The gates grind open.
The Honor Guard steps through first, shields raised in a protective shell. Their boots echo like slow heartbeat drums. Behind them come five shapes—more shadows than men and woman—leaning on each other as they step into the firelight.
Nogare Mirai leads the group, every line of his posture controlled, sharp, unyielding. His cloak is torn, his katana re-sheathed but stained gold with dried monster blood. He says nothing. Leaders rarely need to.
Behind him walks Kaito Mugenrei, a ghost wrapped in torn armor, his greatsword dragging a harsh line across the stone. His face is pale beneath the streaks of blood, his breath ragged from wounds old and new. Even standing upright seems a miracle.
Zentake follows next, carrying the massive kobold king weapon over his shoulder like a victorious bandit hauling stolen treasure. His expression is grim but defiant.
Hana walks with careful precision, one hand clutching her new bow to her chest as though it were the last warm thing in this frozen night. The bow glows faintly, forest-green lines pulsing with her heartbeat.
Ryuji leans heavily on his staff. Sparks flicker weakly around him—residual mana fighting not to extinguish.
And between the Honor Guard bearers, wrapped carefully in enchanted cloth, lies the silent weight of the final member.
Kuroba Rykeri.
The courtyard falls completely silent as the citizens of Korvath realize what the stretcher means. One less shadow returns tonight.
The guards bow their heads. A whisper passes through the crowd like a shared exhale:
"…Kuroba…"
---
Anzuyi moves before thought exists.
She sees Kaito take a wavering step, sees him falter—and she runs.
Her feet slam on stone. Her cloak whips behind her. And when she reaches him, the momentum of her body collides into his chest, arms locking around him in pure, trembling relief.
"Kaito," she breathes, voice cracking, "you idiot… why do you always come back half-dead…?"
Kaito tries to laugh, or speak, or reassure her—anything—but all that escapes him is a broken whisper. His legs buckle.
Anzuyi holds him with everything she has, refusing to let him fall.
He finally manages a hoarse murmur, barely audible:
"…I'm here…"
---
The healers surge in.
Kaito is lifted onto a stretcher, the lead medic barking orders about mana shock, pulse irregularities, Berserker backlash. His greatsword is pried from his hand; he never notices.
Ryuji receives immediate mana infusions—his magic nearly burned through his life-force. He passes out before the treatment fully begins.
Hana is checked for injuries—burn marks, scratches, exhaustion bordering on collapse. She keeps holding the bow even when her hands shake.
Zentake is nearly shoved toward a healer, but he snarls:
"I'll go after my loot is counted."
The healer sighs, already used to dealing with him.
Nogare, bruised and bloody, walks beside the stretcher team carrying Kuroba. His expression never cracks, but the tension in his jaw carries grief sharper than any blade.
He hands Kuroba's body over with a bow so deep the room itself seems to bend with him.
---
The Silent Vigil begins.
The guild hall transforms within minutes.
A black banner is unfurled over the rafters.
A single bedroll is placed at the center of the hall—untouched, empty. Beside it are Kuroba's broken chainknife and an ever-burning candle, its flame a thin golden tear.
Guild members gather in rows—veterans who fought with him, rookies who admired him, commanders who trained him. The hall echoes only with breath and sorrow.
A large brass bell tolls once.
Nogare steps forward and places a dagger—Kuroba's spare—beside his body.
A gesture of loyalty. Of brotherhood. Of farewell.
---
Then comes the moment of honor.
Nogare approaches Guildmaster Kouki, carrying the last trophy of their battle: the colossal Kobold King sword. The weapon is so large it requires both hands to present it, yet Nogare holds it firmly, reverently.
"This belongs here," Nogare says, voice even. "A reminder of what we fought—and what we lost."
Kouki takes the sword with both hands. His eyes glint—for a heartbeat—with something between pride and grief.
The hall erupts into murmurs. Awe. Fear. Reverence.
A Kobold King weapon placed in the guild as a trophy?
Morale surges like wildfire.
---
The debriefing unfolds with stark clarity.
Nogare lists the aftermath like reporting the weather after a storm:
"Valerian command—eradicated.
Elite soldier—slain.
Kobold King—slain.
Ogre King—crippled.
Monster leadership—broken.
The city of Giggleburg—cinders.
Weapons—acquired."
He finally stops.
"Kuroba died fighting a Valerian elite soldier."
Kouki lowers his head.
"This will not be forgotten."
---
The stand-down begins.
The team is given their own corridor—private rooms, elite meals, constant healing cycles.
Ryuji is already asleep before the healers finish setting the mana conduits.
Hana sits by her window tracing the veins of her new bow, breathing in its forest glow.
Zentake dumps mountains of loot onto a table and snarls, "Touch any of it and I'm killing someone."
No one tests him.
Anzuyi refuses to leave Kaito's side. She sits on the edge of his bed, one hand resting on his arm, as if holding him there keeps him in this world.
Kaito sleeps deeply, finally beyond pain.
---
Night folds over Korvath.
The Vigil Bell tolls again, soft and mournful.
Nogare stands alone on the balcony overlooking the hall, the candlelight reflecting off his eyes.
His whisper drifts into the cold night air:
"The kings have fallen… but the war is only changing shape."