices rose like warm smoke. The terrain and kitchens were rough, yet their logistics turned out solid fare.

Paris had set every stone in place—reinforcements, gagging the news, supply lines—each knot tied tight, especially after Medith took the bait.

A roar rolled over the camp, more ceremony than fervor, and the Hexclaw Legion tucked in like wolves at a kill.

Normally you feast after battle. But with fortune blowing like a fair wind, celebrating early hardly dulled edges. Their discipline was a steel wire; meat and wine wouldn’t turn them soft.

Even if it did dull them, what then? The enemy has barely over a thousand. Their finest cavalry torched their own armory and granaries, riding off with the best gear and mounts like thieves under moonlight.

Two of Medith’s strongest officers defected. Their morale sits at the freezing point, brittle as rime. Medith’s more pressed than we are. She’ll move by tomorrow night at the latest, maybe tonight.

She’ll gamble before the collapse, a frost-bitten dash. It’s her nature, and it’s her flaw.

“Heroism that never bows sounds grand,” Harrison said, eyes cool as glass. “But to me, it’s just ego tramping over other people’s pain.”

Heroes? Do heroes get a pass, as if a single vow grants endless strength and one versus a hundred? He scoffed, a dry crack like old wood.

“By the way, is it fine that the ghost warrior and that ponytail guy slipped off with their troops?” Harrison asked. Last night, he’d followed Erig’s advice and opened the northern line, letting them go with barely a scratch.

It proved right. The northern guard’s report said the rebel pair hit like storm fronts. Blocking hard would bleed them deep, and there’s no sense in losses with victory so close, like ripe fruit under a hand.

“Just over 500 second-rate cavalry,” Erig said, voice flat as slate, “plus two mid-tier Tsunami-class Magic Breakers. The ponytail guy beat Robert, a sub-Commander of the Southern Kingdom’s royal division. Medith weakened him first, but the man’s power is real.

“The ghost warrior needs no introduction. Reports track her like lightning scars across the map. Her combat sense matches mine. Her use of the Lawbreaking Ability is peak craft—art in motion. At that tier, I doubt anyone beats her.”

“The threat is real,” Manto added, fists loose like coiled ropes. “That’s why we let them go.”

Harrison exhaled, relief like warm breath on frost. If this were a plot, how awful would it be? No need to dwell. Plot or not, two mid-tier Magic Breakers and five hundred second-rate riders won’t overturn the sky.

Even if Medith strides out herself, what then? Her Lawbreaking Ability wipes a thousand in one stroke? Two strokes make three thousand? Ten strokes erase us all? The math is smoke in wind.

We aren’t fools. We won’t bunch up like sheep in a pen. The best answer to Medith’s power is pressure from many angles, like rain on a roof, not a single hammer blow of elites.

Call it uneven match-making. Throw in the worst fodder to force her hand. After one use, the threat dulls. After two, it’s a blunt blade.

As for who gets thrown into that grinder, both sides have plans, like knives hidden up sleeves.

Medith looked drained, a flame guttering low. Days of toil and blows to the spirit carved her down; she wore defeat like ash on skin.

The old poise vanished—the mountain that never flinches as storms break. In its place, a deep despair pooled like winter water.

For a Commander, showing that face in public was a wound. But the recent failures pressed like a snowpack on a roof. Medith is human, not a god.

If she is this spent, Gerald and the women fare worse. After yesterday, they swam through anger, guilt, heartache, grief, panic—knots of feeling tightening like vines. The Lina Sisters most of all.

Their first and only true tenderness toward humans got trampled like blossoms under boots. Hollowed out, they tucked their faces to their knees, small and alone like chicks in rain.

The storm of despair spread through the city, a fever in the air. Medith knew if she didn’t act now, the tale ended in ashes.

At 21:00 sharp on September 22, Medith drew out her near-broken pocket watch. Its hands had stopped days ago, like time caught in ice. She stroked it once, then tossed it into the blaze, watching it soften and sink like silver in a forge.

Everyone ate with a tragic hunger, tearing into air-dried and roasted meats, crisp as autumn leaves, fragrant as pine smoke. A gulp of hard liquor went down like fire, not warmth—only a fierce ache for the mortal world they’d miss.

Medith stared into the flames, then tilted back a brimming cup like a cliff spill and hurled it to the ground. It shattered like frost.

Torches flared alive, a forest of fire across the square. Gerald and the others braced with iron focus. In silver-white armor, Gerald’s presence sharpened like a drawn blade—killing intent cold enough to prickle skin.

“Everyone—” Medith’s voice rang, thin and sharp as steel on glass. “Tonight is our final reckoning. The enemy outnumbers us. Their gear, strength, discipline, even their tactics—every edge sits with them.

“I regret… I still have no clean break to crack this game.” The admission fell like a stone into dark water.

“But—our conviction still burns. Tonight we fight not for faith, not for justice, not for the Radiant Knights or any banner.

“We fight for ourselves—raise your blades. Give the enemy your roar. We don’t stop till the last moment. Dawn will come.”

She raised Flame Lady. The blade split the night like a comet, kindling the dark.

Their sunken morale lifted a notch, voices surging like surf on rocks. Medith sheathed Flame Lady in a flick, then shouted with them, a leader in the storm.

Their clamor rolled to the enemy nearby, a funeral bell tolling across fields. Medith’s emerald eyes held steady, twin stones in a river.

Harrison met Medith’s gaze without flinching, pity like thin frost on his tone. To him, all she did was a hollow labor.

“Medith,” Erig said, fists clenched like oak knots, “let’s end this. I’ve waited too long for this day.”

Clive raised his spyglass. Watching Medith through the lens, something felt off, a grain of sand in the teeth. He couldn’t name it.

“Is it just me…” He glanced at the easy smiles of the commanders, then swallowed the doubt like a bitter seed. “I’m overthinking. If I say it, they’ll laugh me out of camp.”