The moment Arthur landed, the battlefield's energy shifted.
Before, the Silver Wing Guild had been fighting a losing battle of attrition, slowly being strangled by the Mimics' synchronized attacks. Now, they were fighting alongside a pure, savage instrument of destruction.
Arthur didn't bother with tactics or communication. He plunged the Reckoning Blade into the fray, his movements a terrifying, calculated blur. Where Elena was disciplined and defensive, prioritizing the shield wall, Arthur was aggressive and surgical.
He used Focus Fire instinctively, marking high-value targets. He didn't fire to kill, but to cripple the enemy's coordination. He shot the knee joints of the armored Mimics, forcing them to break formation, creating gaps in their lines.
"Healer! Focus on the left flank!" Elena shouted, her eyes fixed on Arthur. She realized instantly that his chaos was a calculated gift. She stopped fighting defensively and started capitalizing on his openings. She aimed her own powerful, Aether-charged strikes not at the nearest foe, but at the monsters Arthur had already wounded, finishing them cleanly.
It was a terrifying, hostile dance. They didn't trust each other, but they understood the shared language of survival. Arthur was the knife, and Elena was the hammer, driving the blade deeper.
Arthur felt the dark, satisfying flow of his Swordplay Rudiment. The Reckoning Blade was heavy and balanced, its serrated edge singing as it sliced through the Mimics' salvaged armor. His fractured arm, now free of the sling, screamed in protest, but the Iron Will skill surged, pushing the pain into a distant, muffled roar. He moved, killed, and moved again.
The fight lasted only another six minutes, but it felt like an hour of pure, concentrated warfare.
Finally, with a devastating combination—Elena creating a flash of gold light that stunned a group of Mimics, and Arthur leaping through the light to deliver a triple shot of Focus Fire—the last of the organized horde crumpled. The remaining monsters, leaderless and panicked, broke and scattered back through the ruined Pass.
Silence rushed in, heavy and thick, replacing the noise of battle.
Arthur stood in the middle of the ruined junction, his chest heaving. His body was a wreck of bruises, sweat, and gore. The silence was deafening, a psychological release that hit harder than any Mimic's flail.
He immediately dropped the Reckoning Blade, the sharp, cold metal clattering onto the broken concrete. He reached up, tearing off the brace that had protected his arm. The pain returned, sharp and clear, now that the danger was gone. He looked at his hand, the Swordplay lines fading from angry copper back to their usual dark, burnt state.
He had fulfilled his purpose. He turned, ready to disappear into the smoke and wreckage of the Pass.
"Don't move."
Elena's voice was strained, exhausted, but absolute. She stood about ten feet away, her silver armor dented, her beautiful face streaked with dirt and blood. She was leaning heavily on her massive greatsword, surrounded by the three remaining members of her team, all of whom were wounded.
"I didn't save you, Guild Master. I stabilized the Pass. The debt is paid. I'm leaving." Arthur's voice was low, his throat raw.
"The debt is not a coin to be exchanged for blood, Ash Walker," Elena countered, her eyes flashing with defiance, even exhaustion. "You fought our fight, and you are hurt. My medic will check your arm."
Arthur let out a dry, humorless laugh. "I told you, I don't take orders, and I don't need your pity."
"It's not pity. It's protocol," Elena insisted. She gestured to the Healer, a young man named Lian who was moving slowly, his leg bandaged. "Lian, check his arm. Now."
Lian looked scared, but professional. He approached Arthur with hesitant steps. This was the first test of the "balance" the user requested—a forced moment of human vulnerability.
Arthur tensed, ready to fight, but stopped. He looked at the surrounding carnage, the bodies of the fallen soldiers, the broken Pass. He was surrounded by four living, breathing people whom he had just fought to save. If he attacked Lian, he would immediately shatter the tenuous trust and descend back into the role of the uncontrollable threat. He decided, pragmatically, that the time for fighting was over. He needed to rest his arm, and Lian was the fastest way to get a professional assessment without going near the City Guard.
He stood still, his muscles tight as steel cable, allowing the young medic to approach.
"Just the arm, quickly," Arthur muttered, his eyes fixed on the distant City walls.
Lian carefully removed Arthur's ruined glove, exposing the hand and forearm. The medic gasped softly. "It's fractured, partially healed wrong, and… the Aetheric stress is extreme. You used some kind of extreme fortitude skill. It's a miracle you were swinging that sword."
"Just set it and brace it," Arthur instructed.
While Lian worked with nervous speed, wrapping a tight, professional brace around Arthur's arm, the heavy tension slowly began to ease, replaced by the grim, shared reality of survival. Elena watched them, her posture slowly relaxing from combat readiness to weary exhaustion.
"Those Mimics were different," Elena said, her voice dropping to a conversational level, though the content was anything but comfortable. "They were coordinating perfectly. They attacked my support first. They adapted the minute we engaged."
Arthur nodded, keeping his voice low. "I warned you in the Ghost Port. They are learning your tactics. Your code of support—your reliance on formation—is your weakness. They are using your strengths against you."
"And your weakness, Ash Walker?" Elena asked, stepping closer.
Arthur pulled his arm free from Lian's hands, flexing his fingers carefully. "My weakness is obvious, Guild Master. I work alone. And now you know where to find me."
Elena sighed, the sound heavy with the weight of her responsibilities. "No. Your weakness is that you are desperately afraid of failing again. You choose to be weak, thinking that isolation is strength. But when the enemy evolves, you need more than just one weapon."
She paused, letting her words sink in. This was the core philosophical conflict, the center of the story's tension and the reason they couldn't just walk away.
"Thank you for saving my people," Elena finally conceded, her tone dropping the challenge and becoming strictly professional. "You risked everything. I will report that the Ash Walker intervened, but you escaped confinement. Your secret is safe with me, but not for long. The City Guard will be here in minutes."
She reached into a pouch and pulled out a small, sealed bag containing high-grade restorative potions. "This is not payment, it's necessary medical supply. You risked your life; I refuse to let it be wasted on infection. Use them."
Arthur looked at the bag. He desperately needed the potions to heal the internal damage Iron Will had caused. He hated the forced intimacy of the exchange, but his pragmatic side won. He snatched the bag without a word, stuffing it into his vest.
"Tell your people to abandon the Pass and fall back to the main wall. Bring siege weapons. Your swords won't stop the next wave," Arthur advised, his voice now purely tactical, stripping away all personal emotion.
He turned and began to ascend the slag heap, moving with deliberate, careful speed.
He had walked into the fire and walked out again. He had received essential medical aid and crucial information. He had also been forced to acknowledge a simple truth: Elena's burden was real, and his isolation was now a known, challengeable factor.
As he reached the crest of the hill, he glanced back. Elena was already barking orders, helping her medic carry the wounded. She wasn't weak; she was determined. And she was right: her fight was his fight, whether he liked it or not.
Arthur vanished into the ruins, but this time, he wasn't just running from his past. He was running with a borrowed future, a patched-up arm, and a challenge echoing in his ears that he knew he could not ignore. The isolation was broken, not by companionship, but by shared catastrophe.